Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yamamoto Shūgorō

The streetcar going to the town

There was a single municipal streetcar going to that "town." Though there were several other roads leading there, only one municipal streetcar line ran to the town—a line with no rails, no overhead lines, not even a car body, and a crew composed solely of the driver. Naturally, passengers couldn’t ride it. In essence, apart from the driver named Rokuchan and some equipment, this municipal streetcar was entirely fictional in objective terms.

Driver Rokuchan was not a resident of the "town." In Nakadōri, a modest shopping district, he lived with his mother, Okuni-san. There was no father. Whether he had died or left, no one knew his whereabouts—in any case, no one had ever seen the father. Okuni-san single-handedly ran a tempura shop and lived with Rokuchan in straitened circumstances. I should clarify—though called a "tempura" shop, it actually served vegetarian tempura.

Okuni-san was around forty, and both her face and body were plump. Her eyes brimmed with distrust and suspicion toward all things; her mouth was tightly clamped shut like a clam; and her somewhat brownish hair was pulled back into a tight bun without a trace of oil. In winter, she wore either an old striped cloth or a cotton-padded kimono; in summer, a faded yukata—always with a white cooking apron and a hand towel around her neck year-round. Silently, she would fry tempura or wait on customers. The hand towel around her neck and the white cooking apron gave her food-handling movements an air of meticulous cleanliness.

Okuni-san was taciturn. She never exchanged unnecessary pleasantries with customers, yet there were glimpses of her seeming to pride herself that the flavor of my tempura should sufficiently convey those courtesies. The truth was otherwise: within her head of somewhat brownish hair—pulled back into a tight bun without a trace of oil—she ceaselessly worried about Rokuchan while thoughts of Lord Ossama’s divine favors, miracles, and rumors of remarkably effective prayer masters endlessly wrestled for dominance.

After finishing the day's work, closing the shop, and preparing for bed, Okuni-san opened the household Buddhist altar to light the ritual oil lamp and offer incense. Holding the toy-sized uchiwa drum, she sat down beside Rokuchan. She would have preferred a standard-sized uchiwa drum, but out of consideration for the neighbors—since many customers from the area bought her tempura—she told herself that Lord Ossama's favor surely wouldn't depend on the drum's size. With lingering shame, she made do with the small one.

“Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō.” The moment they sat down, Rokuchan bowed toward the Buddhist altar and beat his mother to the prayer: “Lord Ossama—same as always—please make Mom’s mind right. I humbly ask for your favor.” “Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō.”

And then, Okuni-san tapped the toy-sized uchiwa drum and began chanting the Buddhist invocation. It went without saying that Okuni-san’s prayers were for her own child, Rokuchan. Yet within this chanting of mantras and entreaties to Lord Ossama—where Rokuchan himself was primarily pleading for his mother’s recovery—there lay a peculiar imbalance in the scales.

Rokuchan was not joking around, nor was he acting out of spite or sarcasm. He understood that Mom felt societal shame because of him—that she prayed to Lord Ossama for his sake, performed incantations, and invited various prayer masters. There was no need for any of it—Mom had no reason to worry about such things at all. "Why do you worry so much, Mom? What’s even missing?" Rokuchan had asked countless times. "That’s right—there’s nothing missing at all, no reason to worry," Okuni-san would always respond, yet the shadow of grief that seemed to have abandoned hope—etched across her face—neither faded nor diminished. What weighed on Rokuchan’s mind was this: despite there being nothing lacking as things stood, the pitiful sight of Mom wearing herself out made him keep wishing he could somehow make her whole again.

“Please, Lord Ossama.” In the pauses between Okuni-san’s chanted invocations, Rokuchan prayed from the depths of his heart: “You must be tired of hearing this every time—but please look after Mom. Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō.”

Okuni-san's chest grew painfully tight. For years she had performed this same duty without fail, yet each time she heard her child's prayer, her chest tightened painfully and tears threatened to spill.

This child was so filial, spoke so properly—surely his mind would become normal soon. Okuni-san tried to believe this. Rokuchan watched Mom's face with pitying eyes and, much like a mother calming a frightened child, told her reassuringly: "I'm fine, see? There's nothing to worry about. Everything's going smoothly. Just relax."

The only ones Rokuchan cared for were Mom, Hansuke—a resident of the "town"—and Hansuke’s pet cat Tora; conversely, these two humans and one animal were the only ones who cared for Rokuchan. Rokuchan did not like the other people. They would tease Rokuchan, speak ill of him, and interfere with his municipal streetcar operations. Especially since there were many who interfered with the municipal streetcar’s operation, Rokuchan never had a moment of peace.

It was a rather senseless matter, but the people of that town—especially the children—called Rokuchan “the streetcar fool.” That might be true—objectively speaking, it might even be accurate—but subjectively, Rokuchan remained the most diligent and conscientious municipal streetcar driver. In the morning—the moment he woke up—Rokuchan inspected the municipal streetcar. The streetcar waited in its garage, and this garage stood in the alley beside their house.

In a corner of the narrow kitchen’s fryer lid, there was an old orange crate containing a soy sauce pourer with a chipped spout, pliers, a screwdriver, oil-stained work gloves, and tattered rags—all neatly arranged. While these existed objectively, there also existed—subjectively—a handle for operating the controller, a name tag, a wristwatch, a conductor’s cap, and the like. The chipped soy sauce pourer was, subjectively, an oil can.

Rokuchan took the oil can, screwdriver, and pliers and went to the garage where he inspected the municipal streetcar he drove. Objectively nothing existed there, but within Rokuchan's subjective perception it stood clearly visible. He circled around the streetcar with an air of scrutiny—frowning at times, clicking his tongue occasionally, stroking his chin with one hand. He tapped the body with his hand, crouched down, and peered at the axles beneath the chassis and the engine linkages.

“Ah, hell...” Rokuchan shook his head and muttered, “What’re those maintenance guys doin’? Nothin’s gettin’ fixed here!”

He would use a screwdriver to fix something, use pliers on another part, and kick the bearings with his foot. He gave it another kick, tilted his head with a click of his tongue, then clicked his tongue again with clear dissatisfaction.

“This thing’s old too, after all.” Rokuchan conceded to the lazy maintenance crew and muttered, “Ain’t no use complainin’ to those guys anyway.”

After finishing washing his face and having breakfast, he would leave for work; but on days when Okuni-san went out to buy ingredients for her business, he had to wait until she returned. The shopping was usually every other day, but there were times it happened daily; when that occurred, Rokuchan would grow restless and agitated, complaining that with all these repeated delays, his work performance would suffer.

When leaving for work, he would go around to the kitchen. He took the conductor’s cap from the familiar orange crate and put it on, pulled on the oil-stained work gloves, and picked up both the controller handle and name tag. Of those on the right, only the work gloves existed in reality; as previously noted, the other three items were objectively fictional.

Rokuchan boarded the streetcar, first inserting his name tag into the holder and fitting the handle into the controller's knob. Then, with his right hand, he grabbed the brake handle, turned it leftward with a clatter before turning it rightward with another clatter, verifying the brake mechanism was free of malfunctions. These actions were performed each day with precise, unwavering order, and on Rokuchan's face appeared an expression of utter seriousness—keenly alert and sharp—surpassing even the most skilled drivers.

“Alright,” he muttered, “let’s get this thing moving.” And he would loosen the brake mechanism with a clatter—a matter of releasing the handle gripped in his right hand and giving his right arm a slight lift. Then the brake mechanism would rewind with a clatter.

People called Rokuchan "the streetcar fool."

Rokuchan was no fool. It may seem to contradict public opinion, but he was repeatedly proven—through examinations by multiple specialist doctors—to be neither an idiot nor a mentally deficient child. He graduated from elementary school. However, because he did not study at all from beginning to end, he received neither completion certificates for each academic year nor a diploma. He entered elementary school when he reached school age and attended for six years before graduating. He learned not a single academic subject, nor did he engage in physical education or play. From the first time he entered the classroom until graduation six years later, he did nothing but draw pictures of streetcars; when at home, he tried to immerse himself in operating the streetcar.

As people called him a fool, it was indeed true that Rokuchan’s streetcar did not exist in reality; every operation—from starting it up and operating it to finally putting it back in the depot at the end of the line—were all figments of imagination.

But then，what of those who actually drove the municipal streetcars in reality? Heading north along Nakadōri，crossing the bridge，and passing one alley brought one to Hondōri—a main thoroughfare where municipal streetcars，buses，and all manner of vehicles came and went．All these were indeed driven by real drivers—a fact beyond any doubt—but was it truly right to take this at face value?

Here, a driver was operating the municipal streetcar. But his mind was not there. He had fought with his wife the previous night and been insulted afterward at a local bar—incidents that left him feeling deeply misanthropic, his emotions frayed and raw. In his imagination, he viciously berated his wife, repeatedly struck the customer who had insulted him at the bar, and—reasoning that these unpleasant ordeals ultimately stemmed from driving a municipal streetcar—cursed even his own profession. In this state of mind, he ended up blowing past a stop where passengers were waiting; when the conductor—berated by an alighting passenger—rang the stop gong, he grew even more furious at himself as he scrambled to brake.

Of course, there were likely similar examples among other professionals as well. Most people seem dissatisfied with their occupations; whatever they may say outwardly, it appears that not a few inwardly dislike, despise, or even hate their professions.

Comparing these people with Rokuchan may not have been a fair assessment. But Rokuchan had truly devoted himself—both mentally and physically—to operating the municipal streetcar, feeling passion for it and taking pride and joy in it.

And now, Rokuchan proceeded along Nakadōri. He raised the left handle from Low to Second gear, firmly gripped the brake handle with his right hand, and mimicked the sound of wheels. “Clack-clack-clackety-clack, clack-clack-clackety-clack”

He would begin with slow, deliberate rhythms—"Clack... clack-clack... clack"—then gradually quicken the tempo. In other words, these were onomatopoeic imitations of wheels crossing rail joints, and upon reaching an intersection, they would transform as follows.

“Clack-clack-clack-clack, clack-clack-clack-clack, clack-clack-clackety-clack” This was the sound of the streetcar’s four front wheel sets and four rear wheels crossing the four rail joints at the intersection.

Suddenly, a careless pedestrian appeared ahead. Rokuchan stopped his feet and, while tapping the ground with his right toe, sounded the warning gong: clang-clang-clang. The careless pedestrian didn't notice. They came straight along the tracks toward him. These were mostly people from other towns—they didn’t know Rokuchan, and neither could they see the streetcar he was operating or its tracks.

Rokuchan turned bright red in surprise and hurriedly began frantic stopping operations.

“Look out!” Rokuchan shouted as he clanked the controller to zero with his left hand, whirled the brake handle round and round with all his might in his right, arched his upper body, and grunted while tightening it. Mimicking the brake’s screech with “kish-kish-kish” from his mouth, the streetcar barely came to a halt. “That was dangerous!” Rokuchan stuck his head out the streetcar window and scolded the careless pedestrian with a red, contorted face.

“You’ll get hit by the streetcar! If you get hit, there’ll be nothing you can do!” Then he glared with intense eyes. “Walking on the tracks is a violation! You hicks don’t even know that? Honestly, you need to be more careful!” The careless pedestrian gaped and, seeing Rokuchan’s extraordinary face, hastily stepped aside. Rokuchan watched the retreating figure with resentful, contemptuous eyes as he muttered, “What a moron.”

“What a moron,” Rokuchan said. “You hicks don’t even know where you’re walkin’!”

So then, he raised his right elbow to release the brake with a clatter, shifted the controller into Second gear, stopped and gripped the now-loosened brake handle, increased speed with his left hand, and proceeded forward with a clack-clack-clackety-clack. The townspeople no longer took any interest in Rokuchan. Rokuchan had blended into the town's scenery. Rokuchan himself was indifferent to them, and even when children teased or mocked him maliciously, he would merely glare and pay them no mind at all.

After making three round trips along Nakadōri, Rokuchan would return home to rest, then make another three round trips and rest again until it was time for the last run. Though the timing of this final trip varied with his mood that day, whenever he encountered Hansuke’s pet cat Tora along the way, he would stop the streetcar, pick up the animal, and deliver it to the "town" where Hansuke lived. Tora was a soot-tinged male calico cat of remarkable size. His face—round and thick like a football—matched his stoutly built frame. Though Hansuke had kept him for seven years, cat experts would insist he was at least twelve or thirteen years old. Yet there was no disputing Tora’s reign as neighborhood boss number one.

“What’s wrong, Tora?” Rokuchan spoke to Tora, whom he picked up, “What did you stop today—a truck or a streetcar?”

Tora answered with a meow. No sound emerged; though his mouth opened as if mimicking a meow, he produced no voice. Having overused his vocal cords during mating seasons and daily fights, he seemed careful not to vocalize unless absolutely necessary. "How many did you stop?" Rokuchan asked again, "Three or five? Did you eat tempura?" Once more the cat opened his mouth in a silent meow, narrowing his eyes as his throat rumbled with purrs. When we say "tempura," it refers not to Rokuchan's household but to Tenmatsu—a proper tempura restaurant on Shinmichi Avenue across the main street. As for Tora's connection to this tempura, we shall reserve that account for later.

“Going home, are you?” Rokuchan said while changing the streetcar’s direction, “There there—if the supervisor catches us breaking regulations he’ll chew us out—but I’ll give you a ride on my streetcar. Hold on tight now, I’m speeding up! Here we go—clack-clack-clackety-clack, clack-clack-clackety-clack!”

The municipal streetcar was old, so while it could sometimes keep going as it was, it would also break down at times. Whenever a breakdown occurred, Rokuchan would click his tongue, stop the municipal streetcar, and step down from the driver’s seat. While soothing the cat perched on his shoulder, Rokuchan slowly circled the municipal streetcar for inspection. With a stern expression suggesting meticulous scrutiny, he tapped the vehicle’s body, peered underneath to examine the engine linkage, kicked the shaft bearings with his foot, then looked skyward to verify the contact between overhead wires and poles.

These movements were astonishingly realistic; to those seeing them for the first time, it must have been impossible to believe they were merely products of imagination. The length of each side of the rectangle he traced while circling during inspection not only created a realistic three-dimensional presence of a vehicle body there, but also imbued his acts of tapping certain spots or kicking with his foot with such realism that one could almost hear the sounds. “Take a good look at this, maintenance guys!” Rokuchan muttered, “Just ’cause this thing’s old doesn’t mean you maintenance guys can slack off. Once we’re back in the depot, I’ll have your heads—mark my words.”

Rokuchan returned to the driver’s seat and started the streetcar.

“Alright, I’m speeding up!” Rokuchan said to the cat on his shoulder. “Clack-clack-clackety-clack, clack-clack-clackety-clack.”

In the southern part of Nakadōri, there was a greengrocer known as Yasuppa-ya. They apparently sold their goods about thirty percent cheaper than other stores, drawing customers from quite far away, which seemed to be how that nickname spread. The sign read “Yao Tatsu.”

Between that greengrocer and a small shoe repair shop lay an alley, from which a bumpy, puddle-ridden road extended about a hundred meters westward. On both sides of the road stretched rows of small, aged houses that seemed forgotten; passing through them led out into a wide wasteland.

It was neither grassland nor wasteland. The ochre-tinged earth sprouted patches of grass here and there like the bald flank of an aged dog. Amidst scattered stones, chipped bowls, empty cans, and paper scraps stood five or six gnarled oak trees clustered together, while across a two-meter-wide ditch grew thickets of shrubs—yet the whole vista conveyed nothing but desolation.

Rokuchan crossed that vacant lot. The beaten path through the sparsely grown grass was eventually blocked by a ditch. It lay near the center of the wasteland, about one meter fifty deep. Peering through weeds and shrubs overhanging both banks revealed stagnant water coated with algae and an oily film, where chipped bowls and plates, broken chopsticks, buckets riddled with holes—all manner of vessels that had outlived their usefulness—were discarded alongside frequent corpses of dogs and cats. Throughout all seasons, it emitted a stench so vile it made one loathe existence itself.

Rokuchan jumped over the ditch. It was a kind of boundary. The eastern side of the ditch belonged to Nakadōri’s bustling commercial district, while west of it lay the domain of the “town”—people from either side never crossed that boundary.

This was not because the residents of the “town” were so impoverished—with over ninety percent lacking steady work, immoral acts being openly committed, and even ex-convicts, drifters, gamblers, and beggars among them—that others disliked approaching. Rather, it seemed those on the eastern side perceived both the “town” and its people as belonging to another world, as things that did not truly exist in reality.

Immediately after passing by that gnarled oak, our "town" came into view. Seven row houses; five independent dwellings resembling decayed storage sheds. Not clustered together in one mass but irregularly built—some huddled close, others scattered apart—in a precarious manner.

Behind these stood a cliff roughly fifteen meters high, atop which lay Saiganji Temple’s cemetery—though the burial grounds themselves remained hidden beneath bamboo thickets and mixed woods. Only the sheer height of that bare-rock cliff, its oppressive massiveness and expanse, served to accentuate the wretched landscape of the "town."

Rokuchan, with Tora perched on his shoulder, drew nearer to it. Although children were playing in the wasteland, they never saw Rokuchan.

In the wasteland, there were not only children but also elderly men splitting, drying, or bundling things for piecework, old women and housewives toiling at various odd jobs that paid a pittance; yet these people, just like the children, made no effort to look at Rokuchan.

They could not see Rokuchan. For those east of the ditch, the residents here were beings from another world—entities that did not truly exist in reality. And likely, this same perception held true in reverse for the people here as well.—This was not meant to imply anything particular; it was simply something we constantly experience in our daily lives. In bustling streets; in theaters, movie theaters, and company offices; people only acknowledged another’s existence when they had concrete involvement with them. At all other times, no matter how many might be present, they regarded each other as belonging to separate worlds—as good as nonexistent in reality.

“Almost there.” Rokuchan said to Tora, “There—that’s your home now.”

He entered the alley. The alley was flanked by two-story row houses—though unlike ordinary ones, their roof ridges sat low, their second floors more akin to attics where one couldn’t stand upright. The roofing boards naturally curved and warped irregularly, as did the eaves and overhangs, while the entire structures leaned at precarious angles. The row houses did not all lean uniformly in one direction—some tilted forward, others backward. From the alley’s entrance, this gave the impression that while portions of the structures on either side amicably connected their eaves, other sections appeared to recoil from each other in hostility, as though avoiding contact.

From Rokuchan’s shoulder, Tora sluggishly leapt down to the ground and slipped into the half-open latticed entrance of a house. It wasn’t that the latticed door had been left open—it simply couldn’t be closed. It couldn’t be opened any wider, nor could it be closed, so it had remained as it was since long ago.

“I brought Tora over.” When Rokuchan said this at the entrance, the patched and repatched shoji slid open about two inches, and a gaunt man around fifty years old peered out with only half his face visible. That was Hansuke—the manner in which he peered out was one of extreme caution, like some timid and suspicious animal cautiously peering from its burrow, as though wanting to thoroughly ascertain whether what lay beyond was a harmless presence or a dangerous foe.

“Ah, Rokuchan.” Hansuke said in a low voice, “You brought Tora over for me, didn’t you.” “I brought Tora over for you.” “I’m always putting you out like this.” Hansuke forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Yet the shoji he had opened about two inches remained as it was, and he showed no sign of inviting him inside. Rokuchan removed the hat he was wearing—a non-existent one—and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Still keeping up with your devotions?” Hansuke asked in an ingratiating tone. “Performing them for Lord Ossama every night without fail?” “Yeah,” answered Rokuchan. “I do my devotions to Lord Ossama every night.” Hansuke sighed. “Your mom must be tough to handle.” “It’s fine—nothing to worry about. I’m right here.” “Yeah, that’s how it is.”

Hansuke timidly averted his gaze from Rokuchan. Rokuchan stroked the brim of the hat he held—an imaginary regulation cap—then asked Hansuke: “Is your work going well, Uncle?” “It’s… so-so.” Hansuke smiled with his eyes. “Not exactly going great… but not bad either, I suppose. Just… plodding along.” Rokuchan gave a nasal “Hmm.”

From beside Hansuke, Tora poked out her face, looked at Rokuchan, and opened her mouth wide. She must have tried to meow, but no sound emerged, and she retreated behind Hansuke just like that.

“Well,—”

Hansuke said this and stroked the side of his nose with a finger. As though this were a prearranged signal to part ways, Rokuchan put on his hat, waved one hand, and stepped back from the doorway.

“Thank you,” Hansuke said. “Give my regards to your mom.”

Rokuchan left the alley in silence.

When night came and they had prepared for bed, Okuni-san and Rokuchan sat before the Buddhist altar together. In the Buddhist altar, a ritual oil lamp was lit, and incense smoke wavered. When Okuni-san took the small uchiwa drum in hand, Rokuchan first pressed his hands together and bowed, then made a wish for his mother’s sake. “Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō.” He pressed his hands together and, with an expression of pure familiarity and conviction as if Lord Ossama himself were inside the Buddhist altar, called out: “—Please forgive me if this daily request grows tiresome, but I humbly ask that Mom’s mind stay clear and strong. Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō.”

Then when Okuni-san began chanting the invocation and started beating the uchiwa drum, Rokuchan bowed again and spoke to the Buddhist altar. "Mom, Tora’s old man is worried about you too." Okuni-san stopped both the drum and the chant and looked at Rokuchan with a puzzled expression. Rokuchan nodded reassuringly to his mother and said— "You don’t gotta worry about it, Mom—worryin’s worst poison for your head. It’s okay, Mom."

Okuni-san turned back and began chanting the Buddhist chant.

My wife

Mr. Shima's left leg was short. It appeared to be about three inches shorter than his right leg. Naturally, when he walked, he limped quite conspicuously.

Mr. Shima wore a mustache. With his sharply defined eyebrows, clear eyes, and refined features, he seemed an unlikely resident for this "town." In less than half a year since moving here, he had become acquainted with nearly all the inhabitants, mingling with everyone indiscriminately, and came to be well-liked through his genial smiles and buoyant way of speaking.

――Oh yes, I'm perfectly satisfied—no complaints whatsoever, don't you agree?

Observing Mr. Shima’s demeanor, one could almost hear him declaring—This world was splendid—wasn’t it splendid to be alive in this world? What troubled them was—the neighbors whispered among themselves—that facial ailment of his. The leg was no trouble at all, but that facial thing just didn’t sit right with you.

Mr. Shima had a certain chronic ailment. Perhaps it could be called a facial nerve spasm—at intervals, delicate convulsions would ripple across his face while simultaneously, something from deep in his throat would surge upward, crawl through his windpipe to become a "kekekefun" sound that escaped through his nostrils.

When facing him, first one eyebrow would arch, followed by a rapid blink of the eye. This served as the precursor to his spasms, but initially, most people would feel as if they’d been winked at and become flustered. "I was so flustered, you know," said Mr. Oda, the antique dealer. "When he hit me with those pachi-pachi eye flutters—I thought, isn't this some kinda riddle? Like 'Lend me your wife tonight' or somethin'."

Following this wink, his left and right eyebrows, eyes, and mouth would each begin convulsing independently, his nose would start wriggling, and then whatever had surged up from his throat would escape through his nostrils with a "kekekefun." These delicate seizures occurred completely irregularly. They might go two hours without a single sign, then repeat every ten minutes. When drunk, he was often safe; but the moment he became aware of this, the violent ones would come attacking—such was the pattern.

Mr. Shima had a wife. She stood about ten centimeters taller than Mr. Shima and likely weighed ten kilograms more. Her hips ample with fat, her shoulders squared, her hands and feet large, her chest as substantial as a dairy cow’s.

"It’s true," the wives from the same tenement muttered among themselves. "When that woman walks by, our houses shake and things come tumbling off the shelves!"

Her hair was brown and thin, her eyes steady, her lips thick, and there was a blue bruise on her left cheek. It was impossible to tell her age—Mr. Shima claimed to be thirty-four, and she could appear around the same, yet sometimes looked forty-five or six. She was always silent, did not interact with the neighbors, and did not even exchange morning or evening greetings. Shima’s wife was not merely disliked by people—if anything, she seemed to be actively detested.

She was as haughty as a disgruntled boulder and was said to "look down at people from the lower right corner of her eyes." Moreover, as the left corner of her lip would twist to the left at the same time, there were even comments that “not even the most malicious person could manage such a petty, spiteful expression.”

The interactions among the residents here primarily consisted of lending and borrowing items and exchanging complaints. The phrase "Others come crying" seemed to be their sole reliance and even their faith. Even when they spoke of lending and borrowing items, it was only things like a small dish of soy sauce, a pinch of salt, or a bowlful of rice. But the lender would think, “Gen-san’s household isn’t doing so well either,” savoring a modest sense of fortitude and superiority in knowing their own home still had a little to spare. It often became a manifestation of neighborly love—this borrowing of an unnecessary pinch of salt precisely to let the other party savor those very emotions.

Shima’s wife did not engage in such things. This "town" had its own greengrocer and fishmonger as well—the fishmonger displayed only a few salted scraps and fish bones on a single wooden plank, while the greengrocer offered nothing but faded, wilted vegetables devoid of color or moisture. They were said to gather market discards, yet residents managed with these two shops. But Shima’s wife never glanced their way; she always crossed the vacant lot to Nakadōri for shopping.

“That Mrs. is a terrible person.” The residents’ wives gossiped among themselves: “So the other day at that discount greengrocer’s—when she went to buy a cabbage, she started ripping off the outer leaves, saying they were wilted and bruised. Must’ve torn off six or seven leaves! Then she hands what’s left to the shopkeeper and says, ‘Weigh this for me.’ But cabbages are sold by the head here, not by weight! When the shopkeeper told her that, she screamed loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear—‘You expect me to pay for these bruised, shriveled leaves? And you call this a discount shop? You’re just sucking the blood out of poor folks!’”

Customers fled in fear while onlookers gathered, until finally the shopkeeper must have reached his breaking point. “Then take it for free”—saying that was a mistake. Shima’s wife squared her shoulders and barked in a masculine tone, “I ain’t no beggar!”, ultimately forcing the shopkeeper to apologize, weigh the cabbage, and set a price. “But get this—when she paid and was leaving, that Mrs. went and gathered up all the cabbage leaves she’d stripped off and thrown away, bundled them together with the cabbage she bought, and marched right out bold as brass!”

There was also the story about her visit to the fishmonger, but like with the cabbage incident, it remained unclear how much of it was factual. The gossiping wives weren’t seeking facts either; they simply wanted to indulge in their shared antipathy toward Mr. Shima’s wife, so they never bothered verifying the stories’ authenticity.

Shortly after moving to this "town," Mr. Shima called upon Kotaki San, the antique dealer, and disposed of household goods. They sold their household goods and left that land.

There were stories of households closing down their affairs, but cases where someone sold off their household goods immediately after moving in were rare—and moreover, those items appeared to be both still-new looking and seemingly expensive articles. An iron cauldron, a large iron pot, a Nanbu iron teakettle, Nanbu iron fire tongs with gold and silver inlay. A mulberry wood tea cabinet, a solid paulownia long brazier, a dressing stand, a Shunkei-nuri lacquered table—with these and other items before him, Kotaki Takizo’s eyes bulged.

“When dealing with pieces of this caliber,” Kotaki Takizo said, shrinking back deferentially, “I’m simply not qualified to appraise them alone—there’s an authority at the marketplace. May I have them come here instead?” Mr. Shima replied that this would be acceptable.

“Hey, we’ve hit the jackpot!” After returning home, Kotaki Takizo said to his wife with breathless excitement, “What do you call a massive household clearance—no, wait, they just moved in! Haven’t seen anything like this in years!” The influential figure summoned from the marketplace lived up to his reputation as a discerning appraiser—he showed not the slightest hesitation upon seeing those items. First he surveyed everything with one sweeping glance, then deliberately picked up what seemed like promising pieces—though these amounted to merely two or three—before turning away to light a cigarette with an air of disinterest toward the rest.

“It’s cold for April.” Muttering those very words under his breath like stray ashes from his cigarette, he added flatly: “Blossoms’ll come late too—at this damn pace.”

Kotaki Takizo was surprised by the influential figure’s demeanor and scrutinized Mr. Shima’s expression. Mr. Shima, appearing carefree, laughed brightly while nodding along to the influential figure, who abruptly changed the subject. “At what price do you intend to sell this, sir?” “The higher the better, I’d say.” Mr. Shima grinned. “These are all items with stories, you see. Truly reluctant to part with them—especially that kettle over there, I’d say.” Then he began elaborating on each item’s provenance, pedigree, and secret tales in such vivid detail that an atmosphere akin to a family feud drama unfolded, leaving Kotaki Takizo utterly captivated. However, the influential figure continued puffing on his cigarette, wearing an expression that seemed to say it was still too cold for April.

“Stories are stories,” the influential figure eventually said. “But sir—what amount do you actually intend to receive for this?”

When Mr. Shima stated the amount, the influential figure shook his head.

“That won’t do.” The Influential Figure extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and said, “This isn’t even worth discussing—the numbers are in completely different leagues. I’m not running this business for my health. Hey, Mr. Kotaki—we’re done here.”

And then, he returned home with Kotaki Takizo. Kotaki Takizo, perplexed by his lack of understanding, hurriedly asked for the reason once they stepped outside. The Influential Figure snorted and stated in the jargon of their trade that all those items were counterfeit. The paulownia of the long brazier was merely veneer; the mulberry wood tea cabinet and Shunkei-nuri lacquered table had their plausible color and grain achieved through paint; even the Nanbu iron fire tongs featured not gold or silver inlay, but brass and nickel plating. The pots and kettles all had holes in their bottoms and were worth no more than scrap iron. “None of them are proper items—if you carelessly get involved with such things, you’ll be in for a world of hurt,” the Influential Figure cautioned.

Kotaki Takizo scratched his head and repeatedly apologized, saying he hadn’t known about any of this and that there was no excuse for wasting their valuable time. “Sporting a damn mustache,” the Influential Figure said. “Hmph—what a damn joker.”

Mr. Shima called over another antique dealer and seems to have disposed of those items. According to Mr. and Mrs. Tomikawa in the neighboring house to the right, on the night after Kotaki Takizo had been summoned, already past nine o'clock, sounds of objects being moved and low-voiced haggling over prices could be heard from Mr. Shima’s house.

“That really hit close to home,” said Mr. Tomikawa. “They’d just moved in, you see—we thought they were already shutting down their household when they’d only just arrived.”

Of course it was a misunderstanding, and a few days later, Mr. Shima hosted a drinking party for the neighbors.

“Please come by after dinner.” Mr. Shima went around saying, “There’s nothing special—please think of it as just a casual get-together.”

He went around saying this to fourteen or fifteen houses, but only five guests actually came. The majority of those who didn’t come were either out working to earn tomorrow’s food or couldn’t spare the time due to nighttime side work.

Among the five guests was a man in his fifties whom everyone referred to as Sensei. He stood just over one meter fifty tall—thin and white-haired—yet sported a jet-black mustache that jutted stiffly upward and an equally jet-black beard. His eyebrows were thick and black, and beneath them lay eyes of extraordinary size that glared menacingly whether he looked at someone or even smiled—with an almost threatening gleam. He wore a threadbare morning coat whose fabric had worn thin to a shade closer to maroon than black, paired with striped trousers that bulged roundly at the knees—yet went barefoot without socks.

“Pardon me,” Sensei said at the entrance. “I have come in response to your invitation—a ronin by the name of Kandō Seikyō. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Did Mr. Shima feel nothing when faced with this antiquated “pardon me,” Sensei’s anachronistic attire, and those trademark glaring eyes? He smiled affably, baring white teeth as if greeting an acquaintance of ten years, and waved his hand in invitation. Sensei did not immediately step up, instead taking out a single large business card from his morning coat’s chest pocket and handing it to Mr. Shima. —A business card about three times larger than ordinary ones, printed in large type with “Head Instructor of Yūkoku Juku: Kandō Seikyō.” It appeared well-used, soiled with hand grime, its four corners curled.

As he read Kandō Seikyō, he noticed Sensei Kandō had extended a hand. "Well hello there," Mr. Shima said. "I’m currently having my business cards printed—threw out the old ones already, so my apologies."

"I don't mind at all," he had said, but Sensei Kandō showed no intention of withdrawing his hand. Mr. Shima promptly noticed this and returned the name card he held to its owner. Thereupon, Sensei Kandō carefully returned it to its original pocket and removed his worn-down geta before stepping up.

There, antique dealer Kotaki Takizo, Tomikawa Jūsaburō from the neighboring house to the right, and elder Tanba had already arrived; exchanging greetings with one another, Sensei Kandō went to the very back and sat down. After that, Okada Tatsuya arrived. Dressed in a high-collared uniform with a close-cropped head, he appeared to Mr. Shima as nothing more than a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy. Since they were drinking alcohol, Mr. Shima gently refused, saying children should excuse themselves.

"I am not a child," Okada Tatsuya replied. "I'm the head of a household, you know." "That's correct—my apologies for the presumption, but this stems from your misunderstanding, Mr. Shima," Sensei Kandō said. "Though young Okada here may be nineteen years old, he maintains a five-person household with commendable diligence—and possesses full capacity to partake in drink."

Just as he was about to say "Come in," Mr. Shima's delicate chronic condition flared up, startling Okada Tatsuya into assuming a fleeing posture. Following the initial wink, every feature of his face began twitching independently, and something began growling deep in Mr. Shima's throat—a development that made Okada Tatsuya interpret this as an intense rejection, as if being told, "Get out." Mr. Shima gestured to restrain the Okada boy with a wave of his hand. Then, as whatever had been crawling up his throat escaped through his nose with a kekekefun snort, he smiled brightly and said.

“Please come in.”

Realizing no more guests would come, Mr. Shima brought out the alcohol.

The room was only six tatami mats and an alcove. In this space stood a single low dining table with stacked empty boxes arranged beneath, two planks placed on top to form its surface. A washed cover cloth concealed this makeshift construction, though any pressure from an elbow or leaning weight would make it collapse instantly—which was why Mr. Shima had sternly cautioned them beforehand. The room contained only an aged chest of drawers riddled with scars, a mirror stand with cracked glass, a wicker trunk, and a Seto brazier worth noting; no other furnishings could be found. Yet within the unchanged six-mat space, when host and guests surrounded this dining table, there seemed no room left to move.

A two-liter bottle half-filled with sake and another two-liter bottle filled to the brim with shochu appeared. In one half of a large donburi bowl lay sweet-simmered netted melon preserves, in the other a mound of daikon radish salad—both heaped high—with a single pair of serving chopsticks laid across them. Instead of cups stood six mismatched teacups—varying in size and shape—three of which had been borrowed from the Tomikawas next door. “Enough with the formalities,” said Mr. Shima with a sharp bow. “I’m Shima Yūkichi—treat me kindly.”

“That’s your stock phrase,” said Sensei Kandō as he took a teacup and poured shochu into it, “—but even if you say ‘treat me well,’ there isn’t a single person among these residents capable of looking after others. You’re not thinking that either, are you?” “Ouch,” Mr. Shima clutched his chest.

“Even in pretense,” Sensei Kandō said, “a man shouldn’t utter words he doesn’t mean.” Then raising the teacup he held, he declared, “I’ll partake,” and drained it in one gulp. “Now then, everyone—please.” Mr. Shima turned to the other four guests with a bright smile. “Place the appetizers right in your hands. In ancient Rome, emperors and nobles all ate with their bare hands. What I’d like to say here is—let’s drink to mock ill-gotten wealth and pretension, but...”

“If we’re going to imitate emperors and nobles,” said the Okada boy, “we can’t very well mock wealth and pretension.”

Sensei Kandō laughed with a ridiculous voice, and Mr. Shima clutched his chest as if in pain and spoke.

“Et tu, Brute?”

“Freedom! Liberation!” the Okada boy proclaimed. “Oppression has crumbled.” Mr. Shima’s eyes widened as if struck across the cheek, and then his chronic seizure took hold. The Okada boy had just endured it himself, while Mr. Tomikawa next door and Kotaki Takizo were already familiar with this condition. But for Kandō Seikyō and elder Tanba—first-time witnesses—their initial shock gave way to keen fascination as they monitored the disorderly, even chaotic progression of nervous spasms playing out across Mr. Shima’s face.

Had Mr. Shima grown accustomed to being observed? He serenely surrendered to the seizure until that thing traveled from his throat to his nose, then laughed gallantly when it subsided.

“This is a surprise,” Mr. Shima said to the Okada boy. “You know Shakespeare, don’t you?”

“The Okada boy is an English genius,” Sensei Kandō replied for him. “He works at a major newspaper company by day and attends night classes at Seisoku English School—he’s destined to become a great English scholar.” “How truly auspicious, Okada-kun,” Mr. Shima said, thrusting out his right hand. “Let’s shake on it.” As the sake began circulating, Sensei Kandō demanded, “Where’s your wife?” He insisted that the lady of the house ought to pour drinks for guests, declaring it improper for a hostess to remain absent during gatherings. Mr. Shima merely answered, “She’s out on an errand—should return any moment now.”

Mr. Shima’s wife—as would later become clear—never appeared before guests. As if avoiding all neighborhood interactions entirely，she would never so much as offer a cup of tea—let alone exchange greetings—no matter how close a friend of Mr．Shima’s came visiting． The wives in this “town” claimed it was likely because they did not want their facial scars seen—but Mr．Shima，their husband，seemed well aware this did not stem from such feminine shame．

“Let me ask you all something,” Mr. Shima suddenly declared in formal tones. “Have you ever plundered rice from a grain merchant without payment?”

"If it's about loan defaulting," Sensei Kandō answered, "I am a master of that field." "No, that’s not it—it’s not borrowing but plundering. And doing it openly and brazenly at that. What do you think, gentlemen?" No one responded; not even a flicker of curiosity stirred among them. The residents of this "town," taken as a whole, did not believe in too-good-to-be-true stories. They had been betrayed countless times before because they had jumped at too-good-to-be-true deals. For them, the very notion that too-good-to-be-true deals existed in this world had become utterly impossible to believe.

“In that case, I’ll tell you.” said Mr. Shima.

First, wet the inside of an iron pot with water, then go to an unfamiliar rice shop and have them measure out exactly two kilograms of rice into it. The reason it must be precisely two kilograms—neither more nor less—relates to applied psychology, which I'll skip explaining here. Once the two kilograms are measured into the pot, ask if you can borrow it. Since you're strangers, they'll likely refuse. If refused, put on a disappointed look, say "Maybe next time," then pour the rice back out and return it. Because the pot's interior was dampened, about one portion of grains would stick and remain behind.

Just as Mr. Shima reached that point in his explanation, the Okada boy interjected. “That’s a rakugo story,” said the Okada boy. “Yes, there’s definitely a rakugo where they do something similar with a bamboo basket—I heard it on the radio.” “No, that’s not it. It’s different.” Mr. Shima smiled faintly. “Rakugo storytellers are self-righteous types who often get things wrong, but this absolutely won’t work with a basket.”

The Okada boy fell silent, and the other four turned their attention to Mr. Shima for the first time. "You see," Mr. Shima continued, "if this were a bamboo basket, you'd turn it upside down and tap the bottom—all the rice would get knocked clean out. Follow?" The other four besides the Okada boy gave faint nods. "But when it comes to—" "But when it comes to an iron pot," Mr. Shima said, "that approach won't work—the bottom's coated with soot, and the damn thing's too heavy besides. You can't just flip it over and give it a shake."

“That’s not all.”

Mr. Shima raised his voice there. “When the ions present in iron’s composition come into contact with rice grains, a chemical reaction occurs, producing a type of alkaloid substance, you see.” “Alkaloid?” The Okada boy let out a surprised voice. “No,” Mr. Shima stammered, “no—maybe it was aldehyde? No, I think it was alkaloid after all. Well, either way—what matters is that when iron makes contact with rice grains, a chemical reaction occurs, making those grains stick stubbornly.”

Therefore, an amount incomparable to what would stick to a bamboo basket adhered to and remained in the pot. By repeating this at two or three shops, it was claimed one could reliably collect about five hundred grams of rice.

“If you don’t even know something like this,” Mr. Shima concluded, “then I’d say you still don’t know what real poverty is.”

“I’m ashamed to admit it,” said Kotaki Takizo, “but I’ve never used an iron pot before—no, my family’s been using earthenware pots since my parents’ generation.” “What does that matter? Rice tastes best when cooked in an earthenware pot!” declared Sensei Kandō. “In any case, it’s absurd for men worthy of the name to be fretting over something like rice. Shima-kun—what’s your take on the current political world? Let’s hear your opinion, shall we?”

Kotaki Takizo sipped his watery sake while thinking that when push came to shove, he absolutely had to ask Tanuki no Kei-san once whether Mr. Shima’s method for plundering rice was true or false. The Okada boy timed his moment to pour sake into the Tanba elder’s cup; the old man responded with a faint smile and a nod, silent yet seemingly savoring each sip as he listened with the air of one carefully weighing everyone’s words.

Sensei Kandō tried to drag Mr. Shima into political issues and pin him down there. Mr. Shima clearly seemed to dislike that topic and appeared to be trying every trick he knew to extricate himself from it.

“That’s right, that’s right,” Mr. Shima finally said. “You’re the spitting image of Prime Minister Liger.”

Mr. Shima finally knew he had discovered an escape route from the political issue. He had put a nose ring on the raging bull. Sensei Kandō’s expression softened, his mouth stretching taut into a straight line. “I’ve been thinking you resembled someone,” Mr. Shima said. “That’s right—without a doubt, Prime Minister Hamanauchi Liger. The area around your mouth is exactly like the Prime Minister’s. Don’t you all agree, gentlemen?” As Tomikawa Jūsaburō asked for the first time—“What is a Liger?”—and Mr. Shima explained that it was a hybrid beast born from a lion and tiger mating, though “limited to one generation” with no successors, Sensei Kandō’s mouth spread ever more firmly sideways, as if he himself were Prime Minister Hamanauchi Liger, a swelling developing on his upper lip.

“Well, people ought to be nurtured with care,” Sensei Kandō said cautiously while maintaining his composed expression, “—Back when he was smoldering away as a vice-minister in some ministry, I served as social affairs editor at the Evening Sun. But recognizing his potential, I overrode the bureau chief’s opposition and frequently wrote lead articles to advance his cause.”

“Well, people ought to be nurtured with care,” Sensei Kandō continued, twisting his large mustache and nodding with deep emotion, “That man who was smoldering away as a mere vice-minister has now risen to become Prime Minister Hamanauchi Liger—the Prime Minister of a nation!” Mr. Tomikawa spoke up for the first time, saying he certainly did resemble him and couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t noticed until now. “Stop it, Seishuku!” shouted Sensei Kandō. “You all may say that, but I’m not pleased—comparing me to the likes of Hamanauchi!”

And raising his fist, he struck the table with a flourish. Mr. Shima tried to stop him but was too late—the contraption beneath the tablecloth came apart, and with a clamorous crash, sake bottles, teacups, and rice bowls went tumbling down. One wooden board sprang upward, sending Sensei Kandō lurching forward from the force of his own blow.

To put it concisely, that was the end of the banquet. Mr. Tomikawa was busy gathering the teacups he had lent out and confirming that all three were unharmed, while Sensei Kandō diligently scrubbed at the collar of his morning coat with a grayed handkerchief. Kotaki Takizo ran to the kitchen to fetch a cleaning rag, while the Okada boy and the Tanba elder remained standing, dumbfounded. And Mr. Shima, while gazing at the irreparable wreckage of the dining table, acknowledged that he no longer had the energy to reassemble it once more—as if willing that delicate fit of his to strike now of all times—his nose and mouth kept twitching and writhing incessantly.

No one knew what kind of job Mr. Shima had. To be fair, in this "town," most were like that, and those with enough leisure to pry into such matters could be counted on one's fingers.

One of those idle individuals was seated to Mr. Shima’s left—a lone man called Toku-san who maintained a large territory across the main street under "Chikushō". He had been secretly whispering to people here and there that this meant he belonged to the boss's inner circle. He probably meant to suggest he was a professional gambler. He was around forty, of average build and height, with no particularly distinguishing features—an ordinary and mild-mannered man.

“Well here’s the thing,” Toku-san whispered on one occasion. “He’s a loan shark’s deliveryman—no, wait, some sort of collections agent? No, not that either—in short, he’s one of those loan payment collectors. What’s the term... Anyway—I overheard Mr. and Mrs. Shima talking, and I suspect it’s some sort of scheme like that.” “Something’s fishy—I just can’t swallow this explanation.” Toku-san whispered again on another occasion: “He’s no loan shark’s lackey—seems he works at a detective agency or something. Yeah, I reckon he’s a scout for a detective agency or the like. That’s the real story.”

He next speculated that Mr. Shima was a pettifogging lawyer; then suspected he was lying low in such a place because he had been wanted by the police in connection with some corruption case. And then next—

These were all pieces of information gleaned in the stillness of night through a single thin wall from next door by listening to voices, but none of them—whether this person or that—took it seriously in the first place, nor did they ever show any interest in such matters concerning others.

Mr. Shima usually left home around ten o'clock, and his return time varied. There were evenings when he returned home, and midnights when he came back.

Mr. Shima always kept himself tidy. An old but likely custom-made suit and a black soft hat. Though it was said he polished them himself, his shoes were also neatly maintained, and he carried a walking stick hooked over his left arm.

“Good morning!” When leaving home and encountering someone, his thickly mustached, refined face would bloom into a smile as he slightly lifted his soft hat with his right hand in greeting: “Lovely weather we’re having! How’s business?”

When speaking to women or elderly people, he would gently say, "My! You're full of energy!" and "How's your boy's cold? Has his fever come down?" Even when not offering such pleasantries, he never failed to smile broadly, give a polite bow, and offer a cheerful "Well!" in greeting. Then, as Mr. Shima—walking stick hooked over his arm—tilted his torso first to one side, then to the other, and back again while walking away, even that peculiar gait seemed to bring him pleasure; thus, the people felt toward Mr. Shima both respect and a warm sense of familiarity.

About two months after moving to "the town," Mr. Shima found employment at the Nanigashi Credit Investigation Office. He presented new business cards to four people—Kotaki Takizo the antique dealer, his neighbor Mr. Tomikawa, Sensei Kandō, and the boy Okada Tatsuya—and informed them of it. “Let’s have another drink next time,” Mr. Shima said to the Okada boy. “How’s your English coming along? Are you still attending night school properly?” “It’s not night school,” the boy shook his head. “It’s the afternoon class—I’m still attending.”

The section chief at the big newspaper company where he worked had moved him to night shifts, so he could attend the afternoon class at school—the boy explained simply.

“Well then, soon,” Mr. Shima said, “we’ll have a grand beer party next time.”

But the grand beer party never materialized.

Mr. Shima diligently commuted to the credit investigation office, and whenever he met someone, he would smile brightly and chat casually with anyone. But even his neighbor Mr. Tomikawa had never once been invited over for tea. Shima’s wife still did not engage with the neighbors, and whenever she met anyone outside, she would pretend not to recognize them. That said, it was not that she was acting superior or looking down on others; rather, her indifference was such that it could not even be called cold—it was akin to a dog’s indifference toward the movement of clouds in the sky.

The neighborhood wives referred to her as “Mrs.” In this sort of “town,” the term “Mrs.” was universally understood to be derogatory without exception, and “Okichi-san” often served as a synonym—a label signifying something abnormal, something bordering on madness. “I’m shocked,” said one of the wives. “At the Shimas’ place, Mr. Shima does all the cooking while that Mrs. just watches with her hands tucked in her sleeves. Can you believe a couple like that exists?”

“This is about Toku-san, you know,” said another wife. “The Shimas never have guests and are always just the two of them, so Mr. Shima does all the talking while Mrs. stays quiet—and every now and then when you’d hear something, it’d be him yelling ‘Quit your racket!’ or ‘Shut your trap already!’ Then they’d go dead silent again.”

Such backbiting knew no bounds, but the two examples cited above would belong to the category of unembellished instances.

Summer passed, autumn passed, winter came and it was late November—Mr. Shima’s house had guests for once, and the drinking began.

It was payday, and there were three guests. They were Mr. Shima's colleagues from Nanigashi Credit Investigation Office. He must have notified her about bringing guests beforehand, for after returning home once the lights were on, Mr. Shima called out in a cheerful voice while opening the ill-fitting lattice door.

“Hey, we have guests!”

However, no reply came from inside the house. The dim electric lamp's light shone through the shoji screens, and though there were signs of movement within, no one offered a greeting—neither a "Come in" nor a "Welcome home."

The three guests exchanged glances. "Please do come in." Mr. Shima declared with forced cheer, "No need to stand on ceremony—it's no mansion. Come along now!"

The three entered the narrow earthen floor, removed their hats, and took off their overcoats. And following Mr. Shima, they jostled each other as they entered the room.

One of the shoji screens stood open, allowing the guests to glimpse a large woman inside. Needless to say, this was Mr. Shima's wife; she appeared to be adjusting the charcoal brazier in what must have been the kitchen. "Hey! We've got guests!" Mr. Shima called again, "Won't you come greet them?"

“What a pain this fire is, tsk.” The wife clicked her tongue at the charcoal brazier. “Ugh, this is infuriating. Because these freeloading bastards came crawling around, I have to deal with this nuisance. Tsk. What a worthless fire.” “The Document Division Chief’s face today was priceless, Matsui,” Mr. Shima began loudly, as if trying to smother his wife’s muttering. “—It was just like when you light up a cigarette and it turns out to be one of those snap-fire ones!”

“When it popped, he stared wide-eyed—just like that scene,” said Matsui-kun. “You’ve got a way with words, Shima-kun—that’s exactly how it was!” “It popped right at the tip of his nose,” Mr. Shima said. “He thought it was a regular cigarette and lit it—pop!” The three guests burst into laughter, as if to prove they found it so amusing they couldn’t contain themselves.

At that moment, the wife appeared. The guests were struck dumb by her large physique and the abnormality manifested in her face—not in the sense of a birthmark, but by that inhuman indifference, by the expression showing complete indifference that refused to acknowledge any of this world’s affairs.

“You, this is Mr. Ikega,” Mr. Shima introduced the guests, “and this is Mr. Nomoto and Mr. Matsui. Gentlemen, this is my wife.”

The three guests, in the order they were introduced, sat up straight while minding their trouser knees, each stated their names, and greeted with "Pleased to meet you." But Mrs. neither heard nor seemed to register anything through her eyes, humming a low tune as she shoved the chabudai aside, then brought from the kitchen two large bowls—one heaped with shrimp tsukudani and the other with Fukujinzuke pickles—and dropped them onto the table. This was no exaggeration—she literally threw them down, causing the two large bowls to teeter precariously, lurching two or three times to either side. As a handful of Fukujinzuke pickles spilled out, Matsui-kun hastily shifted his knees aside.

Mr. Shima nimbly reached out to steady the two bowls while looking toward Matsui-kun. A handful of Fukujinzuke pickles and broth had spilled from one bowl, making Matsui-kun hastily shift his knees away. As he stabilized the bowls, Mr. Shima tried to ask if Matsui-kun had stained his installment-plan trousers—but his usual spasm struck then, forcing him to wait until it kekekefun-ed through his nostrils before posing the question.

“Okay, no problem.”

Matsui-kun answered while stroking his trouser knees, glaring sidelong at the kitchen through narrowed eyes. Mr. Shima cracked an elegant smile and launched into an explanation about snap-fire cigarettes. The three guests' faces swelled like balloons pumped full of rage—yet still, deducing what churned in Mr. Shima's breast, they masked their wilted spirits and threw perfunctory replies at his story.

At that moment, the wife emerged from the kitchen. In one arm she carried her bath supplies, in the other she dangled a hand towel, and between her lips was a lit cigarette.

“I’m off to the bath,” the wife said. “The fire’s lit.” And humming a tune, swinging the dangling hand towel, she strode out with large steps. The guests exchanged glances, while Mr. Shima, chattering cheerfully and swaying his body, went to heat sake in the kitchen—using the gas stove for this—then brought over a roughly twenty-centimeter-square board to place beside the low dining table, after which he carried over the charcoal brazier and firmly set it atop the board. Even during this time, Mr. Shima kept talking nonstop—carrying cups, plates, and chopsticks; distributing the aluminum pot filled with yudofu ingredients and four small bowls of seasoned broth; then bringing over the warmed two-gō sake flask—before finally returning to his seat.

“This yudofu is our pride,” Mr. Shima began to say, then started to rise with an “Ah! I forgot the crucial pot!”—but Ikega-kun quickly stood up, declaring “I’ll get it.”

The three were fighting back tears in their hearts, for Mr. Shima—a man with a disabled leg, chronic facial nerve spasms, yet ever cheerful and bright with gentlemanly bearing—to be rushing about alone entertaining guests without rebuking his wife’s brazen attitude, she who resembled some grand champion of women’s sumo in her hulking size, insensitivity, and reptilian coldness, was a sight that fellow men could hardly behold with composure. “Now, let’s start with Mr. Ikega.” Mr. Shima lifted the sake flask. “You’re the youngest here, yes? Though I believe Mr. Matsui had a junior... or was that someone else?”

“That’s me,” said Mr. Nomoto, “Mr. Matsui has been married for ten years but still has no children.” And he sullenly clammed up.

Mr. Shima looked bewildered as he checked the yudofu pot. Mr. Nomoto's words came in a tone as if he were spitting out wooden splinters from his mouth—each splinter seeming to reveal the thorns now sprouting in his emotions. Mr. Shima worked his nose and mouth. If only his usual spasm had struck now—it would've helped shift the conversation—but of all times, the damn spasm remained turned away, refusing to cooperate.

“I saw a pitiful sight this morning,” Mr. Shima said. “I left earlier than usual and was doing some work when Deputy Manager Nihira from the Foreign Department came by—that fellow who’s always dozing off.” “That’s practically an art form in itself,” said Mr. Ikega. “He probably only types up five letters a day at most—the division chief takes care of everything important himself.”

“Division Chief Nakamura’s quite proficient in English,” said Matsui-kun. “He even teaches at Hōmei University’s night school. But when he speaks it, his accent’s different—the accent, you know.” Mr. Shima added various ingredients to the yudofu pot while gesturing animatedly to describe Deputy Manager Nihira’s all-day napping habits, laughed with refined grace, waited for his delicate spasm to subside, then steered the conversation back.

“I spread out my work on the desk—no one from the Document Division had arrived yet—when President’s Secretary Mr. Kokuban popped in briefly. Now then gentlemen，please take up your chopsticks.” Mr. Shima gestured toward the simmering yudofu，poured drinks for the three，and continued：“Then Deputy Manager Nihira arrived，you see—with that vacant look he always has，clutching his battered briefcase，plodding like he wore lead boots—Rostandian style，if you will—until he lumbered to his desk，set down the case，and let out a huge yawn．The curtain rising on his daily routine，you might say.”

Nomoto-kun tossed simmered shrimp into his mouth and poured himself three cups of sake.

"He opened his briefcase, took out its contents, and removed the typewriter cover—when the accounting department head came hurrying into the office. Spotting Deputy Manager Nihira, he said, 'Ah! Did any special delivery arrive?'" Mr. Shima laughed with apparent amusement, showing his clean white teeth. "'Ah! Deputy Manager Nihira—"Did any special delivery arrive?" he said—and then just hurried straight off toward the Accounting Department.'"

“That man’s always in such a hurry,” Matsui-kun said. “Always seems to be chasing after something.”

“I saw Mr. Nihira’s face change in an instant,” Mr. Shima said. “That vacant look of his tightened right up—went deathly pale—like his breathing stopped completely for a moment. Saw it with these two eyes.”

The young Mr. Ikega took his own chopsticks and circled around the low dining table, sat down beside the pot, served yudofu into the three small plates for himself and the others, pushed two of them in front of Matsui-kun and Nomoto-kun, and immediately began eating.

“I couldn’t make heads or tails of it,” Mr. Shima continued. “There I was wondering—what’s this ‘special delivery’ business?—when Deputy Manager Nihira stuffed everything back into his briefcase, draped the typewriter cover over it, then ran his hand across the fabric like he was petting a dog. Must’ve lingered like that twenty seconds or so. Next thing you know, he grabs his case, plops that battered old fedora on his head, and walks out without a peep.”

“Special delivery means dismissal notice,” Matsui-kun said. “The Foreign Department’s salaries come out on the twentieth—they must’ve squeezed every yen’s worth from him before cutting him loose.” “Mr. Nihira—the special delivery never came through?” Mr. Shima said in a strained voice. “And that was that. They say he’d worked there over a decade, yet one special delivery—all it’s over. When he stroked that typewriter... I suppose that machine was the only thing worth saying goodbye to.”

“If you just nap all the time, you won’t make any friends,” Matsui-kun said. “He has a wife and five kids—the youngest is still in kindergarten, I hear.”

Nomoto-kun drank in silence, eating nothing but simmered shrimp. The thorns sprouting in his emotions only grew thicker and sharper, and he seemed to be nurturing their increasing thickness and sharpness with simmered shrimp and sake.

The conversation continued with gossip about colleagues, section chiefs, department heads, and the like. That such talk would be dominated by slander and frivolous banter was common sense in these circumstances. Among them, Mr. Shima’s remarks were the most scathing, and Mr. Ikega and Mr. Matsui were made to burst out laughing time and again.

Nomoto-kun alone remained silent. He had drunk the most and turned red before anyone else, but at some point that redness faded, leaving his face pale and rigid, his eyes settling into a fixed stare.

“You, Shima-kun,” Nomoto-kun eventually asked in a choked voice, “—weren’t we uninvited guests here today?” “Why?”

A spasm struck Mr. Shima’s face, his answer suspended until it drained away through his nose: “Did I say something that displeased you?” “You’re a good person—a truly good person. I guarantee that.”

Nomoto-kun spoke in a tone like someone affixing a ten-yen revenue stamp to a legal document. Though trying to broach the main subject next, he seemed unable to recall the simplest and most effective words as he mentally flipped through pages of memory; with deliberate slowness, he licked his lips.

“But what the hell is that woman?” Nomoto-kun licked his lips before suddenly declaring, “You introduced her as my wife, so we—I believed that, and believing it is precisely why I bowed my head in greeting.” “I see. My apologies.” Mr. Shima gave a small bow and smiled brightly, showing his teeth. “That’s for me to apologize for—after all, she’s an uncouth savage and a selfish creature.” “There’s no need for you to apologize—I’m not blaming you,” Nomoto-kun cut in. “You’re a good person, and I feel human indignation on your behalf. What the hell is that woman? Can you even call that a proper wife?”

Matsui-kun tried to intervene, but Nomoto-kun waved him off and continued, stirred by his own words. "I don't care about the rudeness toward us—fine by me! But that treatment of you as her husband? The master comes home from work and she doesn't even say 'Welcome back.' Guests are here and she can't be bothered to greet them properly, let alone serve tea—then tops it off by going to the bathhouse! 'The fire's lit,' she says—what a joke! What kind of wife exists in this world like that? If it were me, I'd throw her out this instant!"

“So then, Nomoto-kun—that’s something I’ll apologize for.” “I told you I’m not blaming you,” Nomoto-kun said in a tear-choked voice, “you’re a good person—no need for you to apologize. Rather than apologizing to us, you should throw that woman out—man to man here—a woman like that—”

At that point, the situation took a sudden turn. Before Nomoto-kun could finish speaking, Mr. Shima sprang up and lunged at him. Unbelievably swift for a man with one shortened leg, he pounced on Nomoto-kun, knocked him flat, and straddled his chest. Though not overweight, Nomoto-kun's tall, large-boned frame made Mr. Shima—smaller than average—perched atop him convey an impression not so much of instability as of something fundamentally unnatural.

“What are you saying? What are you saying?” Mr. Shima shouted hoarsely while pinning down the man’s shoulders, “If my wife had done something to you, that would be one thing—but what’s this about kicking her out just because she did nothing?” “Now now, Shima-kun,” Matsui-kun said, “you should stop this violent behavior.”

“Just leave it be,” Nomoto-kun said while pinned on his back. “Let’s hear what Shima-kun has to say.”

“That is my wife.” Mr. Shima said through teeth clenched tight enough to grind stone, “To you all she might seem worthless as three coppers, but that woman’s endured every hardship for me—patiently bore through days when we had nothing to eat but water.”

Matsui-kun and Ikega-kun both fell silent and crestfallen, and Nomoto-kun averted his face. "You all probably don't know this," Mr. Shima continued, "but she endured poverty so severe we even had to test whether wetting an iron pot was the best way to get rice for free from the grocer—and now what? What right do you have to tell me to kick her out? Huh? What right do you have?"

Mr. Shima pressed against Nomoto-kun’s shoulder with each word. At the momentum of his lunge, it looked as though he might punch or even strangle him, but Mr. Shima merely kept pressing Nomoto-kun’s shoulders with his thin arms—like a baker kneading flour—vigorously and relentlessly.

“I get it, let’s stop,” Nomoto-kun said. “It was my slip of the tongue. I apologize.”

Mr. Shima got down from Nomoto-kun and, gasping as if in pain, went back to his original spot and sat down. At the same time, a spasm struck his face as something crawled up his throat and exited through his nose as a cheerful sound. Nomoto-kun got up and straightened his necktie and jacket, Ikega-kun peered into the pot of yudofu, and Matsui-kun seemed to be trying to devise some outlandish topic to ease the tense atmosphere in the room. That span of time was about ten seconds. Before Matsui-kun could devise an outlandish topic, the ill-fitting lattice door at the entrance opened and shut, the sliding door slid open and shut, and Shima’s wife came in. In one arm she carried her bath supplies, and in the other she dangled a damp hand towel.

The three guests swiftly darted their eyes left and right. The expressions on their faces were likely no different from those of zoo spectators hearing “The lion has escaped its cage.” “I’ll take my leave,” Nomoto-kun said. “—Thank you for the meal.”

After hearing this, the wife went to the kitchen.

“Now now, Nomoto-kun,” Mr. Shima raised a hand, “there’s still a whole bottle of sake left—the yudofu hasn’t been touched—we’ve barely gotten started here!” But Matsui-kun and Ikega-kun were already half-rising from their seats as they thanked him for the meal and made ready to leave. Though all three indeed felt friendship toward Mr. Shima, there seemed to be some overwhelming force driving them forward—something even that friendship couldn’t restrain.

Mr. Shima saw the three guests off and returned to the low dining table when his wife appeared from the kitchen. Her face shone with a glossy red sheen like a polished copper washbasin as she stood looking down at Mr. Shima. “I heard all about it—‘my wife,’ huh?” The wife snorted. “Am I your wife? Don’t make me laugh.”

What could this mean? Mr. Shima remained silent and sipped the cold sake left in his cup.

Hansuke and Cat

Hansuke’s house was always hushed.

He was single and lived with a cat named Tora. No one knew what he did for a living; he would occasionally leave with a small cloth-wrapped bundle and return with it grown larger. Since they must be daily necessities or food, the bundle he carried when going out must have contained the means of his livelihood. If that were the case—since he stayed home all day, he must have been doing some home-based work—but what exactly he was doing, no one could tell.

Hansuke was around fifty years old; his hair was jet-black and thick like a young man’s, but his body was as emaciated as a withered loofah. His small, long face—bloodless and clay-wall colored—had eyes that were servile and timid, as if perpetually fearing a blow from someone; when speaking to others, this became all the more pronounced. He always seemed to be apologizing to someone, as if shrinking behind his own body. Even when walking outside, he felt as if he were quietly following himself from behind his own body.

“Looks just like someone with a warrant out for their arrest,” said retired detective Izumi Shōroku. “The kind that’ll cough up dirt if you press him.”

Later, upon hearing this, Saitō-sensei of Yaso laughed.

“What comes out when you beat him is dust,” said Saitō-sensei. “Mud is what you make him cough up. That retired detective seems rather suspicious himself.”

Hansuke did not socialize with his neighbors. The only ones who occasionally visited were two people: a boy named Rokuchan from another neighborhood and a man known as "Mr. Hira of the Shack" in this town.

Mr. Hira was about the same age as Hansuke and visited roughly once every ten days, though he did not seem to have any particular business. Even when staying for nearly half a day, their voices remained scarcely audible; the only sounds that occasionally reached others were tea being sipped or talk of weather and business conditions—leaving it utterly incomprehensible why he visited or what purpose these encounters served. Hansuke would wake up earlier than anyone else in this town, wash his face at the wellside, clap his hands toward the eastern sky, close his eyes reverently and bow his head three times while muttering something under his breath. Though likely making supplications, his prayers stayed indistinct—the muttered words never rising above fragmented whispers. Then he would fetch water in two buckets and return home—a daily routine carried out with mechanical precision regardless of season or weather.

Extremely rarely, he would find himself at the wellside with others.

“Good morning,” they called out. “You’re always early, Hansuke-san.”

At this, Hansuke immediately hunched his shoulders, bowed servilely, and—stammering a nervous reply as if to placate the other person—no sooner had he done so than he lifted the two buckets and scurried off toward his house. Hansuke’s life was closely connected only to his pet cat Tora. That said, there was nothing particularly unusual about it. Among those generally called cat lovers or dog lovers, there are no shortage of eccentric examples, but compared to those people, the relationship between Hansuke and Tora was an extremely ordinary, commonplace one.—It was only in the fact that Hansuke, who did not socialize with others, would talk to Tora, eat meals together with her, and sleep alongside her that one sensed a "close" connection.

Early in the morning, even in summer while it was still dark, Hansuke woke up.

“Lord Tora,” Hansuke called out. “Shall we get up soon?”

At the hem of the layered bedding, Tora, who had been sleeping curled up, opened her eyes and looked toward her master. Hansuke stretched within the bedding, yawned widely while scratching some part of his body—his voice when calling to Tora seemed to whisper, and even when yawning, he made no sound. He rose, folded the bedding, and even when stowing it away in the closet, scarcely made a sound. All of these actions were carried out with careful quietness, as though an important critically ill patient were sleeping nearby. Then he changed clothes and headed to the wellside—but even Hansuke couldn’t prevent the creaking of the ill-fitting lattice door and storm shutters as he opened them.

“Hungry?” he said while cooking rice over the charcoal stove. “Just wait a bit longer, Tora.”

Tora made a silent meow, opening his mouth without letting out a voice. When the rice finished cooking in a small enamel pot, he made miso soup in a similar-sized pot, took out pickled vegetables in the meantime, and prepared the meal tray. It was an old-fashioned lidded box-style meal tray—no longer seen even in rural areas—containing dishes inside; when he flipped the lid over and placed it atop the box, it became a dining setup. When finished, he would wipe the dishes with a cloth and put them back into the box as they were, saving him the trouble of going to the kitchen to wash them. Hansuke was a neat person, but even so, he occasionally found satisfaction in merely washing the dishcloth.

Tora did not leave Hansuke’s side. Whether in the kitchen or the main room, he followed him around, rubbing against his body, pressing his cold nose against his hands or feet, and when he sat down, climbing onto his lap. Hansuke was a strict vegetarian who absolutely never ate fish or meat except for the bonito flakes used to make broth. For Tora as well, he would only provide finely chopped pickled vegetables mixed with rice. “Fish and meat, you see, are poison to the body,” he said to Tora. “Eating fish or meat only shortens one’s life. As long as you eat vegetables and rice, you won’t catch illnesses and are sure to live out your full lifespan.”

Tora let out a silent meow and looked up at her master. It was as if she were saying, "You're absolutely right—those ignorant folks out there are pitiful creatures, aren't they?" Even when eating, Hansuke made no sound from his bowls or chopsticks. To put it hyperbolically, he didn't even make a noise when chewing. Thus his manner seemed less like eating a meal than stealing food—there was never any instance of something catching in his throat, choking him into coughing fits, or anything of the sort.

After finishing breakfast, Hansuke immediately set to work. It was unclear what he was making, but his tools included a small yet sturdy oak desk, along with a small knife, various chisels, a fretsaw, what appeared to be a specially ordered small vise, and about three types of drills. The materials consisted solely of high-quality ivory and lead ingots. The work appeared to be extremely delicate; with a cylindrical magnifying lens—the kind used by watchmakers during repairs—fitted over one eye, he leaned over the desk and proceeded with the crafting carefully, meticulously. His manner appeared less like performing some kind of work and more suited to conducting a solemn ritual. —He made no noise even while working; whether using drills, various chisels, or fretsaws, almost no sound could be heard. When carving ivory with a small knife, there was an extremely faint, soft scraping sound—but even this could not be heard unless one drew close and strained to listen.

It must have been extremely important work—and secretive at that. Not even Mr. Hira of the Shack had ever seen those tools. When Mr. Hira came visiting, Hansuke would usher him into the room, but aside from the sturdy little desk, there was nothing particularly eye-catching that might conceal hidden items. Apart from Mr. Hira, he never permitted anyone else into his room; even when Rokuchan from Nakadori came by, his usual practice was to open the patched-up shoji just a crack and speak with only half his face visible.

Every aspect of his life—suppressing sound in all actions, not even making chopstick noises during meals, living as if holding his breath in hushed silence—seemed to be training for that work. The importance of his work and the need for secrecy, combined with the extreme delicacy of his craftsmanship, meant he had conditioned even his daily movements to adapt to these demands—this seemed to be the truth of the matter.

After confirming that his master had begun working, Tora would either curl up to sleep beside the desk or go outside. When she slept, it was in the form commonly called "curling into a ball"—she rarely stretched out to lie down. When wanting to go out, she would either rub against her master’s lap or—if he remained absorbed in his work and failed to notice—let out a faint meow and wait until he opened the shoji.

Once outside, Tora would saunter off leisurely—a dark calico cat with a plump, well-fed frame and a face as large and round as a soccer ball. It was said that seven years had passed since Hansuke began keeping him, but there were those who claimed he was over a decade old, and others who said it was about time he transformed.

Tora was the boss's number one. In stark contrast to his master Hansuke, who seemed to huddle timidly behind himself in perpetual quietness, Tora would always strut imposingly about with a gaze as if declaring everything displeasing, sauntering leisurely wherever he pleased.—The extent of his territory was impossible to gauge. This neighborhood went without saying, but it seemed his domain extended from Nakadori all the way to Hondori. Needless to say, this was territory he had acquired through his own prowess, and within its bounds, even dogs of considerable seniority who dared challenge him had ended up losing an eye or having their ears torn off—there had been four or five such cases.

Nowadays there were no dogs left that dared challenge him, and even when such foolish creatures occasionally appeared, he had no need to resort to violence. He would simply stop and return a glare. Even the most dim-witted quarrelsome dog would find its tail drooping at the sight of Tora's stare. Their tails would naturally slump as they either gazed skyward as if lamenting "What dreary weather again today," or suddenly remembered urgent business elsewhere and scurried off in random directions.

He resorted to violence only during mating season. Even now during that period, one could witness firsthand how he remained the boss's number one.—Imagine a beautiful female cat: first, young males would surround her, competing in courtship serenades until the vocal victor approached her, triggering their distinctive wrestling matches. The more experienced cats never engaged in such frivolous displays—they silently observed the youngsters singing solos and grappling. When these novices had exhausted themselves through combat, the veterans would begin asserting their presence. This escalated into middleweight elimination rounds, culminating in heavyweight bouts contested through one-on-one duels or triangular standoffs. But should Tora appear at this stage, even the heavyweight champion wouldn't dare defend his title. They'd immediately surrender their rights to Tora and set off in search of other mates.

Even the most intelligent cats grew somewhat agitated during mating season, so occasionally some would dare challenge Tora. It was precisely then that Tora would unleash his normally restrained throat in full force—the ferocity of his scream defied description, and the dreadfulness of his bared-fanged visage likewise surpassed all attempts at depiction. Yet there were still those who stubbornly persisted—before long, they would flee the scene, blood streaming from their bodies, fur torn out, limping away while lamenting their own foolishness and the precious time they had wasted.

Having left our "town," Tora now crossed the wasteland and walked along Nakadori. Because he was well-fed and large, his gait remained ponderous and leisurely. When extending his left forelimb, his left shoulder muscle rolled, then his right shoulder muscle rolled. He hardly glanced around distractedly; everything was already known to him. Here stood a shoe repair shop, next a hardware store, and in the tenant house beside that lived a dog—a timid, cowardly creature who barked madly behind its lattice like a lunatic—but when glared at even briefly, he let out shrill shrieks as if bitten somewhere and hid in the corner of the dirt-floored room, whereupon a sallow-faced wife emerged and called out in a sluggish voice fit for soothing an infant.

“Yeah, I was bitten right here,” he whined pleadingly. “It’s him! That bad cat bit me! He always does this!” “There, there, it’s all right,” the wife said, picking up the dog and glaring at Tora. “It’s that blasted Tora again. Look at that hateful face! Shoo, shoo! Get out of here, you wicked stray!”

Tora twitched his whiskers as if declaring himself beneath such contempt and left the spot. Near Yasuyaoya, the discount greengrocer, there were two male cats, and at Kandōdō, a penny candy store sporting an ostentatious signboard, there was a girl of about six who would throw stones or strike with a stick at any living creature she saw—be it cat or dog. To Tora, all of this was transparent to the point of tedium—there was nothing left now that could catch his attention or pique his curiosity.

“Hmph, same as always,” he seemed to mutter. “They keep repeating these dull, unchanging lives—amazing they never get bored.”

Going north along Nakadori brought one to a bridge—a stone structure spanning the moat. Crossing it and carelessly passing through the second alleyway led to Hondori, where shops proclaiming themselves at fashion's forefront stood in rows: jewelers, clothing stores, cabarets, banks, department stores, and restaurants. Municipal streetcars ran down the road's center while trucks, bicycles, and automobiles of every description flowed endlessly along the vehicle lanes.

Tora had a purpose in coming here. It was Tenmatsu—an authentic tempura shop located in the alley across this Hondori thoroughfare. Though touted as authentic, this was in contrast to Okuni-san’s five-color tempura; in reality, it was "inferior tempura," which was precisely why it pleased the downtown customers. The downtown customers said that parlor-style tempura—fried to a whitish, pretentiously refined crisp—was downright nuts. They would say that tempura fried to a crisp golden-brown—slightly darker than amber—was the true form, since tempura was fundamentally meant to be something rugged and hearty; these days neither the craftsmen nor the customers understood that anymore.

Tora was a fan of Tenmatsu’s tempura. It was not a large shop—with a frontage of three meters and a depth of about six meters. The right side of the entrance housed the kitchen area, while the left was a narrow earthen-floored space containing five tables, each flanked by three chairs. This was because if four chairs were placed, there would be no pathway left, and during meal times, customers who couldn’t enter would often wait in line outside the shop. The owner was a fifty-five or six-year-old tall, lean man whose features were said to closely resemble those of Fifth Danjūrō. Of course, these were evaluations passed down from much older customers, so nowadays none of the patrons had even seen a photograph of Fifth Danjūrō’s face—but if told this, they would think, *Ah, I suppose that’s right*. —The son was twenty-six or twenty-seven, pale and thin, with features closely resembling his father’s, and just as taciturn as him. In addition to two apprentices who handled deliveries and odd jobs—though what went on in the back remained unclear—the shop had no female presence.

From purchasing ingredients to prepping them, and from frying to serving customers, this father-son duo handled everything with brisk efficiency. Tora would come to the entrance of this shop, plop himself down, and not budge until he received his tempura. When a customer tried to enter, he would glare sharply and bare his fangs. After all, his body was remarkably large, and with a face as big as a soccer ball, when he bared his fangs and glared at them, most people would lose their nerve to enter. Shouting “shoo, shoo” or the like wasn’t enough to make him budge. If they splashed water at him, he would swiftly dodge aside, only to immediately plop back down at the entrance.

In the early days, when one of the apprentices made as if to strike him with a bamboo broom, he twisted his body and lunged at the boy’s chest, clawing with all four paws and biting. “Nooo!” screamed the apprentice. “It’s scary! I’m sorry!” When the other apprentices, the owner, his son, and others rushed out, Tora nimbly fled. The apprentice’s injuries were quite severe, so they immediately took him to a nearby doctor. After treating the wounds, the doctor said, “Since there’s such a thing as rat-bite fever, there might be something like cat-bite fever too,” and reportedly administered an effective injection of some kind.

A few days later, Tora reappeared calmly and settled himself at the shop entrance with an expression that seemed to say, “Did such a thing even occur?” “Oh, he’s back again!” The other apprentice jumped back in shock. “Boss! It’s an emergency—come quick!” Even the owner seemed taken aback, but with the wisdom of age, he quickly discerned why Tora had planted himself there and ordered them to bring out two or three pieces of leftover tempura for him. The apprentice protested that there were plenty of customer scraps in the oil can, but the owner silently glared. He seemed to understand that a cat who’d achieved such authority couldn’t be fobbed off—that its tastes were far more refined than those of the average human around here.

Tora ate two of the three tempura pieces—the conger eel and sand borer, leaving the shrimp—then carefully wiped the frying oil from around his mouth and whiskers with both forepaws. With a sidelong glance directed not at Tenmatsu's people but at the shop itself, he set off at a leisurely pace and walked away. "Heeey..." The taciturn son exclaimed in admiration as he watched Tora depart, "Ain't nothin' to say 'bout that."

This incident became the catalyst for Tora and Tenmatsu’s rapport, and thereafter their relationship continued smoothly without incident. As long as he appeared at the shopfront, Tora could always claim several pieces of tempura, and with the apprentice he’d mauled—who’d fortunately avoided contracting anything like cat-bite fever—no particular trouble ever arose. Though they were leftovers, Tora—satisfied with the authentic downtown-style tempura—bathed in drowsy post-meal contentment as he leisurely headed home. This time too, without so much as a sidelong glance—wearing an expression that seemed to declare, “The world belongs to me”—he crossed Hondori step by deliberate step. He paid no heed whatsoever to the automobiles, bicycles, municipal streetcars and such. A gravel truck came barreling down and blared its horn. His massive frame and leisurely gait formed such a commanding presence that even a gravel truck driver couldn’t help but stare.

“Hey, you thieving cat!” the driver bellowed, sounding his horn. “Move or I’ll run you over!” Would Tora start running? No—he instead came to a complete stop and slowly turned toward the truck. With a look that said, “What’s this?” he fixed the driver with an unblinking glare. The driver, of course, couldn’t actually run him over, so he hastily slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a stop. After confirming this, Tora slowly began to cross the roadway.

The same went for the municipal streetcar. Though one might assume such collisions would never occur given streetcars' privileged right-of-way on official rails, drivers still possessed human emotions—they couldn't bring themselves to knowingly crush him beneath their wheels. The driver blared his horn in desperation before jamming the emergency brake to halt the tram. Tora turned his head to observe. Planting himself squarely on the tracks, he swiveled his massive round face toward the vehicle and fixed it with a stare that demanded, "What's your problem?"

After confirming the municipal streetcar had fully stopped, Tora began walking forward with unhurried composure. As he moved slowly onward, one could see the flesh around his shoulders shifting rhythmically with each step. In this way, even toward humans, Tora refused to relinquish his authority as boss. He always confronted reality head-on, shattered it, and emerged victorious.—Did Hansuke know this truth? And if he knew it, would it make him change his way of living? Could he ever escape this existence of cowering in fear—shrinking into himself and stifling his breath, perpetually terrified of being beaten?

That didn't seem likely. Even if he saw Tora stopping municipal streetcars and buses or extorting tempura from Tenmatsu, he likely wouldn't consider changing his own way of life—nor would he even think to compare his lifestyle with Tora's. Hansuke was Hansuke—in his own way, he bore life's burdens.

One day, three gentlemen suddenly came to Hansuke’s house. All were dressed in suits—one wearing a hunting cap, the other two hatless. Since all three men were unfamiliar faces, the neighbors, driven by curiosity, subtly kept watch on the situation. Something unusual seemed about to happen. For three suited gentlemen to visit the home of Hansuke—who avoided social interactions—was no ordinary occurrence.

But this expectation was betrayed.

"Hey, so it was you after all," said one of the gentlemen. "We looked everywhere for you."

Hansuke’s voice was not heard. “We’ll have you come out,” another gentleman was heard saying. “Stay still—ain’t gonna make this harder than it needs to be.” Then came the sound of something clattering—not like violence or struggle—and still not a word from Hansuke could be heard. The matter didn’t seem complicated. Soon the three gentlemen appeared with Hansuke in tow. Two of them carried cloth-wrapped bundles as they flanked him and left. Neither the gentlemen nor Hansuke spoke to the neighbors—didn’t so much as glance their way.

“What’s going on? What happened here?” The neighbors murmured among themselves. “Who could those three be? Friends of Hansuke-san’s?” “Then we should’ve seen ’em around before now—if they were friends.”

They had already surmised in their minds. For any resident of this "town," such a thought would immediately come to mind. Soon after, the gambler living next to Mr. Shima Yūkichi—the renowned “Chikushō” Tokusan—a member of the boss’s inner circle—confirmed their conjecture.

“Those three are detectives,” Tokusan said. “Hansuke’s a master at making loaded dice, they say.”

Having heard what Tokusan had said, Old Man Tanba gave a soft chuckle in a gentle voice.

“Calling them detectives seems off,” said Old Man Tanba. “Even if he was making loaded dice—three detectives showing up? That doesn’t add up.” He went on: “If we take it as fact that he’d been crafting those rigged dice again—then those men weren’t cops at all.” The old man concluded: “They were either enforcers here because some sharp gamblers got caught using his dice… or they came hunting for Hansuke’s handiwork after tracking him down.”

“Then what’ll happen to Hansuke-san?”

"I can’t say," Old Man Tanba answered cautiously. "Even if he was abducted—if it’s the latter scenario, his body would likely remain unharmed. They’d hide him where no one could find him, and he’d just make loaded dice. But if it’s the former... he wouldn’t get off unscathed." If someone used loaded dice in gambling, even if they weren’t killed, they’d have some part of their body maimed. Though Hansuke hadn’t used them himself, if his craftsmanship was exceptionally ingenious, they might still maim him to ensure he could never make such things again.

“It’s hard to say either way,” Old Man Tanba said. “Well, we’ll find out soon enough.” The neighbors distracted themselves with that topic for some time. Regarding loaded dice, Tokusan explained various examples—among them craftsmanship that seemed beyond human capability—and though it remained doubtful how much was true, precisely for that reason did they discuss how they now finally understood Hansuke’s quiet, almost breath-holding daily life: those days and nights of absolute social avoidance.

Five or six days after Hansuke had been taken away, two men dressed in jumpers and trousers came, cleaned up inside his house, and left. They were different men from the three who had come before; without uttering a single word to the neighbors, they entered the house uninvited, clattered about doing something inside, nailed the storm shutters closed, and departed whistling.

What had become of Tora? It’s commonly said that cats become attached to houses and won’t leave even if their owners move away, but Tora must have had no interest in such notions. Though some heard him crying around the house several times, after that he was never seen again.

“He must’ve gone after Hansuke-san,” said one of the neighborhood housewives. “They say if you feed them for three days, they’ll remember the kindness until they die.” “That’s about dogs,” another housewife said. “Cats don’t know the first thing about gratitude. All they can do is turn into monsters or something.”

Hansuke never returned.

Filial Piety

“It’s your turn,” Old Man Tanba said. “I’m jumping this knight here.” Okada Tatsuya raised his eyes as if lifting a heavy stone and looked at the old single-plank shogi board. Though his complexion was never good, the face that usually glinted with razor-sharp vitality now appeared swollen, drained of strength, and slack.

――Another problem must have come up.

Old Man Tanba thought this, but without letting it show, he packed the half-inch-long tobacco stub into the kiseru pipe’s bowl and lit it with the hand warmer’s flame.

“That hurts.” Okada Tatsuya muttered in a voice barely above a whisper, “—This is bad...”

Old Man Tanba remained silent. Even as the boy Tatsuya slowly moved a piece, he silently puffed on his tobacco, and Tatsuya too kept his silent watch over the board.

Outside, it was raining, and the sound of the rain striking the old wooden-shingled roof rang out loudly and incessantly. "That won't do," Old Man Tanba muttered to himself, pointing at a piece on the board. "This knight jumped here." The boy Tatsuya stared at the indicated spot, then muttered "No—I'll do it" and moved a different piece. Old Man Tanba let out a deep sigh and puffed on his tobacco. After some time had passed, the old man silently pointed to a corner of the board and spoke.

“The bishop’s in position.” “Let me see… Oh, right.” Tatsuya rubbed his fingers together, leaned over the board, and slowly surveyed the arrangement of pieces. “What is it?” Tatsuya looked at the old man. The old man was stifling a laugh deep in his throat. “It’s nothing. Just now, I happened to recall Mr. Jisuke,” the old man said, looking at the boy with gentle eyes. “That man had a habit of carefully thinking everything through before acting. Once, he said this—” Here, the old man altered his tone of voice. “—Well now, after steeling myself thoroughly and deciding it seemed like the proper course, I resolved to eat my meal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” “There’s no particular meaning to it.” The old man stifled a laugh deep in his throat. “It’s just that he’d steeled his resolve thoroughly even to eat a meal. That’s how that man always was.”

Tatsuya—whether he had been listening or not—would cross his arms and look up at the ceiling one moment, then turn around to stare fixedly at the wall the next. Old Man Tanba tapped his kiseru pipe against the edge of the hand warmer and poked at the contents of its bowl with fire tongs.

“My brother’s come back again, that guy,” Tatsuya said. “Same as always. I can’t take it anymore.” Old Man Tanba picked up the kiseru pipe he’d set aside earlier, pulled toward himself an empty can holding tobacco ash, but seeming to reconsider, quietly returned the pipe to its place and sighed wordlessly. “Go on and tell me,” the old man said. “When you’ve eaten something rotten, best take castor oil and flush it all out. Even just clearing your guts counts as a win.”

“He says I need to scrounge up the money for him. Whenever he comes back, it’s always like this, but the amount’s way bigger this time.”

The old man remained silent as he gently pushed the old single-plank shogi board aside, careful not to disturb the arrangement of the pieces. “I’ve started losing sight of why I’ve lived this life—what I should even keep living for,” Tatsuya said. “My brother ran away when he was twelve. I was only two then, so I don’t remember anything about it, but right after the war ended, when my father died and our lives hit rock bottom, he just ran away.”

Father worked at a subcontracting factory for military machinery and died in October of the year of Japan's defeat from malnutrition and overwork. Afterward, his wife, twelve-year-old eldest son, and two-year-old second son remained behind. The eldest son left home abruptly less than seven days after his father’s death and vanished without a trace—prior to this, he had been evacuated to Matsushima in Sendai through the wartime child relocation program. This period likely lasted about two years; having returned home at September’s end, Tatsuya had hardly any memory of his face. What everyday life entailed for most people during that time needs no retelling here. Mother remarried in February 1946.

Amidst bottomless social instability, food shortages, and a dearth of all supplies, it was only natural for a woman alone to feel daunted about her future. The man she remarried was two years younger than mother and, it is said, was a college-educated salaryman; however, after the war, he had been doing something like brokerage work. “I truly thought of him as my real father—even now, I can’t bring myself to think otherwise,” Tatsuya said. “Two younger brothers and a sister were born after me—they were father’s own children—but he doted on me most of all. When he scolded me, he did it differently than with my brothers. I ended up relying on him more than I did my mother.”

Tatsuya had been taught English since he was five years old. "The Occupation forces will rule Japan semi-permanently," Father used to say. "So without English, the Japanese won’t be able to survive from now on." When Tatsuya was twelve, the brother who had run away from home returned. It happened on a night when Father had gone to Osaka for work—apparently he had come to confirm that very fact. He was stocky and corpulent with bloodshot eyes, his hair disheveled and beard unkempt; his ragged breath reeked so strongly of alcohol it made one’s eyes water.

Mother rushed to embrace him while weeping.

Mother told Tatsuya, "This is your real brother," but Tatsuya couldn't bring himself to believe it, and his younger brothers and sisters made no move to approach. More than whether he was their brother or not, they thought he was a frightening man.

He was probably twenty-two years old exactly. However, he looked much older. His eyes—red from drink—large yellowish teeth, and stocky face with its unkempt beard glistening with grease resembled those youths derided as “failed kamikazes,” while the artificially gentle affectation of his speech carried an eerie menace. “‘Mom, you shouldn’t work nights like this—it’ll wear you out,’ he’d say,” Tatsuya continued tonelessly, “‘Let me rub your shoulders,’ or ‘You’ve had it rough,’ or ‘Not a night went by I didn’t cry dreaming of you, Mom’—all in this feigned, spoiled-brat voice, just ‘Mom’ this and ‘Mom’ that without end.”

The next morning, when Tatsuya opened his eyes, his brother was already gone. Mother told Tatsuya and the others that he worked somewhere in Shizuoka and therefore had to return immediately. However, in reality, that was not the case—the brother had somehow sweet-talked Mother and skillfully wheedled money out of her, and when Father returned from his business trip, a rather heated argument broke out between him and Mother for the first time. Around that time, it seemed Father’s work had begun to falter, and his body also visibly weakened; perhaps to mask this, he began drinking heavily, leading to several occasions when Mother and Tatsuya were informed that he had collapsed drunk by the roadside and went to bring him home.

In the winter of the year Tatsuya turned thirteen, Father collapsed after coughing up blood. According to the doctor’s examination, it was determined that this was a recurrence of old tuberculosis and he needed to be hospitalized immediately. They referred us to hospitals, but there were no available beds anywhere. "I'll be fine—I'm confident about TB," Father declared forcefully. "I've been diagnosed with TB twice before by doctors, and both times I cured myself without even taking medicine. Don't worry."

Mother became frantic only at this time. She continued searching hospitals in earnest for an available bed while also visiting those who had worked with Father to scrape together funds for his hospitalization.—Since Tatsuya was attending the new junior high school system, he didn’t know what happened while he was away, but even during this period, his brother secretly summoned Mother to demand money. He must have either ambushed her in town or used a neighbor’s child to summon her. It came to light that one of the co-managers came to visit Father, and Mother collected money from five associates.

Father demanded to see the money, and Mother showed it to him, but it amounted to less than a third of the sum he had expected. Father made Tatsuya grip the money in his hand and, with tears streaming down his face, said, "Don’t let go of this." “No matter what anyone says, never hand this over. This is your money, Tatsuya.” Tatsuya fell silent for a moment, then continued in a deliberately flat tone to keep his words from sounding sentimental.

Father did not blame Mother. When he heard the missing amount had been lent to their eldest son, he stared fixedly at her face—a strange gaze, the sort one might direct at someone being met for the first time. From that moment onward, Father stopped speaking to Mother altogether. She pleaded their eldest son’s desperate circumstances and repeated that the money would surely be repaid, but Father showed no sign of listening. He kept insisting he would cure himself—he’d done it twice before, so he was confident—and told them not to worry. But his condition turned out to be a malignant form of tuberculosis they called galloping consumption. After coughing up massive amounts of blood three times, on the fourth occasion it clogged his windpipe and he suffocated to death.

Because school was on winter break, Tatsuya witnessed his father’s final moments. Hiding the first blood he coughed up with newspaper, Father clenched his teeth and shouted, “I can’t die yet. I can’t die now. Not now.”

"I read in a book that Natsume Sōseki said something similar when he was dying," Tatsuya said. "Whether he didn't want to interrupt the novel he was serializing in the newspaper or still had lingering concerns about his young children—in any case, he apparently declared he couldn't die yet." Old Man Tanba kept his eyebrows still and nodded slowly with a tranquil expression.

After being widowed by Father’s death, Mother declared that tears could wait, disposed of their household belongings, and moved to this “town.” It was Kotaki Saburo—the secondhand dealer who had been handling their payments until then—who intervened on their behalf. And at the same time as moving here, through the assistance of one of Father’s former co-managers, Tatsuya was hired by his current newspaper company. Mother instructed her children that once you’ve fallen into disgrace, it’s better to fall all the way to the bottom—being halfway is what’s truly worst. “I’ll even take up scavenging if I must,” she said, “so you’d better start figuring out how to earn your own pocket money and school lunch fees.”

――That was no lie. Although she never resorted to scavenging, she took on piecework sewing, subcontracting for laundries, mowing lawns at Occupation houses, cleaning the homes of black market profiteers, buying rice and potatoes and seafood, and selling lottery tickets. On top of taking on countless other ad-hoc jobs without a care for appearances or reputation, she had perhaps weakened physically by now—for she settled at home and began specializing in piecework sent from the workshop.

At the newspaper company where Tatsuya was employed as a messenger, there was a department head nicknamed “Hippo” who, for no discernible reason, began favoring him—arranging for special allowances to be issued, or adjusting his schedule to allow ample commuting time when he learned Tatsuya was attending night classes at an English school.

Thanks to Director Kaba, Tatsuya’s income sometimes exceeded that of regular employees, and he was even able to attend afternoon classes at his English school.—One of his brothers had found work, another was in his third year under the new junior high system, and his sister was in her first year of junior high school. Since he intended to put his younger brothers through university, Tatsuya worked diligently, but whenever he finally began to have a little breathing room, his brother would show up and take even his meager savings. Since moving to this "town," he had come three times, and today marked the fourth.

“I’d been secretly saving money without telling Mother,” Tatsuya said, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “I thought if we could find another house somewhere, we should leave this place. When I consider my younger brothers and sisters going to school... I want us to live in a slightly better environment.” “It would be better to do so if possible,” Old Man Tanba murmured.

Because his brother had come, Tatsuya immediately left the house. If it was just the money Mother had, there was nothing to be done even if he wheedled it out of her—having such siblings wasn’t unheard of in the world, and Mother could never prevail against Brother in the end. “But the savings are absolutely crucial,” Tatsuya said. “This money concerns our family’s future.” “The reason I left home—it’s because whenever I’m hiding something, it shows right on my face. Brother would see through me with one look. I know that perfectly well myself.”

The old man looked at Tatsuya and asked, “Do you have the savings passbook?” “The passbook’s at home—hidden where nobody’ll find it. And since I haven’t told anyone about the savings either, it’s safer than keeping it on me.”

Old Man Tanba took one of the hand-rolled cigarettes cut to about half an inch in length, packed it into his kiseru’s bowl, lit it from the charcoal brazier, and puffed pleasurably. “When he says to get the money—just how much is he asking for?”

Tatsuya stated the amount. “A letter arrived three or four days ago detailing various circumstances and stating it was absolutely necessary.” “Did he bring that up again today?” “I only exchanged greetings before the subject surfaced on its own.” “In that case, he might have come to inform you he no longer needs the money.”

Tatsuya smiled coldly, shook his head from side to side, and said, “If only my brother were that kind of person.”

“I once saw that brother of yours too,” Old Man Tanba said, gazing at his tobacco smoke. “Probably because he’s living on the edge—there was something sharp about him. However, I didn’t think he was such a bad man. He seemed more like the timid, shy type.”

“It’s not just his appearance—the way he acts and speaks is like that too,” Tatsuya said. “He never raises his voice or acts violently. He speaks softly and gently, always saying he’s at fault or apologizing to everyone, even shedding tears on the spot. That’s brother’s tactic.” The old man tapped his kiseru against the edge of the charcoal brazier, took the fire tongs, and poked at the kiseru’s bowl.

“It was a long time ago,” the old man said quietly. “There was an unusual man among my acquaintances—the owner of a fairly large store who once employed three maids and more than ten shop workers.”

The man drove his workers relentlessly, his stream of complaints never ceasing from dawn till dusk. He did nothing himself but patrol from kitchen to storefront nitpicking endlessly, showing neither restraint nor consideration toward wife or children. One might have thought the rakugo character Koheiji the Nag had been modeled directly after him.

“Dust over there! Clean this up! Put that away! The stew’s burning! The dishcloth’s soggy! Do this! Fix that!” Old Man Tanba made a swirling motion with his kiseru pipe. “After driving them all hard like that—keeping them scrambling nonstop—the man plopped down and said, ‘Whew, I’m exhausted… My back’s killing me.’”

The old man fell silent there for a moment. Not so much to confirm the effect of his story as to firmly recall the man. And then, after a while, he gave a knowing chuckle and shook his head very slowly. “Everyone was dumbfounded by this,” Old Man Tanba continued. “He’d speak as though he himself had been driven hard all day long—and in this perfectly convincing tone too—‘Whew, I’m completely exhausted… Worn out… My back’s killing me.’”

Tatsuya listened without smiling, his face showing visible difficulty in understanding why Old Man Tanba had launched into such a story. “Everyone badmouthed him behind his back,” the old man continued. “Called him a tyrannical geezer, a walking curse, said they wished he’d just croak already. But then—when his body started failing and he saw a doctor—they found he had lumbar caries.”

Tatsuya opened his eyes wide as if startled. Old Man Tanba gently narrowed his eyes. “Such things are all too common in this world,” the old man sighed before continuing in a soft voice, “Everyone has regrets—things they wish they’d done differently in hindsight. And that’s precisely what makes us human, I suppose.”

Old Man Tanba looked between the kiseru and the empty can as if debating whether to smoke, his demeanor hesitant.

Tatsuya returned home. Old Man Tanba's story seemed to have given him a kind of shock. Though unclear exactly what part had struck him so, Tatsuya’s face had abruptly taken on the expression of a man aged several years, and there was an uncharacteristic forcefulness in his stride.

“That’s right… That’s also true.”

He muttered thoughtfully. “Brother must have had his own reasons—during the war, he was separated from our parents and lived evacuated in a distant rural area.”

Perhaps Father and Mother might be killed by enemy bombs—what should I do then? Those worries must never have left his mind—then came defeat in the war, and when he returned home, his father was dead. "I don’t know anything." He muttered aloud, "I was still just a baby too back then—but Brother was already twelve. In this chaotic world I have to bear Mother and my brother—even if I’m not shouldering it alone, a portion of that burden still falls on me. In fact, wouldn’t it actually be easier for Mother if I weren’t around? Yeah."

He bit his lip and came to a halt.

“That’s right,” he answered himself. “I might’ve run away too—just thinking about it must’ve been unbearable.”

One could say that I, who had been squirreling away money in secret—even hiding it from my own parents and siblings—was nothing but a miserly egoist. The very idea of escaping this miserable “town” was also egoism. The many families living here had warmly welcomed us in their own ways when we had fallen into ruin and wandered in. “Many of those people cannot escape from here.”

Wasn't that how it was? There were those who couldn't escape even when their children's generation came along. For us alone to slip away from among them—no, that was pure egoism. I'd present my savings to my brother—no need for such miserly hoarding anyway. When the time came, I'd naturally find my way out. Yes, I ought to give my savings to my brother.

“What are you doing, English scholar?” came a lively voice from behind. “Did you drop your wallet?”

It was Kantō Kiyosato. Tatsuya flustered and turned red.

“I’m heading home.” “Which home? You’ve already passed yours!”

As was his custom, Mr. Kantō stood in his worn-out morning coat, accompanied by a gallant-looking young man who resembled a university cheering squad member. "This is a student of my Yūkokujuku academy—his full name is Hatta Tada Haru." Mr. Kantō introduced him thus: "Pleased to meet you."

The young man also said, “Pleased to meet you,” while giving a lively bow. And the two of them marched off, chanting things like “Crush liberalism!”

When Okada Tatsuya returned home, his brother was already gone.

The immediate younger brother had left early in the morning, saying he was going on a hike with people from work; there had been a second younger brother and a sister, but now only Mother and the younger brother remained. Mother was doing something in the kitchen; the younger brother was at his desk. Tatsuya went over to his younger brother and asked, “What happened to Brother?”

“He went back,” answered the younger brother. The younger brother seemed to be working on an English composition. The desk was cluttered with scribbled-over papers, tattered reference books, dictionaries, and notebooks—just looking at it was disgusting. “Do something about this desk,” Tatsuya said. “It’s like you dumped out a trash can here—how can you even study like this?” “Quit nagging!” the younger brother shot back. “I’ve told you a million times—I can’t study unless it’s like this. Just leave me alone!”

“Tatsuya?” Mother called out from the kitchen. “There are snacks in the tea cupboard.”

“It’s a souvenir from Mr. Stray,” the younger brother said in a low voice. “Looks like he fished it out of some G.I.’s leftovers or something.” Mr. Stray was the name his younger brothers and sisters had given to their older brother. When Tatsuya opened the tea cupboard, he found two éclair-like pastries on a chipped Western plate. “Did you eat it?” “I’m not a dog, you know.” He didn’t even turn around. “No way I’d eat Ame-chan’s leftovers.”

They no longer had to eat leftovers from the U.S. military. In reality, those who had actually eaten those scraps to stave off hunger were likely only Mother, Tatsuya, and the brother just below him. But he, being the fourth son, seemed to feel intense hatred in every matter simply for having been raised on the milk of a mother who had eaten those scraps.

Tatsuya did not touch the pastry. He closed the tea cupboard door, went over to his brother, and whispered, "Did Brother go back quietly?" "He was in a good mood," the younger brother answered curtly while flipping through a dictionary, then turned to look at Tatsuya. "Just let me do my homework in peace already."

He was about to say that when a voice sounded outside. A woman’s voice, apparently inquiring about the house—“Yes, that’s the one”—sounded, and immediately after, a voice called out “Mr. Okada!” at the entrance. Tatsuya answered as he opened the shoji door, and there stood a uniformed police officer.

―It had finally come.

"Brother’s done something," Tatsuya intuited, and suddenly his breathing became labored.

The police officer looked at a scrap of paper resembling a memo and asked, "Are you Okada Tatsuya-kun?" When he answered yes, the officer inquired, "Do you have an older brother named Nobuyoshi?"

“Yes, I do.” As he answered, Tatsuya felt his own face change color. “I do have a brother,” Tatsuya continued in a hoarse voice. “He doesn’t live in this house—he’s working elsewhere—but has my brother done something?”

“There’s been a traffic accident.” The police officer kept his eyes fixed on the memo as he spoke, avoiding Tatsuya’s gaze. “We’ve just had word from the Hondōri 1-chōme police box—apparently Nobuyoshi-kun was struck by a compact car. It came through their line.”

“What happened to my son?” Mother rushed out. “Now, now, please calm down.” The police officer made a calming gesture with one hand. “I received a call from the Hondōri 1-chōme police box—I don’t have all the details myself—but apparently he was hit by a small passenger car—” “Where is he? Is it serious or minor?” “Mom,” Tatsuya interjected, “you need to stay quiet.”

“Anyway, this is based on a phone report,” said the police officer, staring fixedly at his memo. “The location should be near the police box—they hadn’t specified the injury severity in the call. He’s been admitted to Ninzen Hospital near Nakabashi.” “To the hospital—he’s been admitted?” “Mom, really,” Tatsuya interjected again, stopping her, then asked the officer, “Ninzen Hospital near Nakabashi, you said?” “That’s what the phone report said.”

The police officer looked up from his memo for the first time. Then, after quickly sweeping his gaze over this wretched dwelling, he asked apprehensively whether someone could go immediately. "Yes, I'll go right away," answered Tatsuya. "Thank you for your trouble."

The police officer gave a hand salute and left. Mother began to cry and, too shocked to remain standing, sat down right there, frantically calling out her eldest son’s name and bursting into tears again. "Hey, Mitsuo," Tatsuya said to his younger brother, "you go on ahead. Mom and I will bring the necessary things later. Got it?" “Is there really such a need?” "If he’s been admitted to the hospital, then the doctors must be handling it," Mitsuo said, still facing his desk. "Even if I rush over, I don’t think there’s anything I can do."

“No, I’m not asking you,” Tatsuya said, urging his mother on. “This isn’t the time for crying, Mom. You need to get his clothes and things together—and we have to bring a blanket or something right now, don’t we?” “I don’t know what to do... He must be badly hurt.” “But since he could give our address and name, it can’t be that serious. More importantly, hurry up and get his clothes ready.”

Carrying the furoshiki bundle himself and supporting his mother, Tatsuya went to the hospital. It was a cheaply built barrack erected after the war, its white and green paint slathered on in haste now peeling away, the lettering on the sign reading *Ninzen Hospital* faded unevenly until it was barely legible.

In one corner of the narrow earthen-floored entrance stood a woman in her forties at the reception desk. She wore a nurse’s uniform faded to mouse-gray, but her brusque manner of speaking and moving bore no resemblance to a medical professional’s—she rather gave the impression of a proprietress running some struggling food-coupon cafeteria. “Close that door properly,” she commanded first before addressing Tatsuya’s inquiry. “Yes, we have him here. You family?” “I’ll check with the director,” she added. “Probably no visitors allowed.”

Then she glared at them with pale eyes and trudged toward the back with the weary gait of someone hauling a fifty-kilogram load. When Mother heard the words "no visitors allowed," she tightly grabbed Tatsuya's arm. He gently patted her hand and whispered, "Hang in there, Mom. It'll be okay."

“Please,” said the woman as she returned, “the director will be arriving shortly.”

Tatsuya supported his mother and stepped up into the entrance. About five pairs of slippers lay scattered—all old, revoltingly filthy, some torn or worn through at the soles. The roughly two-meter-square waiting room held a wooden bench with peeling varnish, a fireless brazier overflowing with cigarette butts, and a consultation schedule pinned to the wall—one corner torn and dangling limply. The door creaked open as a shockingly short middle-aged man bustled out. At first glance he resembled an overgrown child—body and face plump in that doughy juvenile way—with thick flesh creased beneath his chin like stacked rubber rings.

“You’re the family of Okada Nobuyoshi, I take it,” the man wheezed laboriously, gasping for breath. “He’s currently comatose—the officials will be arriving soon. There’s no point seeing him now. I’m Director Daihō—Daihō as in ‘great’ and ‘abundant,’ though the sign out front spells it plainly enough. Well, do sit down.” Mother asked about his condition in a trembling voice. Director Daihō took out a crumpled paper cigarette pack from his examination gown pocket, pulled out a bent cigarette, then searched every pocket before finally grabbing a lighter alongside his stethoscope and lighting it.

“First off, there’s a skull fracture, and likely fractures in the limbs as well. The heart’s enlarged—probably from excessive drinking—and by the time he was brought here, he was already unconscious. Ah, I don’t think he felt any pain... skull fracture, you see.”

“But,” Tatsuya retorted, “didn’t he give our address and name?” “That’s incorrect—completely different, ah,” said the Director. “That patient was brought here unconscious, as I told you earlier. The officers might have heard something—probably when they rushed to the accident scene, he might’ve still been able to speak then. But by the time they carried him here, he was unconscious and in no state to talk. To put it plainly, he was like a log tossed aside.”

“Let me see him,” Mother said. “He’s my child—please, let me see him right now.”

“Even if you see him, you won’t recognize him—he’s in a terrible state. We’ve bandaged him up, but he’s covered in blood. You’d be better off not looking.” “No, I will see him. No matter how terrible he looks, I won’t be shocked—because he’s my child.” “Now, now,” said Director Daihō, looking at Tatsuya. “You said you’re his brother, correct?” Tatsuya nodded.

“It’s impossible to let the mother see him,” the director said. “However, from the hospital’s standpoint, we need to obtain family consent regarding emergency treatment for the patient and the use of expensive injectable medications. Furthermore, depending on your wishes—though this is contingent upon your ability to pay the costs—we could administer even more expensive injectable medications. In that sense, I want you to go to the ward.” “Yes, I’ll see him.”

“I’ll go see him first,” Tatsuya said, looking at his mother. “Depending on how he looks, it might be better for you to meet him afterward.” “He’s going to die, isn’t he?” “He won’t make it, will he?” Mother asked the Director. Tatsuya stopped her with a “Mom.” While maintaining a physician’s dignity, the Director explained that doctors weren’t permitted to comment on patients’ life-or-death outcomes. “A patient remains alive as long as they’re alive,” he said. “Only when breathing and heartbeat cease—when we confirm the physical body has stopped living—can we declare ‘death.’”

“This Ninzen Hospital isn’t some profit-driven institution,” the director said abruptly, his tone turning sullen. “If we were price-gougers like other places, we’d have renovated the building long ago and kept our pharmacy stocked with all the latest drugs.” “Where’s the hospital room?”

Tatsuya asked. Mother slowly stood up, saying “Me too,” while the director waved one hand as if to say “What a bother,” and began walking toward the door he had just come through. When the director suddenly began venting his resentment—saying things like how this hospital wasn’t profit-driven and that if they operated like other hospitals they could have stocked their pharmacy with more new drugs—Tatsuya noticed the countless injection marks on both of the director’s wrists.

The injection marks were a pale brown, as numerous as freckles, completely covering his skin all the way up beneath the sleeves of his white coat. They had likely started at his arms and extended down to his wrists. It was unclear what kind of injections they were, but given how many he’d received, they must have been addictive drugs. As someone working at a newspaper company, Tatsuya recalled the names of several prohibited substances and thought: This doctor can’t be trusted.

The hospital room held two beds lined up side by side. It was cramped beyond capacity—not an inch remained for even one more bed—with most of its frosted glass windows cracked and patched with paper to hold them together. Brother lay on the nearer bed, his head turned toward the window. A coverless blanket stained with body grime draped over him, hiding everything below his chest. Only his eyes, nose and mouth showed through bandages swathing his entire head, while both hands resting atop the blanket—also wrapped in gauze—stood darkened by blood that had seeped through.

“These are the patient’s belongings.” The director pointed to the items on the side table. “You can look all you want, but don’t touch anything until the officials arrive—ah, this is on their orders.”

Tatsuya nodded. Mother rushed to her son’s bedside, leaned over his head, and called his name in a trembling voice as she spoke to him. Director Daihō didn’t even pretend to check his pulse formally, instead droning on about how difficult it was to run a hospital without price-gouging, how unexpectedly high this treatment’s costs had become, and how he wanted to try using some new imported injection drug called such-and-such but was still considering it due to the exorbitant price—all muttered tediously under his breath.

Tatsuya was looking at the items on the side table, his expression quietly stiffening. Next to a foreign-made fountain pen, mechanical pencil, wristwatch, leather-bound notebook, long horizontal leather wallet, high-quality linen handkerchief, compact case made of nickel silver with an ornate engraved pattern, and comb, he found his savings passbook and personal seal.

No way—at first, he couldn’t believe it. Since he had been told not to touch anything, he brought his face closer for a better look and confirmed that both the name and address were his own, and that the personal seal was indeed his as well. So that’s how he found the address. When that thought struck him, an unbearable surge of anger and sorrow welled up, and before he knew it, he turned to ask his mother.

“Here’s my savings passbook,” Tatsuya said, “but why did Brother have this?” Mother continued peering at Brother, then abruptly snapped shut the mouth that had been speaking until then, shrinking her entire body as if waiting for something abnormal to occur, holding her breath perfectly still.

I shouldn't have done that—Tatsuya immediately regretted it. He didn't need to ask—he had done wrong, he thought.

Mother suddenly sat up and turned toward Tatsuya. It was as though she had caught wind of Tatsuya's thoughts through her very ears.

“I was the one who used the passbook,” Mother said in a trembling voice. “I told you how desperate your brother was, but you just left without a word—when your own flesh-and-blood brother came to us in such dire straits, don’t you think he must have had no other choice?” Tatsuya turned pale and said, “Mom.” The director left awkwardly, averting his eyes. “And yet you couldn’t even be bothered to listen properly,” Mother continued. Her face turned pale, her eyes narrowing sharply. “Even though you were sneaking around saving money behind my back—hiding it from your own mother! You were hoarding it all for yourself, weren’t you? To you, that savings must matter more than your own family!”

That wasn't it—it wasn't for myself. I wanted us to move somewhere slightly better together—you and my brothers and me. Still, I changed my mind and went home intending to give it all to Brother instead. I've never once thought only of myself—Tatsuya insisted inwardly. But those words remained locked in his heart, never passing his lips. "Even with Brother like this, you'd be satisfied as long as your precious savings are safe! Isn't that right?" Mother's voice rose to a shout, tears spilling down her face. "Brother wasn't cold like you! Nobuya was kind-hearted—a truly filial son!" She peered down at Brother's silent form on the bed, sobbing now. "'Mom,' he'd say, 'Mom—you'll exhaust yourself working so hard. Let me rub your shoulders. You need rest or you'll make yourself ill.' No child ever cared for me like he did." She whirled toward Tatsuya. "When did you ever say such things? When did you ever show concern? When you squirreled away that money in secret—did family ever cross your mind?"

Tatsuya lowered his head powerlessly, quietly, and without a word. “Nobuya.” “Oh, Nobuya…” Mother called out to her brother in a tear-choked voice, “Don’t die—say something! You’re all I have left now—please don’t die!”

Tatsuya quietly stepped out into the hallway and swiftly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "That’s right," he thought. He tried to recall the shogi game he had played with Old Man Tanba—that knight move at the root had been a blunder. He should have pulled back the silver instead—move it to 4-7 first, then strike at the knight’s head. His face twisted unpleasantly as tears wet his cheeks.

Idyllic pastoral interlude.

Masuda Masuo was thirty-two years old, and his wife Katsuko was twenty-nine.

Kawaguchi Hatsutarō was thirty, and his wife Yoshie was twenty-five.

The Masuda couple lived in the east longhouse, and the Kawaguchi couple lived in the north longhouse. Where these two longhouses met in an almost T-shaped configuration stood a communal water supply, its perimeter a vacant lot. The water’s edge belonged to the housewives, the lot to the children—both areas noisily bustling with activity.

Masuda and Kawaguchi were out working as day laborers. They weren’t particularly close, but they always went out together, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to return home drunk together.—Masuda called Kawaguchi “Hatsutsan,” while Kawaguchi referred to Masuda as “Aniki.”

Their wives too met daily at the communal water supply, where—like the other housewives—they would exchange complaints, trade gossip and backhanded remarks about others, and indulge in the pleasures of chatter over countless other topics. That said, this didn’t mean the two were particularly close. “Listen up, Yoshie—I’m only tellin’ you this ’cause it’s you.”

Katsuko called out to Yoshie like this. And then, after revealing even bedroom secrets, she pressed further: "Don’t tell anyone, okay?" Her tone and expression overflowed with trust and deep familiarity—it felt as if this were why she could confide things she couldn’t even tell her own siblings. But in truth, it didn’t have to be Yoshie. At that moment, an urge to talk would arise—and as long as there was a suitable listener, even things they couldn’t share with any other housewife could be divulged without the slightest hesitation.

This held true even if Yoshie were replaced, and likely applied to many of the other housewives as well. If by some chance they were not like this—if there were those who became particularly close with just one other person or disliked the water’s-edge gatherings—they would have no means to escape malicious labels like “O-Henjin” or “O-Kichisan.”

One night in late October, around nine o’clock, Masuda Masuo appeared drunk at Kawaguchi Hatsutarō’s house.

That day, both of them had landed an unusually well-paying job for day laborers, and on their way home, they had a drink together. And now, Kawaguchi Hatsutarō was still nursing his drink with his wife Yoshie when he saw Masuda Masuo’s face. Feeling emboldened, he raised his hand. “Hey, Aniki!” he called out. “You came at just the right time—c’mon in.” “I ain’t in no mood for that—I came ’cause there’s somethin’ I gotta ask ya.”

Masuda entered and plopped down cross-legged beside the couple. His face was flushed, his eyes were bloodshot, and his breath reeked like a rotten ripe persimmon.

“Let’s have a drink,” said Kawaguchi, taking a quick sip from his teacup before offering it. “Then we’ll talk proper-like. What’s eatin’ ya?” “Ain’t nothin’ to tell.” Masuda gulped the sake Yoshie poured him like water, then said, “Ain’t no way around it—my whole damn family’s rotten. Feel like some stray dog they slapped a fancy hat on.” “Hmm.” Kawaguchi tilted his head.

“I hate to say it, but it’s like havin’ a whole bucket o’ sand dumped over my head while I’m tryin’ to eat.” “Hmm.” Kawaguchi inferred Aniki’s state of mind and—to the extent he could deduce anything—felt profoundly impressed by the situation’s complexity, though he still grasped none of the specifics. “Same as ever—Aniki’s got it rough.” “Katsuko’s got a strong will too.” Yoshie poured Masuda another drink as she added, “She’s got a good heart, but once she snaps, she really snaps.”

“What about the sand?” Since things always got tangled whenever Yoshie started talking, Kawaguchi poured himself sake into a different teacup and countered, “So you really had sand dumped over your head?” “Ain’t no sand dumped nowhere—I was just sayin’ it *felt* like that! But now it’s all gone to hell,” Masuda said, drinking his sake. “After I parted ways with you, I hit the bathhouse, came home, had a drink—then she starts snappin’ at me for no damn reason! I ask what’s wrong, and she goes, ‘None o’ your business,’ turnin’ her back on me. So I say, ‘If it ain’t my business, quit snappin’!’ Then she talks back—‘Why shouldn’t I?’—and when I start sayin’ ‘The hell you—’, she jumps down my throat—‘The hell? What’s *that* s’posed to mean?!’”

When I said, "Snappin’ at your husband over somethin’ that’s none of his business—ain’t that downright outrageous?" she fired back, "Then does that make *you* outrageous too?" "Why the hell am *I* outrageous?" "You’re always takin’ your crap out on me over things that got nothin’ to do with me—time and again! Ain’t that right?" she shot back. "A husband’s gotta have a husband’s dignity, right, Hatsutsan?" Kawaguchi said, "Damn right," and took a swig from his teacup of sake. Maybe it was just the booze talkin’, but he drank like he was sealin’ that dignity with every gulp.

“Men got it rough out there,” Masuda continued, “kowtowing to snot-nosed greenhorns orderin’ us around, gettin’ barked at like beasts when we’re dead on our feet from hauling impossible loads—enough to make you cry bloody tears. So when a man comes home, ain’t it only natural he ends up takin’ it out on the old lady?”

As if challenging anyone to say he was wrong, Masuda gulped down his sake, and Yoshie immediately poured him another cup. “Aniki’s right. What Aniki says is never wrong.” “But my old lady? She ain’t one to back down—never once has she admitted defeat since day one,” Masuda said, drinking his freshly poured sake. “When men suffer out there, the women at home got their own troubles—like havin’ a cavity gouged out with a five-inch nail, over and over. But she’s a wife, right? Can’t go whinin’ ‘bout this ‘n’ that to her man when he comes home dead tired. So she keeps her mouth shut and bears it. But you wouldn’t get that, would ya? That’s what she throws in my face!”

Kawaguchi started to say that made sense too, then hurriedly clamped his mouth shut. “I shot back, ‘If you’re gonna be so damn considerate of your husband, why not quit snappin’ at me while you’re at it?’ But she came back with, ‘I’m human too—can’t a woman snap now an’ then? Or did they pass some law sayin’ women ain’t allowed to snap?!’” said Masuda. “My gut was boilin’ over—thought about knockin’ her flat, but that damn woman... figured the whole tenement’d make a fuss, so I stormed out instead. Look—still thump-thumpin’ right here, see?”

He spread open the collar of his kimono and slapped his densely black-haired chest. Yoshie's eyes gleamed as they saw Masuda's chest hair. A flash of light seemed to streak from within her eyeballs, leaving them fixed in a sanpaku glare—the whites stark around the irises. “Women—what can you do? They’re impossible.” Kawaguchi wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, “Stuff you could laugh off, they gotta drag into debates about dignity or laws—means they’re bored stiff. Laugh it off and it’s done with, but nah, they’d rather stir up trouble for fun. Alright—I’ll go talk some sense into her.”

“Ain’t right to trouble ya like this—just leave it be.” “That ain’t how it works—not between Aniki and me, ya hear?” Kawaguchi stood up. “You think I can just sit back and watch this? Hey—who’s the opponent again?” “Oh, stop it! You’re being ridiculous—you’re completely drunk,” Yoshie said. “You’re going to go mediate with Katsuko? Who’s the opponent again? Even if you go, you can’t have a proper conversation.”

"I'm fine! You think this little bit of sake's enough to get me drunk?" "You're drunk. If you can't handle it, just quit already, I said."

Yoshie’s tone didn’t sound like she was trying to stop him—if anything, it seemed to egg him on. Of course, she had no such intention; knowing her husband was too drunk, she understood it would be futile to say anything.

But humans do not always act according to their will. Yoshie had told her husband "Don't go" both because she recognized he was too drunk and because she knew that stopping him in such a way would trigger his habit of obstinately asserting his own will. It would be more accurate to say she perceived this instinctively rather than through epistemological understanding. Therefore, even if she said something in a tone that seemed to incite her husband, it was entirely beyond her conscious awareness—a matter for which she herself bore no responsibility whatsoever.

Kawaguchi left, and Yoshie offered Masuda more sake. Masuda had already drunk more than his usual limit but convinced himself he wasn’t drunk—just emotionally agitated—and kept drinking as she poured. “I’ll have a cup too.” Before long, Yoshie also picked up a cup. “Pour me a drink, won’t you?” “You said ‘I’ll receive,’ didn’t you?” Masuda tried to pour a drink but wavered and spilled the sake. “Hah—looks like my hand’s gone and gotten drunk on me, I tell ya!”

“No, no! You’re spilling everything! I’ll pour it myself—hand it here.” “Sorry, real sorry ‘bout that, Yocchan.” Masuda forced a laugh and shook his head at Yoshie’s face. “You—Yocchan from Hatsutsan’s place, ain’t ya? Heh—now that’s a big surprise, I tell ya!” “Has your chest started acting up again?”

“Chest—oh, the chest?” Masuda spread his collar open, fingers probing through dense chest hair before tilting his head in puzzlement. “Weird... Not a peep comin’ out. Even my heart’s gone an’ gotten soused?” “Here—let me check.” Yoshie sidled closer, reaching out to knead his hirsute chest with apparent relish. “But it’s poundin’ away—right here, see? Thump-thump—such violent palpitations! Might knock my clean off!”

“You did say that, didn’t ya?” Masuda twisted his torso. “How ‘bout yours?” “Why don’t you check for yourself?” “The hell with this—damn heart can just croak.” “Wait now! You’re too rough, Aniki—hold on!” Masuda went “Ah—” and flopped down where he sat. “Aniki... huh?” “What’s wrong? Can’t go sleepin’ there—you’ll catch cold.” “Called me ‘Aniki,’ did ya?”

Masuda kept his eyes closed, smirked as if being tickled, and said, “Cut it out.”

Kawaguchi did not return. Yoshie drank the unchilled sake alone for a while, but eventually stood up and began laying out bedding from the closet there. Early the next morning, Masuda’s wife came to Kawaguchi’s residence, presented her husband’s work clothes, received Kawaguchi Hatsutarō’s work clothes, and returned home.

“Men really become impossible when they’re drunk, don’t they?” Katsuko, Masuda’s wife, said. “Really though, when men get drunk, they’re just like children,” replied Yoshie, Kawaguchi’s wife. That was all their conversation amounted to.

It wasn’t that there was any psychological avoidance—like having unspoken thoughts they couldn’t voice or fearing awkwardness if they discussed things. They had nothing more to say to each other. Certainly, there was nothing left to say.

At the usual time, having changed into their work clothes and dangling their lunch bundles, Kawaguchi Hatsutarō and Masuda Masuo met at the water pump.

“Yo,” Masuda said. “Yo,” Kawaguchi replied. “Mr. Sun’s blazin’ bright today,” Masuda said. “Drank way too much last night.”

“I’ve had way too much to drink,” Kawaguchi also said. “Still feel all wobbly somehow.”

And then the two set off to work. They too said nothing beyond that, with not the slightest indication they were hiding unspoken thoughts or trying to gauge each other's feelings. Had that been all, it might not have seemed particularly surprising—for even when human words and actions appear wildly disproportionate, they usually find logical alignment somewhere. An incident where the two couples of Masuda and Kawaguchi—having gotten drunk one night and mistaken each other's spouses while sleeping together—would hardly count as unusual in our "town." Such adventures could be found anywhere, urban or rural, were one to peel away those skillfully worn masks.

However, in the case of these two couples, it was slightly exceptional. The two men who had gone out together for day labor in the morning returned that evening; then Masuda headed to Kawaguchi’s residence, and Kawaguchi headed to Masuda’s residence, parting ways without any hesitation, perfectly naturally, and nonchalantly. Neither felt any resistance, awkwardness, or discomfort. Each returned as though heading back to their own home.

The next morning too, the two men met at the water pump and set off to work together. There was nothing unusual about either of them. They neither seemed in high spirits nor sullen. "The weather's holding out—what a jackpot. If this'd keep up half a month..."

“Yeah, if this weather keeps up for half a month...” Kawaguchi replied, “then it’d be a real jackpot, wouldn’t it?”

And so, shoulder to shoulder, the two set off. Katsuko and Yoshie were no different from the previous day—when they gathered at the water pump, they enjoyed conversation while doing laundry. "It’s such a pain how prices just keep climbing like this, isn’t it?" Katsuko said. "Can you believe it, Oryō-san? Guess how much a single cut of salt-brined salmon costs!" "You’re telling me—it’s downright ridiculous," Yoshie replied. "Just one measly carrot—a single one, Okatsu-san—and when I heard the price, I nearly keeled over right then and there!"

As always, aside from not mentioning their husbands, there was no change whatsoever in their manner of speaking or attitude—only the usual continuation of this sort of chatter. This state of affairs continued without incident. The neighbors—particularly the wives—had not been unaware. Even wives well-acquainted with outrageous love affairs were stunned by these two couples’ arrangement; moreover, upon confirming the fact that no uproar had ensued and that both husbands and wives continued to get along peacefully as always, they felt an even deeper astonishment and—as residents of this place—unleashed unprecedented moral condemnations.

“They’re both as bad as each other, but really—have you ever seen couples like that?” “The heavens won’t let this slide—no sir, the heavens won’t.” “I’m at my wit’s end with what the kids ask these days—they’ve gotten so darn cheeky lately. Even at home they’re saying stuff like, ‘Why don’t you and Dad just swap with Uncle Saku?’ I can’t get a word in to shut them up!”

“Kids notice everything.”

There was a delicate implication in this conversation. In other words, it had been widely known for some time that Mrs. Matsu—whose husband worked as a plasterer—and Saku-san, a young laborer, had been intimate, and that their intimacy grew significantly whenever Matsu-san was absent. “It’s not just children who notice things quickly,” Mrs. Matsu retorted calmly. “If we’re talking about affairs done discreetly to avoid prying eyes, I’d say every human’s had a taste of that. Not many can claim to have such pure mouths themselves. But carrying on openly like that couple—now that’s downright appalling.”

“The heavens won’t let this slide—no, the heavens won’t.” When Katsuko and Yoshie came, everyone fell silent. Of course, it wasn’t that their conversations didn’t reach Katsuko and Yoshie’s ears. They kept talking just loudly enough for the two to hear—they weren’t about to give up the luxury of savoring the effect.

Despite this, the wives’ expectations were betrayed. Katsuko and Yoshie showed no reaction at all; with unperturbed expressions, they joined the gossip sessions and laughed and chatted animatedly. One of the wives, unable to bear it any longer, at one point asked Katsuko with feigned politeness about Masuda Masuo. “Now that you mention it, I suppose so,” Katsuko replied straightforwardly to the question. “He still drinks as much as ever, but at least he doesn’t get violent when drunk anymore. How about over at your place, Oryō-san?”

“Now that you mention it, I suppose so,” Yoshie replied with a bright expression. “They still drink as much as ever, but it seems they don’t get drunk and violent anymore.” The questioning wife sneered in frustration and tried to press further, but because the two’s nonchalant demeanor was so utterly unshaken, she ultimately couldn’t land a finishing blow; bearing a weighty anger as though she herself had been humiliated, she left the scene.

Whether Katsuko and Yoshie were entirely indifferent to their husbands remained unclear. One day, while doing laundry at the water pump, Yoshie suddenly stopped her hands and, gazing vacantly into the distance without looking at anything in particular, spoke slowly in a tone that seemed to sigh. “Men are all pretty much the same.” Then Katsuko too stopped her laundry, and with eyes that appeared to ponder something vaguely, she suddenly smiled, nodded, and replied.

“Really though, they’re all pretty much the same.”

One could not definitively assert that this was a sentiment regarding the men they were currently living with. It might have been a general observation about men, but in any case, their expressions and manner of speaking carried a palpable sense of reality.

As for the husbands, something similar occurred. Masuda and Kawaguchi grew closer than before; they were together both coming and going, and endeavored to work at the same job sites whenever possible. When one was assigned to bank reinforcement work and the other to cargo unloading—even when cargo unloading offered higher daily wages—if working on bank reinforcement allowed them to team up, neither man fixated on the pay; both willingly chose bank reinforcement.

“What’s going on?” The young labor dispatcher who assigned jobs to day laborers each morning looked at them suspiciously one day and said, “You two’re always glued together—plottin’ somethin’?”

The two men remained silent. "Don't try anything stupid," the young man growled. "If you're scheming some wage-hike strike, that's one hell of a mistake—you'll have an 'accident' that'll scatter your limbs before you know it." "That cocky brat's shooting off his mouth."

On their way home that day, while having a drink at a street stall, the two men laughed together at the absurdity. “A wage hike strike?” Masuda said. “We’d consider skimming off wages if we could, but we’re not in any place for that kinda thing, eh?” “Ain’t the time,” Kawaguchi said. “We’re in no state to be that carefree.” That these two always stuck together clearly had nothing to do with wage hikes or skimming.—Was there some more urgent shared concern taking precedence over such matters? There was no sign of anything like that, and even when working the same sites, they weren’t seen as particularly close.

Certainly, the two men were always together, but this wasn't because they'd suddenly discovered friendship; it felt more like fellow sufferers clinging together or criminals keeping watch out of mutual suspicion. The next time after work, they drank again at their usual street stall. Even when drinking, they hardly seemed close—conversations stayed lifeless unless they were properly drunk. That day followed the pattern: sipping shochu from cups, picking at bar snacks, exchanging empty remarks while staring past each other before lapsing into silence, each trapped in private thoughts. Eventually Masuda Masuo shook his head, slurped his shochu noisily, and muttered like a man talking to himself.

“Women, huh... h-, they’re all cut from the same cloth.”

“No kiddin’,” said Kawaguchi Hatsutarō. “Women—no matter which way they turn, there ain’t a lick o’ difference to ’em.”

It remained unclear how long the romantic relationships between these two pairs of couples lasted—some said less than twenty days, while others claimed over thirty. Even those who had initially invoked moral arguments in their outrage soon grew accustomed to their romances in this "street," where attention-grabbing incidents followed one another without cease, and—above all—where the pressing demands of individual survival left no room for sustained indignation; before anyone realized it, the matter had faded from memory.

And when they suddenly noticed, the two pairs of couples had reverted to their original pairings, leaving everyone utterly terrified all over again.

The circumstances were as follows. One day, Masuda was assigned work separate from Kawaguchi. This was hardly unprecedented—depending on daily assignments, being split up at different sites happened with some regularity. Yet they never failed to reunite at their usual street stall after work for drinks—except on this day when even that meeting place saw no convergence. "Your partner's missing," remarked the stall owner. "Trouble afoot, Boss?"

“He’ll be here soon,” Masuda answered. “―How ’bout some Oni Killer? Been a while.”

“It’s poison after exhaustion—this new batch I got’s damn strong. Still want it?” “Quit remindin’ me—ain’t like I started drinkin’ yesterday. Call this poison after breakin’ your back? There’s way worse poison out there than Oni Killer.” “No need to ask what comes next.” “Just pour already.” The liquor called Oni Killer apparently varied widely by region. Here it meant strong shochu—the stall owner boasted sixty percent alcohol content.

If the alcohol content was sixty degrees, there must be stronger liquors out there. However, Oni Killer had an unusually potent effect—up to about two cups’ worth of shochu showed nothing particularly remarkable; its texture and aroma differed little from ordinary shochu. But by the time one finished the third cup, even the hardiest drinker would find themselves thoroughly done in. As if struck by an expert sniper’s bullet, some would suddenly stiffen and collapse to the ground.

Masuda was no novice prone to collapsing after a few drinks, but even he couldn't withstand the liquor's potency—by the time he left the stall, his steps were unsteady. "Says it's poison 'cause I'm tired—damn fool! Who d'you think I am?" Walking along, Masuda said, "This ain't some rotgut I started swillin' yesterday—quit fuckin' with me." "Got it, Boss," someone said. "What you're sayin' tracks—I ain't jawin' against it. But back home, the missus'n brats're waitin'."

“Let ’em wait—your damn wife and kids ain’t goin’ nowhere—hey, you—goddammit, thought you were Hatsu-san, but you ain’t.”

“I’m beggin’ ya, Boss—I really gotta get home now.” Masuda staggered as he tried to grab his companion and began collapsing against someone’s door casing.

"Keep quiet, will you? Who's there?" snapped a woman's voice. "See? The wife ain’t run off—she’s right there at home," he muttered. Then he moved away from the door casing, tilted his head, and thought.

“Wait, hold on,” he said, looking around. “We had some Oni Killer at that stall, then turned into the alley—did we do a bar crawl? No, no way we did that... right? Then that means—” “Who is it?” the woman demanded again. “Who’s there?” “You fool!” Masuda roared back. “Who’s there? What kinda question’s that? What kinda wife forgets her own husband’s voice? Where in this world d’you find such a faithless bitch? Where?”

The shoji slid open, the lamplight stretched beyond the lattice, and Katsuko stepped out into the earthen floor to peer around.

“Oh, it’s you. What’s the matter?”

Katsuko opened the lattice. "You said 'It's you,' didn't you?" Masuda staggered into the earthen floor. "Hah! You think spoutin' that kinda line'll shock me? Quit your bullshit." "God, you stink!" Katsuko waved her hand before her nose. "Drank that Oni Killer again, didn't ya? Smells like it could peel paint off walls." "'Oni Killer' my ass! So what if I did?" Masuda's drunken tirade continued as Katsuko tried coaxing him inside, but he planted himself stubbornly on the dirt floor.

It was then that Kawaguchi Hatsutarō returned. Swinging an empty lunchbox wrapper, he sauntered over and peered through the lattice entrance—squinting then widening his eyes—before shaking his head vigorously side to side. Steadying his gaze as if discovering some strange specimen, he stared intently at Katsuko and Masuda. "Oh, you're back," Katsuko said. "Looks like this one's been hitting the Oni Killer again—just look at him! Weren't you together today?"

“Boss, huh?” Kawaguchi stuck his face in and peered at Masuda sitting slumped on the earthen floor. “Ain’t you the Boss?” “Wasn’t my husband with you?” “At my worksite, they brought out booze—and it was real whiskey, you hear?” Kawaguchi pressed his palm to his forehead. “Genuine whiskey—the kinda stuff that costs a fortune per bottle! Wanted to let the Boss have some... but yeah, we weren’t together today.”

"I'm sorry, but could you lend me a hand? He's so heavy I can't manage alone." "You got it." Kawaguchi tossed aside the empty lunchbox wrapper, stepped into the earthen-floored entryway, slipped his hands under Masuda's armpits, and hauled him upright.

“Who is it? What’re you doin’ to me?” “It’s me, Boss. Pull yourself together now—up we go.” “Lemme go!” “There y’are.” Kawaguchi hoisted Masuda up and entered the room still wearing his work boots. “Good grief—you’ve got your shoes on!” Katsuko exclaimed as Kawaguchi dragged the Boss into the six-mat room before collapsing there himself. Though not as far gone as Masuda, he too seemed thoroughly soused from that genuine whiskey. The moment he flopped onto his back, he roared at full volume, “Gimme another drink!”

“Hey, knock it off!” “We’re people here too,” a man’s voice shouted from next door. “This ain’t some lone house out in the sticks!” Katsuko shook Kawaguchi’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Hatsu-san, keep it down, will you?” “Huh? What?” Kawaguchi raised his head. “Hatsu-san?” he said. “The neighbors yelled at us,” Katsuko said, waving her hand. “My husband’s completely out of it, and if even you’re like this, Hatsu-san, we’re in real trouble.”

"My bad," Kawaguchi started to say, then looked quizzically at Katsuko. "What's wrong with the Boss?" "This is how he is." Katsuko waved her hand again. Kawaguchi looked toward the waving hand, saw Masuda lying there, and muttered vacantly, "Boss, huh?"

Kawaguchi sat up straight, carefully confirmed once more, and then said. “This here’s the Boss, ain’t it?” “He’s out cold.” “He’s still wearin’ his work tabi socks.” “Didn’t he get ’em from you, Hatsu-san? You’re still wearin’ your work tabi socks too.” Kawaguchi looked at his own feet, muttered “This is awful—what a damned big shot I am,” then crawled toward the threshold step and descended to the earthen floor. Katsuko followed after him, but Kawaguchi looked around the dark earthen floor, found the empty lunchbox package and picked it up, then nodded to Katsuko with a “Well then.”

“Give my regards to the Boss,” he said. “Goodnight.” “Goodnight,” Katsuko answered. “Give my regards to Oryo-san.” Kawaguchi started walking slowly and, without the slightest error or hesitation, went straight to his own house. “I’m back,” he said as he opened the lattice door. Yoshie, who came out, showed no signs of surprise or confusion either. “Welcome back. You’re late, aren’t you?” she said, taking the lunchbox package. “You’re drunk again. Ugh, you reek. What have you been drinking?”

“It’s whiskey! Got treated at the worksite—the real stuff, costs a fortune per bottle! Wanted to let the Boss have some... but nah, we weren’t together today.” Kawaguchi said, “What makes you think someone like you could tell just by the damn smell?”

“Still, that’s a nasty smell. Really now, you went and had that Oni Killer again, didn’t you?” Muttering something like “That’s the Boss’s fault,” he removed his work tabi socks and stepped up, then plopped down with a “Bring me water,” leaning his back against the wall as if thoroughly exhausted.

That was how it all came to pass.

Nothing else occurred beyond this, and there was no change at all between either couple, nor in the relationship between the Masuda couple and the Kawaguchi couple.

Every morning early, the two would meet by the water source and set off for work. When Masuda called out "Yo," Kawaguchi would answer "Yo."

“Looks like it’ll start drizzling today,” Masuda said. “Those clouds look suspicious.” “I guess you’re right,” Kawaguchi said. “It’s been sunny for too long.”

And so they walked off together. Then, several hours later, when Katsuko and Yoshie met at the water source, their conversation flowed just as it always did.

“How was it at your place last night, Oryo-san?” Katsuko asked, “Speaking of my husband—that mud turtle—I’m just completely fed up with him, honestly.” “Same here.” Yoshie replied, splashing laundry water, “If they’d just bring back half of what they drink, it’d be some help to us.” “Why do men want to drink so much?” “Maybe they’ve got giant serpents coiled in their bellies or something—I’m just completely sick of it, aren’t you?”

The neighbors didn’t know exactly when they had returned to normal, and since they had returned to normal, they no longer had any interest nor anything to say. Therefore, between those two couples—both subjectively and objectively—nothing occurred, or rather, there was no other way to describe it than that nothing had occurred.

The House with a Pool

On a drizzly, hazy June afternoon, the father and child walked through the town. The father was around forty years old, and the child was probably six or seven. Even for a six-year-old, he was smaller than average and thin, but listening to his manner of speaking with his father, he seemed at least seven. Both parent and child wore tattered clothes and clattered along in worn-down old geta as flat as planks. The tattered clothes they wore could not be distinguished as lined garments or cotton-padded ones. Their unkempt, overgrown crew-cut hair and gaunt, unhealthy faces gave them an utterly typical beggar-like appearance; in truth, this father and child lived like beggars.

The reason for saying they lived like beggars was that their lifestyle took that form, but in substance there was quite a gap. They received both food and clothing from others, and lived in a doghouse-like dwelling, but they never sat by the roadside to beg for money. On Nakadori or Hondori streets, when women occasionally gave the child some money, he would bow politely with a “Thank you” and accept it—no different from any ordinary child, with no trace of wanting anything more. This too was reflected in the father and child’s conversation: walking through the drizzly haze without umbrellas, they spoke of the house they would someday build for themselves.

“A hilltop would be a good location,” the father said. “The Japanese have always had this habit of building homes in low places—mountain shadows, valleys, the embrace of hills.” “Yeah, you’re right,” the child nodded with a thoughtful expression. “When we went to Yokohama, all the foreigners’ houses were on hilltops or mid-slopes, but Japanese homes were always in low places like valleys.”

“There’s a reason for that too,” the father continued. “Japan has many earthquakes and typhoons, and since wooden houses are vulnerable to these, people came to choose locations with less exposure to wind and lower risk during natural disasters.” “But that’s not all.”

The Japanese were sensitive to what might be called "nuances of light and shadow," preferring indirect illumination over direct sunlight, favoring brightness filtered through screens or partitions rather than unfiltered radiance. They had cultivated a tradition of incorporating quiet beauty into daily life while avoiding harshly glittering objects. “So you see, living like foreigners—clomping around in stone-built houses with our shoes still on—is something we Japanese just can’t get used to, not easily.”

"Hmm," the child tilted his head with great consideration. "You're right. I don't like stone houses either—they're cold. I hate stone houses." "Well now, I can't just say it's all like that," the father said reflectively. "It's true wooden architecture suits the Japanese, but if we keep living in houses made of wood, mud, and paper like this, over many years the national character itself will adapt to it, creating people lacking endurance and depth."

The father then spoke about the character of Westerners, stating that what had supported their abilities was a lifestyle of living in houses built from stone, iron, and concrete, eating meals at tables with their shoes on, and hosting grand banquets.

The child listened attentively to each word, nodding deeply as if profoundly moved whenever responses were required—sighing, grunting thoughtfully. The father spoke without parental affectation; the child listened without filial deference. As always, they resembled not parent and offspring but siblings separated by years or the closest of friends. "Still—when it comes time to actually build our own house—well, that presents different problems altogether. Once it becomes a home we'll inhabit ourselves—national character remains national character—but practical realities are another matter entirely."

“I don’t think national character matters much.” “You say that, but this concerns your future. We adults won’t be around much longer either. Even if we tried to develop three-dimensional characters from now on, it’d be impossible. When you consider your children and grandchildren too, you can’t just keep talking about personal preferences like it’s all that matters.” “Yeah, uh-huh, you’re right.”

The town was fading into dusk amid the rain, and the streets grew clamorous with taxis, pedestrians, trucks, and the like. However, it seemed entirely irrelevant to the father and child, and to the taxi drivers, pedestrians, shopkeepers along the street, and those shoppers at their storefronts, it was as if this father and child did not exist there at all.

When dusk fell, the father and child returned to their dwelling. It stood appended to Old Man Hachida's house in our "town"—constructed by fastening old boards to his home's wooden siding. One and a half meters tall, just over a meter wide, and under two meters long, this handmade sleeping hut—a perfect doghouse replica—contained layered plank flooring inside, with bundled straw and rush mats serving as their bedding. Outside crouched a beer crate holding two bowls, chopsticks, a chipped Yukihira pot, and an aluminum milk boiler dented with uneven hollows. Beside it stood a charcoal stove bound with wire—a wreck so thoroughly worn that removing its metal bindings would reduce it to fragments.

The father and child ate their meals outside the hut. The Yukihira pot and aluminum milk pot contained rice, soup, and such—sometimes bread and stew, sometimes fried rice and coffee, sometimes an indescribable mix of meat, vegetables, fish, breadcrumbs, and rice—but neither father nor child cared what sort of meal it might be called.

Rather than indifference, they actually seemed to be making an effort to divert their attention from the food itself, striving to concentrate their senses of smell, taste, and sight as much as possible in other directions. But though this was the usual practice, it was not something immutable. Occasionally, something would appear in their soup, rice, or bread that awakened their taste buds. "Well, well," the father said, picking out a small piece of meat with his chopsticks. "How unusual—this seems to be roast beef. And expertly cooked rare at that. The key is to keep the center still red when you stop cooking it. You want some?"

“It’s okay, Dad, you eat it,” the child said with a frown. “I don’t like rare meat.” “When it comes to beef—” The father spoke seriously while putting the leftover roast beef in his mouth, “In Germany and France they eat it raw like this—or maybe just Germany? It might be the Bavarian method—they marinate onions and bay leaves in lemon, take them out after soaking, top them with minced onions and spices, and serve it raw with black bread.”

“Grated cheese too,” the child interjected. “No—that’s different,” the father corrected. “Tastes vary, but that would overpower the flavor.” He swallowed the meat he’d been chewing, paused to consider, then shook his head solemnly. “Hmm. In this case we wouldn’t need grated cheese. Grated cheese is rather—”

In this manner, the father slowly explained several meat dishes.

If experts in each field had heard his explanations, they might have immediately recognized them as fantasies tinted with his own imagination—products of superficial reading or hearsay. Conversely, it might have been true that he actually possessed such experience and knowledge along with a certain measure of innate talent, yet through ill fortune had failed to succeed in any field.

He possessed an extensive range of topics, and the child was his most attentive listener.

When they finished their evening meal, they would relax outside the hut during warmer seasons. The child would insert discarded cigarette butts—ones he had collected from the road—into a handmade bamboo holder, and while puffing on it carefully, the father would talk and the child would listen. Though it was not rare for the child to take on the role of speaker, both of them avoided touching on practical matters. Nearly all of it was conceptual, consisting of what seemed like fantasies and fabrications.

What was clearest of all was that the child never spoke of his mother, and the father never spoke of his wife or family relations. Whatever the circumstances may be, a child around seven years old should have thoughts of his mother in mind, regardless of whether she was alive or dead. Of course, this was likely true for men as well, but for a child especially, the image of his mother was something deeply engraved in his heart. However, the child never spoke of his own mother, nor did he ever speak about other children’s mothers. When sleeping in the hut and waking in the dead of night, or when walking through town with his father, a sorrowful, yearning expression would sometimes fleetingly appear on the child’s face. At such moments, the child might have been recalling his mother, feeling a surge of longing. And yet, he made no visible effort to suppress or endure it, nor did he ever give voice to it.

No one in this "town" knew where the father and child had come from or what kind of life they had led before. They did not even know their names. Old Man Hachida—or more precisely, Hachida Kōhei—who had permitted the father and child to build their hut there, when first asked his full name had merely worn a wry smile, scratched the back of his head, and replied that he wasn't someone worth formally introducing himself.

Hachida Kōhei was also unmarried, believed himself to be an entrepreneur, and repeatedly spent every waking moment devising grand ventures only to fail. If one was to be an entrepreneur, one needed to possess a magnanimous character; therefore, Hachida chose not to investigate anything and declared he would not charge land rent for the hut.

Hachida Kōhei went too far in what he said.

Among the residents of this "town," there were no owners of land or houses. Landlords did properly exist elsewhere, and those who knew this were likely Christian Saita-sensei and a very few others. More than once, disputes over "rent" arose between landlords and tenants, and through Saita-sensei’s mediation as an intermediary, a settlement was finally reached; in short, when Old Man Hachida declared that he didn’t need "land rent" either, it was merely a display of magnanimity.

Not only did the neighbors not know their names, but even between father and child, there was no exchange of names. The father did not call the child by name, nor did the child call him "Dad" or "Daddy." Both simply addressed each other with vague calls like “Hey” or “You there,” making their relationship feel less like that of parent and child and more like close friends or siblings.

When ten o'clock passed at night, the child would slip out of the hut and head off alone to Yanagi Yokocho. It was a section of back alleys at the southern edge of Nakadori Avenue, lined with small restaurants, oden stalls, Japanese-style pubs, Chinese noodle shops, sushi bars, and more—also known as "Drunkard’s Alley."

The child first visited the back door of "Sushisada". This was partly because this sushi shop closed earlier than any other establishment and partly because they kept their container stored there. "Brrr, chilly tonight," the mistress would say. "We did such good business today - only what's left in there remains now. You'll have to make do with that."

"Hey, you're here, kid," the old man would say. "Take what's there. And make sure to cook any raw stuff through, ya hear."

The child bowed and said thank you. Beyond that exchange, he never spoke another word. The owner of Sushi Sada would often ask—in a tone that didn’t seem entirely teasing—if the child wanted to come work at his place as an apprentice, but the child had never once responded. The container they had left there consisted of three stacked old aluminum pots fitted with wire frames from bottom to top so they could be carried while nested together. One pot was designated for soups, another for vegetables, meat or fish, and the remaining one for rice, udon or soba. Of course they rarely became full; vegetables, meat and noodles seldom retained their original forms. At best one could broadly categorize the contents into soups and vaguely recognizable shapes—without considerable experience, distinguishing these components would not have been easy.

After the sushi shop came small eateries, followed by restaurants, oden stalls, and Chinese noodle shops—among them two restaurants, four small eateries, three oden stalls, and two Chinese noodle shops—priority went to those establishments that were about to close. If one mistimed the visit, there was the risk of being told things like, "It's bad luck to come while customers are still here," or "You trying to drive our customers out?" Moreover, once such a blunder was committed, one had to wait until their mood improved before receiving anything again—with the ever-present danger of competitors snatching away one's rights.

It may go without saying, but those who came to collect leftovers were not limited to that child. From our "town" too, there were those who would secretly knock on these shops' back doors when struggling without income, along with several others who came regularly from elsewhere. —A strange tale indeed, but Hachida Kōhei had once appeared there too. Though in Old Man Hachida's case, it wasn't out of need but part of his scheme to turn it into a "business." Even among his unbelievably varied entrepreneurial ambitions, this had been one of the most promising and reliable examples; yet due to an objection from Hanahiko oden shop's mistress, it unfortunately never gained proper footing.

“Having to stoop to begging is all Yokuseki’s fault,” the mistress of Hanahiko said to her colleagues in Drunkard’s Alley. “For someone to hoard it all alone and try to make money—that’s not human. I’d rather toss it into the gutter than give it to the likes of him.”

The child was well aware of these dangers. The shopkeepers who provided leftovers did not particularly favor him alone; if someone appeared at just the right moment while they were tidying up to close shop, they would not discriminate against anyone. Being even a moment too late could mean losing a regular spot to another.

There was one more thing. It must be understood that these establishments did not always willingly provide leftovers. Many of them were struggling to keep their businesses afloat—a considerable number existed who managed through difficult financial circumstances, regardless of their outward appearances. These were generally called “water trades,” and in such trades, popularity was said to be paramount—no matter how dire their financial straits might be, the key was never to let even a hint of such circumstances show, while also making this practice a crutch for overcoming crises. Thus, even when handing over a mere handful of leftovers, it was not solely about savoring charitable satisfaction—there were likely many times they wanted to say, “We’re hardly in a position ourselves.” While things went smoothly enough at places like Sushi Sada or Hanahiko where only the owner or mistress was present, establishments with employees—particularly waitresses—often proved far less cooperative. Though the psychological mechanism remains unclear, some waitresses at Western-style restaurants doubling as bars had habits like stubbing out cigarettes on plates of customers’ leftover dishes, stuffing rouge-stained tissues into them, or tossing in matchsticks, toothpicks, snot-soaked paper, and other assorted items. In extreme cases, there were even ladies who would deliberately come over to where the leftovers were being emptied and toss in cigarette butts.

The child was now at the back of a restaurant called "Riza". The glass door there was open, but the usual cook was nowhere to be seen, and two waitresses leaned against the sink, smoking and talking in loud voices.

“Oh, that brat’s here again,” one of the waitresses said upon spotting the child at the back door. “It’s no use coming here—there’s nothing left, so go home.”

The child looked toward the corner. There was an enamel-coated can about half the size of a drum barrel, inside which Western food scraps had accumulated to nearly eighty percent full. Usually, the cook who owned the place would set aside leftovers in a separate sauce pot for the child, but now nothing of the sort could be seen. "What're you loitering around for?" the same waitress said. "Standing there won't get you nothin'. Go home."

The child turned around and left the spot. He was completely expressionless; how he felt about the waitress's unjust insults just now could not be discerned. He seemed both accustomed to such insults and, conversely, by not acknowledging them, to be returning the affront—or so it appeared.

Though appearing to be about seven years old, his demeanor was calm, and in his expression and manner of speaking there lingered a certain philosophical air—or perhaps a mellow gentleness like that of an adult worn down by life’s hardships—that could be sensed. Before he could finish his rounds of Drunkard’s Alley, misfortune might bring encounters with other formidable enemies.

One of the enemies was a dog named Maru. The other was a trio of boys. Despite bearing the gentle-sounding name Maru, the dog possessed a massive frame that likely weighed forty kilograms and a face so fearsome even a gorilla would cower in shame—and whenever it spotted the child, it would bare its teeth, growl, and come shambling toward him.

A dog with such a large frame and fearsome appearance was rather gentle and harmless—or so dog lovers often insisted. Indeed, Maru was ordinarily gentle and timid; even when glared at by a dog less than half his size, he would avert his eyes with a wilted expression or retreat into the shadows of objects. He had never fought with other dogs, nor had he ever barked at suspicious-looking humans. Yet the moment he spotted the child in Drunkard’s Alley, he would curl back his lips to bare his teeth and lumber forward with deliberate menace, his massive frame swaying heavily as if to flaunt its imposing bulk.

It seemed there existed something like compatibility or natural antipathies between humans and furry creatures—Maru appeared to dislike the child, and the child likely stood no chance against Maru. When his old pots contained leftovers, he would dump them all on the ground and flee; when he had received nothing yet, he had no choice but to show Maru each of the three pots one by one—demonstrating their emptiness—before abandoning that night's collection and returning home. Of course, Maru paid no attention whatsoever to the leftovers.

The trio of boys were what people generally called chinpira—hoodlums who took heroic delight in intimidating, beating, or stealing from those who looked weak without any need or reason, believing this to be their sole joy in life. The oldest was around fifteen years old, while the other two were probably twelve or thirteen. Despite appearing to come from proper households—wearing trendy shirts and trousers deliberately disheveled—they moved with an intimidating, disjointed gait as if their limbs were unhinged. Yet upon spotting our child, they would let out war whoops like stereotypical Indians, perform mock tribal dances around him while jostling his small frame, yanking his hair and ears, snatching his old pots, and scattering their leftover contents.

The child never resisted. Not because he had compared their difference in strength, but as if he fully understood that resistance would be utterly meaningless. Moreover, as if acknowledging that this was an unavoidable calamity—something all who live in this world must endure. Only after the gang grew bored of their game and left—either knocking him down one last time or delivering another blow—would the child finally shed tears.

While gathering the scattered pots, he shed tears without saying a word. Tears drenched the child’s cheeks messily, but he did not speak a word or let out a sob—such things had never once occurred, nor had he ever told his father about them after returning home. When the child returned home, he took the pot and crawled into the shed. Typically, the father would be sound asleep, and at such times, the child would take care not to wake him, slipping quietly into sleep; but when the father had fallen asleep early and already gotten his fill of rest, it was not uncommon for him to wake when the child returned home, and on such occasions, they would have to resign themselves to their usual conversations unfolding and lasting until dawn.

“I’ve been thinking while lying here,” the father began. “When building a house, you see, the gate comes first. A gate’s like a person’s face—look at it and you can roughly tell their character. Roughly, mind you.” “Yeah, uh-huh, that’s right.” “Though there’s also that saying about not judging by appearances—but putting it that way... You’re sleepy, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sleepy at all.” The child rubbed his eyes and answered cheerfully, “I’m fine.” He yawned. Having made his rounds of Drunkard’s Alley, his nerves were frayed and his body exhausted. His legs felt leaden, and his eyes threatened to seal shut. Yet he fought against them with all his strength to keep being his father’s conversation partner. Did the father not notice? Or was he aware yet compelled to keep talking—as though stopping would unleash some abnormality? Either way, the father expounded on various “gates”—their dignity and aesthetic qualities—while the child patiently interjected responses, murmured in feigned awe, and eagerly voiced agreement.

They almost never cooked meals. In cold seasons, they would boil water, but for meals, they would sort through the leftover food, transfer it into their respective bowls, and eat it cold. “Cold food is good for your health,” the father often said. “Take dogs—those kept by the bourgeois are pampered, yet their bodies grow weaker. "But stray dogs that scavenge for food and sleep on the ground—they don’t get cavities or suffer from weak stomachs."

“Yeah, uh-huh, that’s right.” “Living creatures originally ate cold food—this seems to be pork cutlet. Will you eat it?”

“It’s okay, you eat it,” the child shook his head. “I have some in mine.” The father ate a piece of pork cutlet and expounded his theory: how warm clothing and rich food weakened the human body, rendering it frail and sickly, while conversely, cold meals and outdoor living were supremely natural and beneficial to health.

While insisting that cold meals and outdoor living were humanity’s most natural and healthy state, their imaginary house—repeatedly constructed and renovated within their fantasies—gradually transformed into a grand mansion. The gate was decided to be a kabukimon gate of solid hinoki cypress, and the fence was Ōya stone. The Western-style building would have heating and cooling systems on both floors, and the Japanese-style rooms would be built in sukiya-zukuri style. The garden would be entirely lawn, but this would have Ever-Green turf brought from England. For the approximately 2,000-square-meter garden, they decided to make the western third an oak forest with young cedar trees arranged throughout, but resolved to exclude any flowering trees entirely.

The above was the result of the father and son meticulously and repeatedly examining [the plans], drafting proposals, and addressing flaws—it became something nearly satisfactory. For them, the mansion’s exterior came to exist as though it were real—they could immediately point out and explain any detail from any angle.

“We’ve finally reached the stage to put in the furniture.” Walking through town with his child, the father said in a measured tone, “For the Western-style building, I want to go with a Scottish look—like this—” He gestured vaguely in the air. “Using solid, thick oak—everything modeled after an old Highland lord’s manor, no, maybe a hunting lodge. Furnishings that harness peasants’ simplicity yet still carry dignity and calm.”

The child tilted his head but, perhaps unable to find words to respond, merely shrugged his right shoulder and rubbed his cheek, saying nothing.

“The problem is the kitchen,” the father narrowed his eyes, attempting to give concreteness to his imagination. “In other words, should we make it Japanese-style?” He once again traced a shape in the air with his hand. “Or should we go with a Western-style kitchen—one with a gas range and a frying plate built into the counter?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” The child cautiously furrowed his brows and said, “Maybe we don’t have to rush that yet.”

“That’s true—it’s not like we’re in any particular hurry. But since we’ve settled all the plans for the building and garden, it’s practically as if they’re already finished.” “Oh... You’re right.” The child answered as if shouldering a great weight, “Then... I guess it’s the kitchen after all.”

The father scratched his unshaven cheek vigorously while discussing whether to make the kitchen Japanese-style or Western-style. This would surely remain a pleasant topic for them—not just for the time being, but as long as possible. The two would walk through town pressed close together, sometimes sitting in grassy fields, and at night converse in their cramped, dark hut, distracting themselves from hunger.

It must have been a disappointment for the father, but when the interior furnishings had reached the Western-style house's parlor, the child died.

On the hottest night in early September, inside a hut more wretched than a doghouse, after suffering from severe diarrhea for about a week, the child died as if it were a lie—abruptly and anticlimactically.

The cause of death couldn’t be clearly determined. One morning during a meal, the child lit a fire in the small charcoal stove. As he burned the assorted wood scraps and branches he’d gathered, the sleeping father choked on the smoke, stuck his face out of the hut, and said, “Why are you making a fire? We don’t need hot water.” They only boiled water for meals during cold seasons; at all other times, they made do with water.

“It’s not for hot water.” The child turned his face—darkened around the eyes—and said, “There’s raw food, so I’m boiling it.” “Raw food, you say? Huh, let me see which one.” The child carried the milk pot over to his father and showed him what was inside. “Oh, it’s just vinegared mackerel.” The father twitched his nose and stroked his lips sideways with his hand. “This has been preserved with salt and vinegar—this isn’t raw food, you know.” “The man from Sushisada said to cook it thoroughly before eating.”

The father shook his head. “You must’ve made a mistake. You can’t eat vinegared mackerel if you boil it like that.” “But...” The child tried to protest, but seeing his father slowly shake his head again, he smiled with quivering lips and lowered the milk pot.

From that afternoon onward, the parent and child began to suffer from stomachaches and diarrhea. It might have been mackerel poisoning, but it might not have been either. The vinegared mackerel had tasted fine, and its smell hadn’t seemed off. What they’d eaten wasn’t limited to that alone—various foods had been mixed together so thoroughly that distinguishing them was difficult.

“This isn’t the vinegared mackerel.” The father said, not in self-defense but with a tone of medically analyzing their symptoms, “—If we’d gotten sick from the vinegared mackerel, first there’d be hives or vomiting. But neither you nor I had those symptoms. So this isn’t food poisoning—I think it’s just a chill.”

The child, grimacing from stomach pain, nodded along with "Yeah, that's right" and "Uh-huh." Under Saiganji Temple's cliff stood a communal toilet that had nearly collapsed. Long fallen into disuse, it now resembled nothing more than a lump of rotted and dried planks. During their persistent diarrhea, only that father and child used it, making their way there from their hut. By the third day, the father's symptoms had subsided. His stomachache disappeared after one night, and by day three his diarrhea too had stopped. The child's stomachache and diarrhea showed no signs of abating; after three days passed, he'd grown so weak he could no longer walk as far as the cliff base.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to worry,” the child said, as if to encourage his father. “I’ll get better soon.”

“That’s certainly true—not like I’m worried about that or anything.” The father stroked his belly. “In these cases, fasting’s the only treatment—but even that has its limits.” The child looked at his father with apologetic eyes. The father had recovered, so he needed to eat something. He had likely grown too hungry to endure it any longer. And now, the child understood clearly that he was expressing this need to him.

“I wish I could walk,” the child said, “but I think I’ll be able to soon.” “Oh, no, no—don’t be ridiculous.” The father waved his hand, “I’m not asking you to go to Nonbe Alley—if I absolutely had to eat something, I’d go get it myself. That’s not it—it’s not like I’m that hungry yet. The only cure for this diarrhea is fasting, and the longer you fast, the better it is for recovery. Even if you’re starving, humans don’t die from going ten or fifteen days without food or water.”

The child contorted his wrinkled face sharply and bent his body into a 'ku' shape while clutching his stomach. Perhaps his stomach had started to hurt, or maybe diarrhea was about to begin. Gritting his teeth to suppress any moans, he curled his entire body into a circle. Could it be that the father didn’t see this? He averted his eyes from the child as if dazzled, lifted the cloth hanging over the entrance, and left the hut. The child’s condition was no longer normal—his body had completely lost its flesh, and his skin hung in wrinkles like an old man’s. Blood had begun mixing into the stool, and the intervals between episodes were only growing shorter. Could it be that he, as the father, couldn’t see this? Or was he feigning ignorance—aware all along yet deceiving himself? He exited the hut, put on his worn-out geta, and sat down on an empty beer crate beside it. His face remained utterly expressionless; with drowsy eyes that seemed half-asleep gazing into the distance, he let out a long soundless sigh.

“About the Western-style mansion’s reception room,” the father addressed the child inside the hut, “I’ve reconsidered making it Scottish-style.” When his stomach growled loudly, he hurriedly raised his voice and began speaking earnestly about new plans for the reception room.

Come on now—pick up that child and get to a doctor immediately; treatment costs can be sorted out later. Anyway—get to a doctor—you can’t leave him lying on bare ground like this; move him to a hospital bed at once. Don’t you understand? It’ll be too late.

The father slowly stood up and let out a big yawn.

When a pet dog sees its owner’s face, before wagging its tail, it first lets out a big yawn—what does that mean, I wonder? —He, the child’s father, opened his mouth wide and let out a yawn, even though this was no time for it. What could this mean? Was he bored? Or had he simply given up? Needless to say, it bore no resemblance to the yawn of a pet dog. His yawn carried a feeling entirely opposite to that of a pet dog expressing joy upon seeing its master.

On the fifth afternoon since falling ill, the child nearly lost consciousness. His occasional delirious mutterings were impossible to make out, and any attempts to speak to him went unanswered.

The father did nothing but go in and out of the hut, never once attempting to touch the child. He did not look like the parent of a child; rather, he resembled an infant abandoned by a parent. Like an infant suddenly abandoned by a parent in an unfamiliar town—not knowing what to do next or who to turn to for help, just about to burst into tears. —

Around ten at night, the father, who had been crouching outside the hut, reached out toward three stacked old pots as if having carefully deliberated.

"So that’s how it is—humans can’t go on without eating," he thought. He muttered under his breath， “You can’t just leave a sick person unfed forever.” He still seemed to be hesitating， but soon， as if declaring he had reached a decision， he lifted the stacked old pots and stood up.

“I’ll be right back.” The father called into the hut. “Just going to Nonbe Alley—be back quick, okay? I’ll get you something good.”

He set off into the night, dredging up from the depths of his memory the names of places the child always talked about—Sushisada, Hanahiko, and others.—And about an hour later, he returned chewing something in his mouth, set down the old pots, and peered into the hut. "I'm back now," he said. "When I told them you had an upset stomach, Madam Hanahiko said that wouldn't do and gave me something tasty."

“Hey,” the child said, “I forgot, but let’s build the pool.” He had indeed said it clearly. Though his voice lacked strength and came out slightly hoarse, his manner of speaking was unpleasantly distinct. The father smiled with a tearful expression. “Yeah, okay, let’s do that,” he said loudly, “I’ll let you have everything just how you like it. Whew… Now that’s finally settled.” The child’s illness had passed its crisis. Children being creatures of strong vitality after all—he regained a healthy complexion and, unusually for him, began humming while lighting the charcoal brazier.

He used the Neumu milk warmer to make porridge from leftovers and was about to feed it to the child upon entering the hut—only to find the boy had already turned cold. The next morning, when Saita-sensei of the Yaso group happened to pass by the hut, he found him sitting on an empty beer crate, gazing vacantly at the sky with the milk warmer in hand while muttering fragments of speech to himself.

“Good morning,” Saita-sensei called out. “How’s the boy doing?” He looked up at Saita-sensei with eyes as though staring at a complete stranger, yet answered, “He’s fine.” When Saita-sensei mentioned having heard the child was ill and asked if he had recovered, the man replied, “Yes, thanks to your concern,” then turned his face away as if to dismiss the nuisance. He had frequently carried the child between Saiganji Temple’s cliff base and their hut—there was no chance the neighbors hadn’t noticed. Saita-sensei had likely learned of this from someone, but seeing the man’s brusque demeanor, he lost any will to press further. “Looks like another hot one today,” he remarked before leaving.

After that, no one ever saw the child again. Hachida Kōhei was the first to notice this and asked what had become of the boy. "I returned him to his mother," he answered.

"Huh, so that kid actually had a mother?" Old Man Hachida asked back incredulously.

“Didn’t you have your own mother?” he retorted.

"I had my own mother too—there’s no child born without one, right?" "I suppose so," he said, turning his face away. Hachida Kōhei seemed to want to ask more, but finding his manner bitterly cold and exclusionary, he let the matter drop. Before long—no one could say who started it—a rumor spread that someone had seen him carrying the child on his back toward Saiganji Temple one predawn hour when darkness still clung thick. Some said he must have abandoned the sick child somewhere, unable to cope; others insisted he’d truly returned the boy to some long-lost mother. But since either way it concerned them not at all, they soon ceased even gossiping about it.

The heat of September ended, and October passed.

Every night around eleven, he would go to Nonbe Alley, collect leftover food, return to his hut, crawl inside, and sleep alone. When morning came, he would finish his meal alone outside the hut, wash the familiar triple-layered old pot, leave it with Madam Hanahiko at the oden shop in Nonbe Alley, then spend the day wandering about somewhere or return to his hut and laze around. Before long, a replacement for the child had appeared.

After November began, at some point, a small-pawed puppy began to follow him around. It had likely only been forty or fifty days since its birth—a black-and-white spotted mutt with thick limbs and a clever, compact face. It followed him wherever he went and began sleeping with him in the hut when he returned.

"That’s right, that’s how it is," he muttered. As he walked through the town, he unconsciously muttered to himself, “—Wait, you can’t just say it’s all like that. Hmm, there are other possibilities too—it’s not so simple.”

The puppy pressed close to his legs and followed along. Every so often, it would lift that neatly formed little face to look up at him and wag its tail as if to say that’s right—absolutely correct. And when he turned to look, it would gaze up with eyes that seemed to convey *Yes—I’m right here—don’t worry—everything’s fine*, wagging its tail even more vigorously. ——He hardly ever spoke to it. When he turned to look at the puppy, an indescribable expression would appear on his face. It seemed he wanted to say something—yet knowing that even if he did speak, the puppy couldn’t hear him—he would murmur “How sad.”

What did you do with the child? What did you do with the dead child? Don't you think of that boy anymore? Have you forgotten him already? Don't you feel any pity for that young child who gathered leftovers for you, warmed them for your meals, listened without complaint to your rambling nonsense—your useless, unrealistic talk—who walked with you through rain unbothered, who tirelessly attended to your every need? What in the world did you do with that child?

"Not such a big deal after all." As he continued walking, he raised his voice and said, "Either way there's no real difference worth noting. Sure fifty steps versus a hundred makes quite a gap—but out in the world they'll say it's all the same. When it's your own problem though, even ninety versus a hundred makes you wrestle with it hard... Still doesn't seem to amount to much in the end."

A cold rain began to fall. The afternoon town nearing December grew momentarily sparse with people coming and going; the road slowly dampened, and the pebbles glistened coldly. The puppy walked with its tail and head drooping, its dampening fur appearing heavy, yet never straying from his side as it trotted along. When they reached a certain street corner, it would turn decisively in one direction as if intimately familiar with the route.—He did not always turn that way; often he would continue straight or veer to the opposite side. But upon noticing the puppy halting to watch him suspiciously, he would silently backtrack and begin walking in the direction the puppy turned.

After walking about two blocks along that road, it became a gentle slope. At the base of the incline on the right stood a police box, and just thirty steps further up on the same side was Saiganji Temple’s main gate. He, accompanied by the puppy, entered through the temple gate, crossed the main hall’s front garden, and proceeded straight into the cemetery. The rain neither intensified nor showed any sign of stopping, and droplets that had accumulated on the bare tree branches kept trickling down onto him and the puppy.

Even in the cemetery there were district divisions—the high-class residential areas and middle-class districts were quite clearly separated from the lower-class housing and tenement quarters. While the former had graves where memorial services never ceased—whether for fifty years, a hundred, or even longer—in the latter district it was rare to find any that lasted over thirty years. When graves became somewhat old there, they remained uncleaned and overgrown, with many being unclaimed graves—it was unclear when they would ever be cleared.

He walked to the western edge of the cemetery and came to a stop before a vacant lot roughly two meters square—its rear bordered by a bamboo thicket and its sides enclosed by groves of withered trees. There was nothing unusual about the place—just sparse weeds withering on red clay—but he crouched down before it and fixed his gaze on a single spot of earth.

"I'm in favor of building a pool." He murmured under his breath, "--Maybe right in the middle of the lawn would be best. A white-tiled pool at the center of Evergreen turf wouldn't be bad--gives it a touch of bourgeois sensibility, don't you think?" Perhaps chilled by the drenching rain, the puppy pressed tight against his side and sat down, its small frame trembling finely as it gazed up at his face, occasionally emitting low nasal whines that seemed to plead, "Let's go home."

His unkempt hair, unshaven beard, and tattered cloth robe had become soaked enough to wring out, while raindrops dripping from his disheveled hair trailed down from his forehead to his cheeks, then to his chin and neck. "The water supply and drainage systems pose some problems, you see," he said, wiping his entire face with his hands and rubbing around his eyes. "Since the plot's on high ground, we'd need to install tanks for dry seasons. And as for drainage—well, a full pool's water volume would overwhelm any ordinary sewer."

The puppy whined in a nasal voice.

He gestured with one hand as if drawing something in the air, but immediately let it drop limply, lowering his head at the same time. And then, as if there were someone there, he spoke in a tone addressing that person. "It's okay—I'll build it for sure. All you ever wished for was to build that pool... You should've asked for more—anything you wanted." As raindrops dripped down, he wiped his face again and rubbed around his eyes. The sky had grown quite dark, and the puppy, trembling, let out a pleading whimper.

*The Sheltered Wife*

Tokusan got married.

Tokusan was said to be related to the renowned boss Chikushō family and constantly took pride in being a professional gambler. No one could say how much to believe of it, but his fondness for gambling remained an undeniable fact.

Tokusan paid no heed to time or place; as long as there was someone to bet against, he would challenge them to a gamble.

“C’mon, let’s have a round—c’mon,” Tokusan pressed. “The number on the next streetcar—even or odd? Let’s put a round on that—c’mon!” “C’mon, let’s have a go—c’mon,” he urged. “We’ll use your teeth—upper set for one round, lower set for another. Or tally ’em all together—even or odd?” “Wait, hold it,” he hastily made a restraining gesture, “Don’t shut your mouth—if you close up, you’ll count teeth with your tongue. Keep it open and stick that tongue out. Now—even or odd?”

The number of wood grains in the wooden siding. The age of an old man passing by. A piece of broken rope. The number of segments in citrus fruits. The number of matches. Flower petals. Train rails. Bridge girders. A bowlful of rice grains. Even counting them like this would never end—in other words, anything that could be quantified, or indeed anything at all, he would instantly turn into material for a wager.

He boasted of being thirty-two, though he was likely twenty-eight or nine. Neither muscular nor lean, his doughy medium-stout frame stayed perpetually wrapped in a faded yukata year-round—in winter topped with a tattered workman’s coat fraying at every seam. The coat’s stripes had long since faded beyond recognition—a woman’s garment through and through—but dare ask “Isn’t that women’s clothing?” and he’d spin some hour-long yarn about a lover who’d tearfully begged him to wear it. Should anyone protest “I’ve heard this one,” he’d dredge up another paramour entirely, drowning listeners in days of such maudlin tales their spirits sank—this being his invariable pattern.—His face hovered ambiguously between oblong and round. Indistinct eyebrows framed narrow eyes; thick lips sat beneath a nose pockmarked like orange peel; acne scars cratered his entire visage. Though barely 160 centimeters tall, he bragged of standing “a full five shaku seven sun”—and to prove it, perpetually stretched his spine when observed.

One day, regarding Shingo-san of this "town," a police officer visited Tokusan’s house. It later became known that he was a young police officer who had first questioned their neighbor Shima Yūkichi before coming to Tokusan’s house. "What is it?" As soon as he caught sight of the officer, Tokusan began trembling violently. “What business do you have? I’ve got nothin’ to do with the Take family!”

“It’s not about you—this has nothing to do with you.” The police officer flipped through his notebook without looking at him and said, “Do you know a man named Tobe Shingo?” When he realized it wasn’t about him, Tokusan’s stiffened expression relaxed, and the trembling of his body ceased. And the moment he smiled, lowering the corners of his eyes, his usual habit inadvertently surfaced. “D’you wanna bet whether I know this Tobe guy or not?” Tokusan said. “How ’bout a round, sir?”

The police officer looked at him suspiciously. And countered, “What are you trying to pull here?” “Don’tcha get it? It’s a bet—a gamble!”

The police officer’s mouth slowly opened. “You place your bet first, sir,” he said with practiced smoothness. “Whether I know Tobe or not—you’re free to wager either way. No tricks—it’s a proper gamble. I’ll give you the honest truth. C’mon, how ’bout we have a round?” He reportedly declared there was no gamble more favorable than this for you, sir. It remained unclear how the young police officer responded—some claimed he grew angry, others that he laughed, while still others insisted he maintained silence as if hearing nothing.

The following evening, he was cornered by his neighbor Mr. Shima in front of his house.

Mr. Shima had a delicate chronic condition called facial nerve spasm, and one of his legs was slightly shorter. Yet he maintained a cheerful disposition, was sociable, quickly made friends with anyone, and always wore a friendly smile. Though he and Tokusan were neighbors, they hardly interacted and had spoken to each other only on very rare occasions.

“You did it.” Mr. Shima grinned slyly at him and said, “Did you make some big scene?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t hide it—the police came last night, right?”

“You know about that?”

“They stopped by my place first—seems you’re quite the figure yourself.” “Please don’t say that.” He grew smug and scratched his head to hide it. “They come by now and then to check on me—real nuisance, but I guess that’s just the police doing their job.” “I had no idea you were such a big shot—I’ll have to reassess you.” “Please don’t say that.” He said with the bashful modesty of a true professional gambler, “I’m still just a greenhorn, y’know.”

Tokusan told this story to everyone he knew. Things like Mr. Shima catching me in an awkward situation, or how this wouldn’t happen if I were just some low-ranking guy," and so on. He even went so far as to say that the police had already caught on that I was going to become an executive.

Mr. Tokusan got married.

One night, he took the young woman he had married and went around to all the houses in the neighborhood. "I've taken a wife," he introduced her. "She's eighteen, name's Kuniko. Please treat us kindly."

Kuniko stood about 150 centimeters tall—slightly plump, with rather delicate features—her eyes, mouth, and nose all neatly proportioned. “What sort of specimen is this Kuniko?” the neighborhood wives said to each other. “She’s clearly two or three years past twenty—eighteen, my foot! Hmph, he must’ve snatched her away from some shady bar hostess gig or a back-alley diner.” “That’s one thing—but who’s to say she wasn’t posted on some street corner after dark?”

“She puts on such a sweet face, but peel back one layer and she’s one hell of a troublemaker.”

As was customary, there was no particular malice behind it. Those who came from outside were without exception subjected to this kind of gossip. Of course, being groundless, once four or five days had passed or they began exchanging words, not only would these rumors quickly reverse, but they would also turn into bonds closer than family in no time.

But in this case, things did not unfold in that manner. Kuniko, his wife, did not socialize with the neighbors, did not come out to the water spigot, and was never seen going out shopping. As had been the case up to now, all such things were done by Tokusan. Carrying a cloth bundle and a hand basket, he went shopping and did laundry at the water spigot. He would often wash Kuniko’s undergarments and intimate items as well, so the neighborhood wives were beside themselves.

For long-married couples where the wife was frail, such things might be permitted—but for Tokusan, a newlywed with a bride who showed no particular weakness, a grown man performing such tasks was taboo. —— Especially in this “town,” where the neighborhood wives were made to endure hardships for their own husbands and children, they could not remain silent when confronted with such immoral behavior. “What the hell is that rice paddle—who does she think she is?” (“Rice paddle” no doubt referring to Kuniko.) “Just married and already making her husband wash her underthings—what kind of punishment-defying hussy exists in this world?”

“She’s gotta be from the nightlife business—if she can’t cook rice or hold a needle, she must be real skilled at that line of work.” “You’re something else, Tokusan—going on about being kin to the Chikushō boss while putting on that pitiful show! Makes me ashamed just watching.”

As usual, this too reached Tokusan’s ears without obstruction. “Our Kuniko’s a sheltered type, see?” he smirked, launching his counterattack. “Ain’t been around the block yet—real bashful she is. Gonna keep her as my boxed-up bride for a good while longer.” “When it comes to marriage,” he continued, “a husband washing his wife’s things is an act of affection. Some folks’ll call it shameful, but that’s just unwanted meddling—envy-fueled spite, plain and simple.”

The neighborhood wives’ fury reached its peak. They had never imagined being told to their faces that their gossip was “spite born of envy,” nor had they ever heard such an outburst before; what made it utterly unbearable was that it was “the truth.” The neighborhood wives derided Tokusan as the scum of men and laughed that the contents of his bag were surely filled not with gold, nor even silver or iron, but ditch mud instead.

No matter what anyone said to him, Tokusan remained unfazed. He convinced himself that having such a fine wife naturally invited gossip—it was only right people would talk. In this "town," he kept closest company with Old Man Tanba. The old man alone would give proper ear to his stories, and when Tokusan found himself in a bind needing a small unsecured loan, Tanba would cheerfully oblige. So naturally, whenever the urge struck him to brag about his new bride Kuniko, he'd head straight to the old man's place and spin out some grand tale.

“She’s really quite pious, you know,” he told the old man. “Every night when it’s time to sleep, there’s this whole commotion about which way to lay out the futon. At first, I was completely flustered—I mean, just when we’re about to spread the bedding, she suddenly looks at me and asks, ‘Which direction does Taishaku-sama face?’”

He was startled. At this point, was she trying to involve Taishaku-sama somehow? Was she planning to summon him as a witness? He was utterly perplexed. Then, in a reverent tone, she explained that since today was Taishaku-sama's day, punishment would strike them if they slept with their feet pointed in that direction. "So I felt relieved, but then I was stuck again—I had no damn clue which direction Taishaku-sama faced. Do you know, Tanba-san?"

“Well... hmm... It seems you don’t know.”

Kuniko frowned and pondered deeply, but eventually declared that they should make do with a direction she already knew, then lay down with her head facing southwest.

“The next night was Fudō-sama’s turn,” Tokusan said. “Since I knew this one from temple festivals, there was no confusion—Konpira was easy enough to figure out too, and Sannō Inari was a cinch. But when it came to Kannon-sama’s turn, we were stumped! After all, Kannon’s everywhere you look! Even Kuniko threw up her hands at that one. After racking our brains forever, we finally settled on asking forgiveness from the main temple—that’s how it went down.”

“Does that happen every night?” “Every night,” Tokusan said. “Then you hit one hell of a day—Kuniko’s got this weird almanac-like book she flips through to check which deity’s day it is. But on those damned days, no matter which way you point your head, there’s some god or buddha right where your feet are aiming.”

A gentle smile surfaced on Old Man Tanba’s face and faded away softly. "That must have been quite an ordeal," the old man said sympathetically. “The damn woman started bawlin’ ’cause she couldn’t sleep,” Tokusan continued. “East, west, south, north—every direction’s got somethin’ posted up there, and every last one’s fallin’ on some kinda holy day. Not a single god you can disrespect! Means there’s nowhere to plant your damn feet when you lie down! Told her—check that almanac book proper-like, yeah? No way all four directions are locked tight! Even police barricades have gaps! Right, Tanba-san?”

"That won't work," Kuniko had insisted. Every direction was completely blocked, she explained—not a single centimeter of space left unoccupied. Tokusan had finally given up and gone to sleep, only to wake in the night and find her slumped against an old chest, dozing upright. "Turns out there's days like that once or twice a year," Tokusan said. "No proper schooling to speak of, just a woman—but damn if Kuniko don't know more gods and buddhas than anyone alive. Never seen anyone so pious as that."

Old Man Tanba slowly said, “That’s rare for someone so young.”

“I’ll tell ya, Tanba-san, it’s downright shockin’,” Tokusan said next. “——Kuniko here’s got another pious tale. When she was fifteen, runnin’ some errand—forgot what exactly—she walks on and on till she comes upon this grand-as-all-get-out building. Crimson pillars and railings, bigger’n anything you ever saw. So dazzling and majestic it near scared the liver outta her. Before she knew it, she’s got her hands clasped prayin’! Then she asks some passerby, ‘What shrine’s this?’ Guy looks shocked and says, ‘Miss, this here’s the Kabukiza Theater!’ Scared her liver clean out again—ran off like the devil was chasin’ her! Yeah.”

"In a tone that seemed to demonstrate Kuniko had been that pious since she was around fifteen," Tokusan declared, proudly stroking his chin. Old Man Tanba maintained his reserve with an ambiguous expression—neither impressed nor unimpressed—yet never betraying any desire to laugh as he nodded slowly again and again.

Thirty days passed, fifty days passed. Around seventy-odd days after taking in his new wife, Tokusan came to ask Old Man Tanba his opinion on a separate problem.

“Well, it’s about… y’know… somethin’ that’s kinda hard to talk about.” He kept scratching and rubbing the back of his neck. “Now Tanba-san, I can tell you this ’cause it’s you—Kuniko’s what they call a sheltered wife, see? Pure as fresh snow, ain’t been tainted by the world. Told you all that before. But damn if there ain’t somethin’ that just don’t add up.” The old man stayed silent, eyes fixed on the tsume-shogi board before his knees as he waited for Tokusan’s next words.

“So y’see, it’s about… well, that time,” Tokusan mumbled, “Y’know which time I mean. There I was, sweating buckets and puttin’ on the steam, when Kuniko up and says somethin’ weird outta nowhere—‘Hey, why d’ya think leaves fall off branches in autumn?’ —I near ’bout jumped outta my skin! ‘You been thinkin’ ’bout that this whole time?’ I ask. She goes, ‘It just popped into my head now.’ ‘Why’s it pop in now of all times?’ I say. ‘Dunno why, but I can’t stop wonderin’,’ she says. —‘Quit it! This ain’t the time!’ I tell her, then try to get back to business. But damn it all, Tanba-san—once she mentions leaves fallin’ in autumn, now I’m wonderin’ too! ‘Why do they fall in autumn?’ Next thing I know, all the steam just drained right outta me.”

“Next it was your teeth,” Tokusan continued. “While I’m sweating buckets and puttin’ in the work, she goes, ‘Hey—what’re human teeth even made of?’ I tell her, ‘Teeth’re just teeth, ain’t they?’ She says, ‘But they ain’t bone or meat! Must be somethin’ else!’ —‘Quit it! This ain’t the time!’ I say, then try to get back to business. But damn it all, Tanba-san—hold on! Now that she mentions it, teeth ain’t bone or meat neither. So what the hell are they made of? Once that thought gets in my head—bam! Another derailment!”

Next came the matter of banknotes (osatsu)—she apparently asked why there were 100-yen bills and 1000-yen bills, but no 150-yen or 1500-yen bills. When I answered that it was because it’s the government’s doing and I didn’t know, she said maybe we should write to the newspaper’s personal advice column. When he tried to figure out what connection there could be between 150-yen bills and personal advice columns, Tokusan’s thoughts got so tangled up that he found himself derailed once again.

“Thinkin’s all well ’n good, y’know, Tanba-san,” Tokusan said. “Why leaves fall in autumn—ordinary folks wouldn’t even occur to ’em! Shows she’s got a good head on her shoulders, so I ain’t opposed none. But no matter how clever the thought—pickin’ that very moment to bring it up? That ain’t right! Right, Tanba-san? Told her—‘Pick your damn moments!’ When folks get down to business, they put their heart into it! Can’t keep goin’ when my mind’s all scattered!”

Old Man Tanba carefully moved one of the pieces in the tsume-shogi problem, then let out a wordless groan. “Kuniko’s got a gentle nature, see? Never talks back to me—just nods and says ‘Yes.’ But whether she forgets or it’s some born habit, soon as I’m sweating buckets putting on the steam, she starts up with ‘Hey—who’re the Seven Lucky Gods again?’ Starts up again! ‘This ain’t the time for that!’ I say. ‘But I can’t help wonderin’—tell me!’ ‘Gods and buddhas are your department!’ I snap. ‘The Seven Lucky Gods are different!’ she says. Damned if I know—I rattle ’em off: Benten-sama, Jurōjin, Bishamonten, Hotei, Daikoku, Ebisu-sama... Then I get stuck. She starts counting on her fingers—‘Still one short!’ So I try starting over, but can’t for the life of me remember the last one. Now I’m wonderin’ too—‘Who the hell’s missin’?’ Next thing I know, all the steam just drains right out—ain’t funny at all, Tanba-san!”

“I’m not laughing.” “I’m dead serious here, really,” Tokusan said with a tightened expression, “Last night too—she starts in again. ‘Hey, why don’t taxi drivers get carsick?’ So I tell her, ‘Ain’t that obvious? If they got carsick, they couldn’t be taxi drivers!’ Then Kuniko pipes up—‘When I worked at the shop, we had sailor customers. Lotsa sailors get seasick!’ So she goes, ‘If sailors get seasick, taxi drivers gotta get carsick! Makes sense!’ I groaned—actually groaned—then told her, ‘Alright alright, next time I see a taxi driver, I’ll ask ’em myself!’”

“So I lost steam again, but I pulled myself together and finally got back on track,” Tokusan continued. “But damn it all—just when I was hitting the home stretch, Kuniko here starts up with ‘Hey.’ And get this—she asks which hurts worse: hangin’ yourself, drownin’ yourself, or throwin’ yourself under a train! What d’ya think went through my mind then, Tanba-san?”

Old Man Tanba covered his mouth with the back of his hand, then murmured in a low voice, “That... what exactly is this ‘home stretch’ business?” he asked in return. Tokusan seemed not to take in such things; with a deeply serious look, he stared at the old man’s face as if he held him responsible. “I’m tellin’ ya, my stomach’s been up to here—” He pointed to his own throat, “—I really thought it was gonna jump out up to here, honest, Tanba-san.”

“I couldn’t take it anymore either,” Tokusan pressed on immediately. “If we let this slide, the household’ll fall apart, right? So I sat up straight and asked her—why the hell she starts thinkin’ about that stuff now of all times? What’s hangin’ yourself or drownin’ or throwin’ yourself under a train got to do with what we’re doin’ right now? Quit messin’ around!’ —But Kuniko—she’d been thinkin’, really diggin’ deep into her heart—‘When I was at the shop,’ she says, ‘O-Natsu went upstairs with a customer. The customer came down alone and left, but O-Natsu didn’t come back till closing. So her boyfriend went up to check—turns out she’d been strangled to death! When I said, “She must’ve suffered so much,” Maa-ko claimed drownin’ yourself’s a thousand times worse than hangin’, and Lily swore gettin’ hit by a train’s way more painful.’ Ugh! Remember that time the paper ran ‘Blue-Line Hostress Murdered’? She brings that up too!”

“Well, fine—let’s just drop that talk,” I said. Tokusan made a gesture as if suppressing something. “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout O-Natsu! Why’s she gotta start thinkin’ that stuff *now* of all times? Plenty of other times to wonder ’bout shit! Why’s she always pick *this* moment to drag up nonsense? Ruins the damn mood! That’s what I told her—right, Tanba-san? —You,” he suddenly stared at the old man with widened eyes, “you don’t even know horse racing?”

“Horse racing—no, I don’t know.” “So even if you say ‘home stretch’—yeah, that home stretch.” He brought the conversation back: “When I said that, Kuniko tilted her head like she was thinkin’ hard—then tilted it again my way and said she don’t even know why herself, but back when she worked at the shop, the Madam told her: ‘When that happens, distract yourself—think ’bout somethin’ else. Otherwise your body can’t keep up.’ Said the Madam drilled it into her so much it might’ve stuck as a habit. You ever heard such a thing, eh, Tanba-san?”

“Well now...” The old man paused briefly in thought before replying in a consoling tone, “—Might be so... for an unseasoned sheltered wife.” “She’s too damn sheltered, I’m tellin’ ya! Worked at a bar from eighteen for seven-plus years—how’s she still this naive? There’s gotta be limits to innocence, right? Ain’t that so, Tanba-san?” “Take good care of her,” the old man said. “She’ll make a fine wife yet—surely.”

That Kuniko lay on her back at home, singing a song whose lyrics meant "if one shoulders others' burdens, they become exceedingly busy."

Withered tree Hira-san was a bachelor living in a self-built hut. He had erected four old timber pillars, nailed weathered planks around them, and laid old corrugated iron over the plank roof. The entrance had a swinging door so low one had to stoop to pass through; on the southern side sat a roughly one-meter-square window—handcrafted like everything else—with frosted glass fitted into its frame.

A house where people live looks as if it's alive.

For some residents, there are even cases where their house seems to possess a personality. ——Since Hira-san’s "hut" was his own handiwork, it should most straightforwardly reflect his character.

And yet, despite this expectation, the hut stood utterly devoid of character, lacking any distinguishing features whatsoever—beyond being a mere "hut" cobbled together from old timber and planks, it held neither discernible meaning nor aesthetic appeal.

The residents of this "town" would try to decorate some part of their impoverished dwellings in some form or another. They would hang wind chimes, grow morning glories in cracked pots, plant flowering plants in the narrow strip of earth beneath their eaves; or they might polish the pillars and threshold sills of their decaying homes, tirelessly scrub wooden siding and door pockets with water—through these acts shaped by each individual’s aesthetic sense and preferences, they seemed to derive humble comfort and respite.

Hira-san did no such thing. The place stood apart from all row houses, surrounded by barren vacant lots where the ground lay buried under shattered roof tiles, pottery fragments, and coke cinders—so thoroughly that even weeds struggled to take root. Only the faintest of paths, worn by Hira-san’s footsteps and scarcely deserving the name, traced a threadbare line across that wasteland. Outside the hut’s window stood a single slender withered tree, about one meter tall; having been dead for many years, its species was now impossible to discern.

In Hira-san’s hut and its surroundings, no semblance of life could be felt. What manifested there was not ruins abandoned by people, but rather something resembling barrenness and withering itself. Hira-san associated with no one and scarcely exchanged daily greetings. His true name and age remained unknown. He appeared to be between fifty and sixty years old, though at times he seemed as haggard and enervated as a man nearing seventy. Though small-framed and lean, his muscles were taut, his sun-darkened skin glowed with vitality, and he gave an impression of robust health. His narrow face with thick eyebrows revealed, upon closer inspection, a dignified air.

“He must’ve been quite the looker in his youth,” the wives would say to each other. “Even now he’s not half bad—didn’t someone say they saw so-and-so sneaking into his place the other night?” “Don’t go putting us to sleep with that kind of talk—who exactly is this ‘someone’ you’re on about?” “Oh come on, O-Kichi, don’t you know what it means to be the one who started this?” The wife who’d been called the instigator snorted through her nose, then composed herself and continued.

“Someone is someone—if we put it that way, the person in question will understand. If you can’t figure it out yourselves, don’t go fretting over other people’s business.” “That’s all well and good—but did the main event go smoothly?” “I don’t know if it’s true or not, but they say Hira-san was sitting in his hut with a dim candle.”

His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow, and when the meager candle flame flickered, his face looked like a skull. Then, upon seeing the woman who had entered, he said in a low, hoarse voice, "O-Chō?" It was a voice that seemed to rise from beneath a grave. The woman froze in her tracks with bone-chilling terror and then fled outside in a panic, they say. "I don't know if it's true or not, but given that it's someone quite skilled in that field—someone who never misses when they set their sights on something—it might just be exactly as they say."

"I wonder who O-Chō is."

“She might be somewhere in these row houses.” “Or maybe she’s his former wife who left him or died, you know.”

It remained unclear whether these rumors ever reached Hira-san's ears. He was silent as stone, brusque in manner, and stubbornly guarded his solitude. Hira-san's livelihood consisted of making and selling mattresses. He would buy rags from the scrap dealers' collection point and bring them back. Outside his hut stood a makeshift stove built of bricks and stones for cooking; there he would place a kerosene can, put in the purchased rags, and boil them. Presumably to remove grease and grime—after boiling the rags, he would sun-dry them, tear them into strips about two centimeters wide, twist those strands, then mount them onto a primitive loom he appeared to have built himself before meticulously weaving them into mattresses. Though likely only suitable for uses like bathroom foot towels or hearth underlays, because he wove them with such painstaking care and sturdiness, Hira-san's products were well-received and apparently brought in a good profit.

Hira-san was silent, did not socialize with neighbors, and hardly ever exchanged daily greetings—as previously mentioned. However, until that point there had been one occasional visitor. This visitor was Hansuke—owner of the boss cat Tora—but even when he called on Hira-san, they scarcely spoke. Hansuke was a timid, weak-willed man who seemed perpetually afraid of being beaten—a misanthrope who spoke only to his pet cat Tora but disdained conversation with humans. Thus when he and Hira-san were together, their conversations never gained momentum—even if Hira-san visited and sat with him for half a day, their voices remained nearly inaudible. Occasionally one would say, "Nice weather today," and the other would answer, "Yes, quite clear." After considerable time had passed—long enough to forget the previous exchange—one might remark, "The economy remains unchanged," to which the other would agree, "Indeed unchanged," before their voices fell silent once more—such was the pattern of their interactions.

Before long, Hansuke too was gone.

Hansuke was taken away by people. Some said it was detectives who took him away, while others claimed that professional gamblers had snatched him up because Hansuke had been making rigged dice. In either case, Hira-san lost his only friend—though perhaps that’s too strong a word—but in any event, his sole acquaintance, and returned to his solitary existence.

Early in the morning, Hira-san would emerge from his hut carrying a washbasin with a hand towel and an old bucket to the water spigot area. After washing his face and filling the bucket with water, he would measure out rice from one mandarin orange crate and barley from another into an enamel pot, then take it along with another bucket back to the spigot. He washed the rice, drew water, returned to his hut, and began cooking.—Since most residents of this "town" worked day labor jobs, mornings found the water spigot area crowded; some called out to Hira-san, but he offered only terse replies without engaging. One day a rough-tempered man shouted angrily, "At least give a damn greeting!" Hira-san turned calmly and fixed his gaze on the man's eyes. The man seemed ready to charge—fist clenched as he stepped forward—but upon meeting Hira-san's motionless eyes and mask-like expressionless face, he retreated backward, flung some muttered retort over his shoulder, and hastily quit the scene.

“Creepy as hell, I’m tellin’ ya,” the man later said. “That guy’s eyes ain’t no livin’ man’s eyes—they’re you dead folks’ eyes, I swear. I’d bet my ass the blood runnin’ through his veins is cold as ice, sure as shit.” Hira-san ate nothing but pickles and miso for his three daily meals. He bought miso but made his own pickles. Moreover, in five soy sauce barrels, he pickled different things using different methods, never letting them run out throughout the year. When going out to buy rags, he carried a large hemp sack. The hut’s window was locked from the inside, and the swinging door was secured with a key from the outside. In this “town,” there were only two other houses that locked their doors, and those two were slandered as doing something shady to warrant such precautions—their interiors having been ransacked multiple times. To put it bluntly, for the residents here, possessing items that necessitated locking one’s doors was considered contrary to communal ethics. Hira-san’s hut too was attacked many times, but neither the swinging door nor the window gave way. They seemed to have tried all sorts of attacks to figure out what kind of mechanism he had installed, but not once did they succeed. Since it was originally half in mischief, they didn’t resort to violence enough to destroy the hut—and once it became clear that what Hira-san treasured were five pickling barrels—no one remained interested anymore.

Did Hira-san know about these things, or did he not have the slightest inkling of them?

In any case, his demeanor did not change in the slightest. He was always moving. It wasn't that he was working—it was more like he was "moving." When he returned carrying a large hemp sack on his back, he would take out the rags inside and sort them, light a fire in the makeshift stove, boil water in a kerosene can, mix in powdered soap, add the sorted rags, and stir them with a tree branch while they boiled. He never glanced around, nor hummed a tune or muttered to himself. Only his torso and limbs moved as necessary; there was no trace of will at work or any display of emotion.—On the south side of the hut stood two cedar logs with hemp ropes stretched across them in three tiers, forming a drying area. Hira-san washed the boiled rags at the water spigot and hung them on the drying area. His face was expressionless, and his eyes were hollow like two holes. While spreading out the dried rags one by one with his hands, his eyes seemed not to be looking at either the rags or the hemp ropes. Like a void seeing nothing, Hira-san's eyes always felt as though they saw nothing.

“They say Hira-san’s mattresses are so popular he can’t keep up with orders—steady demand and all that.” At the wives’ gossip sessions, such rumors kept bubbling up: “Bet he’s stashing away a fortune.” “What’s the point? No family to speak of—who’s he saving it for anyway?” “What’s keepin’ him going? No movies, no radio… unless he’s sneakin’ off to Pansuke’s place after dark?”

“In this tenement of ours, there’s always a whole crowd of women eager to do him favors, you know.”

In November of a certain year—a woman who appeared to be in her fifties arrived at Hira-san’s hut, clutching a small cloth-wrapped bundle. The woman was slender and petite, with a small, neatly composed face. Her skin was white; her hair and eyebrows were jet-black and thick; her small, pursed lips were dewy red. Though her age seemed around fifty, her overall impression was much younger, even somewhat coquettish.

Because Hira-san was out, the woman waited outside the hut. She walked around the hut, gazed at the withered tree standing outside the closed window, touched its branches, then leaned her back against the clapboard wall, squatted down, and quietly closed her eyes. — Since this place was far removed from any of the tenements, there was no fear of catching the eyes of nosy people. A couple of stray dogs passed by, but upon merely looking at her, they showed no interest and went away.

After waiting about two hours, Hira-san returned. The woman, who had seemed to be in a daze, stood up abruptly with a face as if her breath had stopped the moment she heard the sound of the hut's door opening.

The woman’s pale, beautiful face stiffened abruptly, then turned red as though painted with a brush. Her breath—which had momentarily stopped—gradually grew ragged as strength flowed into her hands clutching the small bundle. When the woman opened the swinging door, Hira-san turned his back toward her while removing his old coat. After closing the swinging door, the woman murmured, "It’s me."

Hira-san turned around while still halfway through removing one sleeve of his coat. The woman pressed the bundle against her chest and bowed in a posture as if to protect herself. Hira-san's eyes froze as he looked at the woman, and her expression transformed. From her fair, petite face, the redness quietly faded away; what had seemed youthfully alluring grew cold and dry, and in moments felt as though it were shriveling up.

Hira-san said nothing, turned around to remove his coat, took off his worn brown piqué hat, and stepped up into the wooden-floored area. The woman quietly looked around the earthen-floored area. Under a shelf lined with a washbasin, a powdered soap can, and assorted bottles stood two buckets; on the opposite side of the shelf hung a low rack where a basket of dishes, a safety razor, and a soapbox were neatly arranged, while three orange crates and an aluminum pot occupied the lower tier.

The woman placed the bundle at the edge of the wooden floor, took out a work apron from inside it and hung it over her shoulder with a sash, examined the two buckets, picked up the empty one, and went outside the hut.

And then, the woman took up residence in the hut just like that. Hira-san neither spoke to the woman nor attempted to look at her. This wasn't so much ignoring her existence as it was behaving as though her arrival and continued presence in the same hut held no reality whatsoever.—The woman drew water, prepared meals, cleaned, laundered clothes, and went shopping. Hira-san ate the meals she cooked, wore the clothes she washed, and slept in the bedding she spread out.—These actions remained part of his habitual "mere motion" existence; even when eating rice, there seemed only to be the mechanical process of wielding chopsticks, masticating foodstuff, and gulping it down—all devoid of any consciousness that he was consuming a meal.

Hira-san's daily life did not change in the slightest. He would go to buy rags, boil them in a kerosene can, dry them, tear them apart, and weave mattresses. When the woman tried to help from nearby, he would silently let her do as she pleased. The product's popularity stemmed from Hira-san's meticulous craftsmanship, so one might assume he poured passion into it and would never let others lay hands on his work—yet Hira-san seemed to harbor no such sentiments. When the woman reached out to assist, he would entrust it to her and proceed to his next task.

When several had been woven, Hira-san would wrap them up and go out to sell them. The woman who remained behind did not even attempt to rest—tidying inside the hut, sweeping clean around its perimeter, picking up scattered roof tiles and shards of crockery from the ground to discard them elsewhere.

The fact that the woman had settled into Hira-san’s hut was quickly noticed by the neighbors. When they first spotted her at the water spigot, they thought she was a new resident—someone who didn’t belong in a place like this, with her pretty face and that small, delicate frame that made even us women want to pick her up and comfort her—this was what the wives said to each other. However, this lasted only about two days; once the truth came out, the wives’ opinions reversed.

“I’m shocked—a self-invited wife, at her age! What on earth was she thinking?”

“Hira-san’s really something—who’d have thought he’d get so hung up on some old hag like that?” “Look at that face, look at that figure,” one of the wives said. “I knew someone like that way back—they say that sort’s got a carnal nature beyond regular folks. Even at fifty or sixty, their bodies stay ripe without fading one bit. You can tell if you look proper close.”

“So that’s why you said you wanted to hold her and comfort her—how obscene.” “Oh? ‘Obscene,’ you say?” the wife retorted. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?”

The meaning was different, but they didn’t know it. In Hira-san’s hut, none of the things the neighborhood wives had imagined came to pass. After finishing his evening meal, Hira-san would rest briefly before weaving mattresses until around ten o’clock—not out of necessity but as a way to kill time, his work making little progress. When his eyes grew tired from the candlelight and tears began to form, he would put away the loom and go to bed. The woman would tidy up afterward, then lie down beside Hira-san wrapped in a single thin futon. They always extinguished the candle, leaving the hut pitch dark except on moonlit nights. Hira-san would occasionally turn over in his sleep but rarely snored. And before long, the woman would begin sobbing.

Her sobs were quiet like wind sweeping across grassland, and she began speaking in fragmented spurts with a hoarse whisper that rasped as though something clogged her throat. “The shop’s doing well—my son-in-law works hard,” she said one night. “He’s capable and treats me kindly too. Even now when your name comes up, he says we should invite you over.” “What am I supposed to do?” she said another night. “I was born to propertied parents and raised spoiled rotten, so I never knew my wrongs as wrongs. It wasn’t out of particular fondness that it happened with that man, and I didn’t even properly understand the child I bore was his—please believe me at least that much.”

Hira-san did not move a muscle. "You’ve ended up like this for over twenty-five years now, and still I don’t know what to do." On another night, she pleaded in a thin, strained voice, "You must have suffered greatly, but I too have endured unrelenting hardship. My late mother said she could never face you properly, and she refused to forgive me until her dying day. After she passed, I’ve done nothing but blame and hate myself."

These words were spoken smoothly and in orderly fashion, like lines memorized through countless repetitions. Words laden with potent meanings—"painful," "harsh," "unforgiven until death," "self-loathing"—were delivered with such unbroken fluency that their intensity dissipated, leaving only a hollow, monotonous impression. “Even those who commit grave crimes like murder can be forgiven once their hard labor ends, depending on the circumstances—isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?” One night she said, “If there's something I could do that would satisfy you, please tell me—I'll do anything.”

No matter what was said to him, Hira-san did not answer. It was not that he ignored the woman's lamentations and pleas, but rather that her voice seemed to never reach him at all. It resembled a stone standing amidst ceaselessly blowing wind - utterly untouched by its presence. The woman stayed in Hira-san's hut for twelve days before leaving on the twelfth evening.

That day, when Hira-san returned from selling mattresses, the woman sat at the edge of the wooden floor inside the hut with a small cloth-wrapped bundle on her lap.—It was past four on a winter afternoon; twilight had fallen outside, making the hut even darker. Her petite figure—shoulders hunched—seemed on the verge of vanishing into that deep gloom. Hira-san, as usual, removed his overcoat and took off his peaked cap, then stepped up onto the wooden floor past the woman.

The woman remained bowed, staring at the dirt floor of the entryway. Her small, pinched face appeared whitish and dry as if shriveled; both hands resting on her lap were gray and wrinkled, their fingertips hanging limply. Was she waiting for something? Behind her, Hira-san was moving about making noise. Even now, was she still expecting Hira-san to say something? It seemed that was not the case; the woman eventually raised her right hand to touch her hair and let out a thin, feeble sigh.

“Is there truly no way?” the woman said, her voice low like a whisper, hoarse and choked. “—Can’t you grant me forgiveness?” Hira-san stepped down into the earthen-floored entryway and opened the aluminum pot on the shelf. It was empty. The woman had not cooked the rice.

Seeing the empty pot, Hira-san immediately began measuring out rice and barley. Unaware that the woman had chosen today of all days not to cook rice, he proceeded with the same thoroughly familiar routine he had always performed himself—in an utterly natural, mechanical sequence—measuring out fixed portions of rice and barley from two mandarin orange crates into the pot, then carrying it as he left the hut.

The woman did not look at Hira-san. When Hira-san was about halfway to the water spigot, she—holding the small bundle on her lap—stood up like someone utterly exhausted and looked all around the hut. Her nerves completely frayed, her eyes had taken on a look devoid of all emotion. The woman left the hut indecisively and closed the swinging door.

In the sky hung clouds faintly tinged with lingering sunset glow, their presence accentuating the murky darkness spreading across the ground below. The woman circled around the hut and went to the withered tree standing outside the window. Then, touching its branch with one hand, she murmured under her breath: "That's right—this must have been a Japanese cornel tree."

Her murmur carried an ephemeral quality—not that a Japanese cornel tree remained one even when withered, but rather that once withered, it ceased to be any tree at all. And with that, the woman left, shrinking into herself as she went.

At the water spigot, there were three wives; when they saw Hira-san coming, they all abruptly fell silent. Hira-san silently washed the rice in the pot. While replacing the water three times, he washed the rice and barley by kneading them with his hands, then adjusted the water level before leaving the place in silence.

“What’s going on?” “Isn’t it strange for him to come wash the rice himself,” one of the wives said after waiting for Hira-san to move away. “Has that woman fallen ill or something?”

“That might be true,” another wife said. “Ken-chan and so-and-so were saying they’d been hearing that woman’s crying nearly every night.”

“Ken-chan again? Going to eavesdrop on that woman—he must have some real sickness in his head.” “You’re part of that group who got questioned too, eh?” “Talking ’bout old stories—at my age, I ain’t got that kinda vigor left no more.”

Outside Hira-san’s hut, flames began to burn in the makeshift stove.

In the evening gloom, pallid smoke unfurled until crimson flames began licking the pot's underside, gradually spreading radiance around them and etching the profile of Hira-san crouched there into relief. His face stayed rigid and expressionless; eyes resembling dilated pupils stared vacantly into the dark void stretching ahead. Though the stove fire's flickering made Hira-san's visage appear to waver, not the slightest change crossed his features.

The wind grew slightly stronger, and the firewood in the stove began to smoke. Hira-san adjusted the arrangement of firewood, and while coughing from the smoke, took two or three pieces of wood and added them to the fire.

As Bismarck said,

Mr. Kantō Kiyosato said.

“Do you know the hidden intentions of the Rotary Club?” Hachida Tada Haru paused briefly to consider, stroking his greasy forehead as he replied. “I don’t know much about it—isn’t it an international social organization?” “That’s camouflage! They’re nothing but a gilded signboard meant to blind foreign nations’ spirit of ethnic independence! What I’m asking is what schemes they’re hatching behind that facade.”

“Are they plotting something?” “America’s world conquest.”

The young Hachida made a face like a dyspeptic patient taking bitter medicine—the expression of someone who, though sick of having to take it three times daily without fail, swallowed it anyway because otherwise his indigestion would never improve. “The Americans first attempted to conquer Japan under Christianity’s guise,” Kantō continued. “What you might call national enslavement through religion—but this ambition was utterly crushed by the Tokugawa clan.” As the teacher’s highly original arguments unfolded in this manner, the young Hachida’s eyes grew moist.

This occurred about a week after Hachida Tada Haru had become a member of Yukoku Juku.

—When the young Hachida first came calling and said he wanted to become a member, it was Kantō Kiyosato, the school’s director, who was taken aback. Mr. Kantō Kiyosato narrowed his remarkably large, intimidating eyes—beneath jet-black, thick eyebrows—to threads and retorted while staring suspiciously at the young Hachida’s face. “Are you here to mock me?” “What do you mean?” the young man said, standing rigidly at attention.

"So you want to become a member of Yukoku Juku." "Is it not possible for me to receive this?"

"It wasn't that he couldn't accept him," the teacher thought. Indeed, at the entrance of that impoverished tenement hung a signboard reading "Yukoku Juku," with the school director's name clearly inscribed. And for many years—though exactly how many remained unclear—he had sustained his livelihood through that title. This was an indisputable fact, yet he had never once imagined someone might seek to become his student, nor had there ever been such an occurrence before.

"Hmph," the teacher swiftly organized his thoughts. A youth seeking membership in this day and age—now that was something noteworthy. Such a lad would be pure-hearted and guileless, likely receiving an allowance from his parents, and moreover a bearer of patriotic fervor—he might even prove useful for fundraising. Perhaps the time had finally come for his Yukoku Juku to gain proper momentum—very well, then. Kantō Kiyosato steeled his resolve.

"Very well," the teacher said. "I shall accept you as a member of Yukoku Juku."

“Is there something like a qualification exam?” the young Hachida asked at that time. “To tell the truth, I’m not suited for things like exams.”

“Such foolish things don’t sit well with me either,” the teacher answered cheerfully. “You can’t measure a man’s worth through an exam or two—it’s here!” The teacher slapped his gaunt, flat stomach, and it produced a hollow, mournful sound.

According to the Teacher’s judgment that a man’s worth was determined by his gut, the young Hachida became a member of the school from that day onward. The relationship between this teacher and student was not a simple one. “Where is your hometown, Teacher?” the young Hachida asked. Then the Teacher answered, “Japan.” “You—in a puny, flea-shit-sized country like Japan, getting hung up on trivialities like where someone’s from is pathetic! You’re born in Japan—that’s all that matters!” he declared.

Then Mr. Kantō Kiyosato abruptly asked, "Where is your country?" At this, the young Hachida stiffened his posture as if questioned about some grave secret, bowed his head deeply, and replied he wished not to address that matter. He declared that while he had dedicated his entire being to the state and stood prepared to willingly sacrifice himself for the eternal imperial nation, it was not his true intent to trouble his siblings and extended kin.

When Mr. Kantō Kiyosato advocated his "Japan as flea-dung nation" theory, the young Hachida seemed to smirk beneath a layer of facial skin; and when Hachida shielded his relatives through self-sacrifice rhetoric, the teacher stumbled over something and made a face like he wanted to click his tongue. Yukoku Juku had only one set of bedding. When the teacher asked the young Hachida when his luggage would arrive, the youth replied bluntly that there was nothing of the sort. When asked if he at least had basics like spare clothes or bedding, the young Hachida looked at the teacher reproachfully and retorted, “Does Yukoku Juku require its students to provide even such trivial items themselves?”

In this exchange, the teacher had been outmaneuvered. Given the teacher’s solemn assertion that this was an enlightenment institution grounded in a national perspective, dedicated especially to investigating the truths of Imperial Studies and practically propagating them, such trivial matters should indeed have been inconsequential—just as the young Hachida had stated. "Very well," the teacher relented. "Go borrow a rental futon."

For the young Hachida, a daily regimen for spiritual cultivation as a member of the school had been established. Meal preparation, cleaning, shopping, running errands, worshipful bowing toward the Imperial Palace from afar, attending to the teacher's personal needs, other miscellaneous chores—all these comprised his duties. None of this proved particularly onerous to him. Each task was simple enough that cutting corners merely required deceiving the teacher's watchful eye—but apart from these, there remained one inescapable drudgery.

If we speak of unavoidable heavy labor, that alone should need no explanation—indeed, it was listening to the lectures of Kantō Kiyosato-sensei.

The dissolution of the Japan branch ordered due to the Rotary Club's alleged intentions to invade Japan remains relatively recent history. At that time, there existed some affluent individuals in Japan who, distrusting the nation's future economic outlook, had apparently either carried out or attempted operations to transfer assets overseas. Wealthy people likely do this in any country—it wasn't unique to Japan—but since Rotarians belong to an international aristocratic and moneyed fraternity, they might have facilitated such capital flight abroad. While the true reasons remain unclear, they at least bore no relation to Christian missionary work—contrary to what Mr. Kantō Kiyosato's lectures would have one believe.

The reason the young Hachida teared up was not because the teacher’s lectures were always too idiosyncratically disjointed, nor because they were overly verbose and tedious, nor was it due to being moved by spiritual nobility. To put it plainly—as anyone observing their relationship would understand—there seemed to be no particular reason at all; when listening to the teacher’s lectures, regardless of their content or logic, he would naturally grow teary-eyed and indeed end up shedding real tears.

To be fair, it was rare for the teacher’s lectures to focus on a single issue; typically, they would leap from A to S, B to K, C to D, then abruptly return to A or B. The lecture about the Rotary Club followed the same pattern: he would suddenly shift topics with “Have you read *Jinnō Shōtōki*?” and when met with “What’s that?” would respond, “Go run an errand for me.” “About fundraising,” the teacher said with an awkward smile, “I’ll be relying on you from now on—but really, it’s nothing complicated.”

The teacher pulled a worn-out large business card from the pocket of his morning coat hanging on the wall, smoothing its curled edge with his finger as he listed three newspaper companies—A, B, and C—explaining that A was a so-and-so attached to the bureau, B a such-and-such desk editor at the society section, and C this-and-that.

“They’re all my juniors,” the teacher said. “If you show them this business card, they’ll understand. You don’t even need to mention money—they’ll know what it’s about. Got it?” The young Hachida answered vaguely, “Yes.” “And you’ll bring this business card back with you. They’re men I trust implicitly, so there’s no need for concern—but these things are prone to misuse. Don’t forget to return it, got it?”

After confirming the addresses of three newspaper companies and whom he was to visit, the young Hachida set out with an uneasy expression—the look of a man standing atop a ten-meter diving platform about to attempt his first dive.

Despite the young Hachida's apprehensions, the fundraising proceeded smoothly. "That's right—they're all men akin to my subordinates." Kantō-sensei said this offhandedly, but couldn't conceal his own astonishment at how smoothly the procurement had gone. "Quoth the great Bismarck: 'A general must know his soldiers before tactics—then victory shall at last return to his grasp!'" The teacher said while counting the gathered funds: "I took special care of those three. People claim modern journalism neglects human compassion, but as long as such men exist, we're safe. The press campaign hasn't lost its backbone—you, today calls for a celebratory toast!"

That evening, Mr. Kantō Kiyosato took his disciple Hachida Tada Haru on an expedition to Nakadōri’s “Nonbe Yokochō,” where they grilled eel heads at a street stall and drank themselves into a stupor on strong shochu. According to the teacher, kabayaki grilled eel was something for amateurs—true eel connoisseurs stuck strictly to “the heads and livers.” “I can’t say this too loudly,” the Teacher said, “but kabayaki—you see—they mostly use farmed eels for that. That’s why kabayaki often has that musty pupa-like stench. But the heads? You can’t fake those. Natural eels have hooks in their heads—there’s no disguising that.”

“See here,” the teacher said, pointing to three hooks lined up at the edge of the cutting board—those extracted from the eel heads he had consumed thus far—and showing them to the young Hachida. “However, Teacher,” the disciple whispered, “there’s also a theory that eel shops surreptitiously insert those.” “Baseless rumor. Not worth discussing.”

“Actually, I know about eel fishing too.” The disciple lowered his voice even further. “The hooks used for catching eels are different. If you tried fishing them one by one with these hooks, it’d be too inefficient. Even if you caught them, removing the hooks would take too much time—you couldn’t make a living that way.” “If you’re worried about turning a profit—you—a man—with such a miserly mindset will never accomplish anything worthwhile! —Speaking of hooks, you know... back when this Kantō was in Newspaper A’s political department...”

It remains unclear what sparked it, but before long, Mr. Kantō Kiyosato and a laborer began trading blows. No—to call it trading blows would be inaccurate. The laborer did all the hitting while the Teacher endured the assault, yet even then his indomitable spirit showed no sign of faltering. "Come on! Hit me harder! You don't even comprehend what you're doing!" shouted the Teacher from where he lay sprawled on the ground. "Mark my words—with every strike, you pummel Japan's very destiny!"

These were indeed the words that had gushed from Kantō-sensei’s own mouth. The laborer struck him twice more there. “What happened last night?” The next day, Kantō-sensei asked Hachida Tada Haru, “Why was that man so furious?” He gingerly stroked his head, probed the swelling, and grimaced. Purple bruises had bloomed across his left cheekbone and forehead too. “I don’t really know.” The young Hachida replied while kneading his nape, “I was blackout drunk—slept in the fire cistern beside the stall. Then I heard you belting out songs at full volume—stuff like ‘Workers of the world, hearken!’ and ‘The corpse upon the altar!’”

“That’s wrong—that’s your misunderstanding,” he said. “But you see—both of those are Communist Party songs!” “That’s why the laborer got angry.” “No—that’s completely backward! I am, if only in name, the head of Yukoku Juku!” “Anyway—it’s a fact that laborer was angry. I was sleeping in the empty fire cistern—I don’t know details—but he was shouting ‘You red traitor bastard!’”

Kantō-sensei slowly shook his head, rubbed one hand from his mouth to his jawline, then looked up at the ceiling. "The great Bismarck said," the teacher spoke in a weary tone, "'To make soldiers loyal, one must share their bed and board.' It seems I mistook the soldiers, you see—I'm still hungover from thinking too much. Go buy me some shochu."

A pained expression surfaced on the teacher's face. This couldn't be dismissed as mere "pain"—to peer into his innermost being would reveal it as the manifestation of something far more complex and leaden: self-reproach and remorse that pressed down like sodden earth.

Among the residents here, some of the old-timers may still remember—the teacher had experienced two heartbreaking rejections in this "town." One of them was still alive and well, going by names like Temorai Madam or Okichi-san, living in a tenement house with a young boy. The other had moved away—a widow called O-Tomi-san, thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old with striking looks—who had lived alone.

How O-Tomi-san made a living was unclear—she did no side work, nor was there any sign of support from elsewhere, yet she always maintained an air of nonchalant ease, gathering the neighborhood wives for boisterous tea parties whenever she had spare time. It goes without saying these were not what one might call refined "tea gatherings." The husbands greatly welcomed these parties because their wives would bring back all manner of peculiar tales they'd acquired there. These stories contained elements—physiological and psychological yet simultaneously physical—that defied male imagination, with no few instances making husbands of investigative bent want to conduct impulsive experiments.

Upon hearing about O-Tomi-san from these husbands, Mr. Kantō Kiyosato grew angry, declaring that such women corrupted public morals and must be admonished for the sake of the future, then set out to deliver his reprimand. It was a common enough story—when Kantō-sensei returned from that first visit, he was laughing sloppily and even praised the woman to the neighbors. "Why, that woman was nothing but an utterly simple woman—merely at an age when a woman proves herself most a woman, and an experienced one at that." Then he added another point—saying it was nothing more than... something—and let out a boisterous laugh.

The rumor spread that Mr. Kantō had been thoroughly bested during his first meeting with Ms. O-Tomi, and as if to personally validate this gossip, he began visiting her diligently and frequently. "Oh come now," the Teacher told the neighbors. "A woman born so thoroughly for the sake of men is a rare find indeed." "For cultivating a magnanimous spirit in manhood itself, there exists no better crucible than such a woman." "The Teacher's been living alone for ages too," the neighbors remarked. "Since she's a widow herself, why don't you two just marry?" "You're well-matched in age." "Hmm," the Teacher answered, "after becoming better acquainted, I'm considering that depending on circumstances, it mightn't be ill-advised to proceed accordingly."

In fact, Teacher Kantō Kiyosato had thought so and had been secretly seeking an opportunity to propose. However, it did not succeed. O-Tomi-san would tell even the Teacher elegant tales that provocatively stirred experimental desires. At times she would even strike certain poses with her own limbs, and since it could be inferred that O-Tomi-san was creating these opportunities, the Teacher’s passion would reach its boiling point, driving him to assume a posture of proposal. Then the Teacher’s tongue would betray his own will.

"The great Bismarck said—O-Tomi-san," the Teacher's tongue began moving. "To fight without victory is defeat," he declared, then added, "To avoid defeat requires abstaining from battle," and continued—on and on flowed these pearls of wisdom from Bismarck (or someone else, or perhaps no one at all). No matter how he strained, that tongue couldn't be pulled back to his side, nor was there any way to prevent O-Tomi-san's growing disgust.

“The Teacher’s such a strange man, I tell you,” O-Tomi-san said to the wives during the tea parties. “Just when I start telling an interesting story, he always has to pipe up with ‘Bis-chan said this’ or ‘Bis-chan would do that,’ spouting nonsense that neither he nor I know anything about. Anyone would lose interest! What a blockhead the Teacher is.”

It did not take much time for these words to reach the Teacher’s ears—and at the same time, his love affair rang its final gong.

With Temorai Madam too, it followed nearly the same course and ended in a similar result.

The term "temorai" of course meant funeral, while "Madam" was the usual derogatory term—her real name being Seiko, though she also went by the shadow nickname Okichi-san. Her husband was Honda Masakichi, who supposedly ran a boat greengrocery at some port but only showed up about once a month or every two months. There was a third-grade elementary school boy named Jin, and Seiko managed their livelihood alone.

Though perhaps not as universal as in days past, segaki—hungry ghost rituals—were performed at funerals. This meant distributing memorial sweets or stamps equivalent to the sweets' value to mourners. At funerals of pious wealthy families, they would reportedly toss coins to the poor at crematoriums too, with lines of destitute children and elderly forming along roadsides to receive these alms. Seiko would infiltrate funeral crowds as a mourner to collect boxes of sweets and stamps, immediately exchanging them for cash at confectioneries. Whether cedar boxes of sweets or their equivalent-value stamps, confectioneries bought them back at around twenty percent discount—making this more profitable than day laboring if five funerals occurred daily. Of course it required capital: one needed black formal mourning attire with family crests and properly maintained hairstyling. Seiko possessed a black crested kimono and obi made of cotton, and meticulously styled her hair each day.

By maintaining this black crested kimono and hairstyle without letting them slip into disarray, Seiko came to be called "Madam," but not only that—her speech patterns and demeanor carried a refined uptown air, employing the zāmasu affectation and having mastered the ohoho laugh.

The child Jin was an unruly adherent of anarchism. He hated his mother and school; he avoided those stronger than himself but would resort to violence against weaker individuals and girls, and abused every dog or cat he encountered. He hardly ever returned to his own home, sleeping instead in other people’s storage sheds or under eaves, and when hunger struck, he would rifle through the kitchens of strangers.—His clothes were tattered, his face and limbs caked with grime and mud, and anyone who drew near was met with a stench fouler than even the lowliest beggar. Very occasionally, Seiko managed to catch him. Then Seiko would take him back home, strip him naked regardless of season, wash him with water and soap, cut his hair, trim his nails, and change his clothes.

Throughout this process, Seiko kept up her gentle "zāmasu" affectation. She admonished Jin in soft tones, to which Jin meekly replied "Hai" in apology. It was a beautifully moving moment—like the scene of an awakened prodigal son being warmly welcomed home by his parent. But the instant these grooming tasks ended, flagellant-style rituals would begin.

The scene opened with the soft rebuke of, “Why must you be so wicked?” “Why must you be this way—a child who sleeps outside isn’t human, you know.” “Why must you be like this?” “You’re well aware yourself of what the neighbors are saying about you, aren’t you?” “Why must you do nothing but wicked things?” “Oh dear, why don't you reform yourself?” Her voice was soft and gentle, with a cloyingly sweet timbre like honey-drenched pudding, but between each word, the sharp crack, crack of a terrifying accompaniment could be heard. According to the neighborhood wives' accounts, they say she strips his buttocks bare and beats him with a ruler. The sugary-sweet voice like honey-drenched pudding and the bone-chilling sound of punishment combined into a terrifying harmony that pierced the ears of all who heard it.

Jin's scream of “I can’t take it anymore!” could be heard. “I won’t do it again! It hurts!” “Please stop!” Crack, crack. “I’m not lying—I’ll go to school! That thing’ll die!” Crack, crack. “Making such a racket will disturb the neighbors—crack.” “Be quieter—crack.” “Your fake tears won’t work—crack.” “Does it truly hurt that much? Mother won’t be fooled—crack.”

Before long—as always—Jin would slip free from his mother’s grasp and dart outside, where he would immediately raise the beacon of rebellion. "Demon hag, drop dead—" With this opening salvo it began, as he hurled curses, abuse, and mockery employing a vocabulary so rich even hardened delinquents couldn't have imagined it. Of course, he gave no thought to the neighbors; if anyone ventured out to investigate the commotion, Jin would hurl stones or sticks without a moment's hesitation.

“You mustn’t make such a racket outside,” Seiko called from inside the house, her voice as soft as silk floss cradling a precious object. “Do come inside now—the neighbors will laugh at you.” “What’s that supposed to mean, shitty hag?” Jin sneered with a heh heh heh. “Drop dead—”

And so, for the time being, he would not approach the house, instead sleeping in sheds or storage areas and stealing food when necessary. Kantō-sensei resolved to somehow improve this mother-child conflict and, after visiting them several times, emphatically argued that the core issue was the father’s absence. Why was the father living separately? Why did he only come around so rarely? As Kantō-sensei pressed these questions, Seiko gradually opened up: her husband had a mistress, was obsessed with keirin bicycle racing and earned nothing, only coming to beg for money when truly desperate. Their marital relationship had been severed years prior, and she herself thought that if she found a suitable partner, she wouldn’t mind starting a family again. “Since my husband has another woman and does as he pleases, it’s an unfair situation for me alone to struggle like this,” — so saying, Seiko reportedly fixed Kantō-sensei with a sidelong glare.

Kantō-sensei's heart swelled like an eighteen-year-old boy's and pounded violently against his pleural membrane. There was no doubt Seiko had discerned this—despite her meager income, she now applied white powder and lipstick, prepared lavish meals on Kantō-sensei's visiting days, and even placed sake on the dining tray. "Shochu poisons the body," Seiko declared with earnest concern, fixing Kantō-sensei with a sidelong gaze. When pouring drinks, she demonstrated exquisite refinement by pressing her right sleeve with her left hand, and when urged to drink herself, accepted the cup with bashful reluctance.

Even if Kantō-sensei was a blockhead, he could not remain unperturbed when subjected to such treatment. Realizing he needed to take a definitive stance, Kantō-sensei began arguing that she should divorce such a husband and remarry someone educated and reliable for Jin's future. Seiko nodded at each point as though finding them perfectly reasonable, and likely meaning to clear a path for his advance, she reached out to gently press Kantō-sensei's knee. Then his tongue began asserting itself once more.

The great Bismarck said, 'He who triumphs yet does not grow arrogant is a commander among commanders.'

Seiko waited for what would come next. It seemed she thought Sensei was finally about to launch his assault. Indeed, Sensei intended as much. But reality was always prosaic; despite Sensei’s heart pounding like an eighteen-year-old boy’s, his tongue stubbornly refused to yield.

Bismarck also said: "Fleeing soldiers are like fallen flowers; attempting to return them to the front lines resembles trying to reattach fallen petals to their branches."

Seiko still waited for what would come next. She didn't think only the great Bismarck would hold sway; she believed some amorous words would follow next. But Bismarck remained stubborn and obstinate. Beads of sweat formed on Sensei's forehead, his eyes grew teary, yet his tongue kept triumphantly playing with "Bismarck said," never tiring of it.

Since Seiko had no neighborhood wives to associate with, it remained unclear how she evaluated Sensei, but judging by her expression when looking at him, it seemed certain he scored lower than a blockhead.

That incident where Sensei got into a fight with laborers at "Nonbei Yokocho" likely occurred not by his own will, but because his tongue itself had willfully asserted its own autonomy. Otherwise, there would be no logical reason for someone of Sensei’s standing to start singing Communist Party songs. “This is outrageous, Sensei.” While using the shochu he’d bought to revive Sensei from his two-day hangover, Hachida said, “I happened to glance at a newspaper in the liquor store earlier—they say there’s a national convention of right-wing groups being held at the public hall. Any reason why you haven’t received an invitation, Sensei?”

Sensei pondered for a moment, then stared at the young man with pity. "You must better understand your own position," Sensei said. "Those gathering at the public hall now are small fry—presumptuously calling themselves right-wing groups, but there's not a single person of substance among them. They're all just scraps of wood." "But Sensei, what about Taigi Kōhei-sensei and Kokusui Jun'ichi-sensei?"

Sensei shook his head and waved his hand.

“There were also names like Shinshu Danji-sensei and others.”

“So what?” Kantō-sensei pursed his lips into a inverted V-shape. “I know Kōhei, Danji, and Jun’ichi—they studied under Mizuho Ashihara but were cast out like excommunicated men. Rather than acting for the nation’s eternal welfare, they grovel before powerful families to forge false reputations and extort money from decent citizens through intimidation.” Hachida wore an expression of deep reverence, utterly captivated by his teacher’s impassioned diatribe.

"I dare ask you this, Hachida-kun," Sensei finally said, "do you think the great Bismarck would attend some Nazi Party rally?" The young Hachida reflexively opened his mouth to exclaim something but checked himself at the last second. An invisible hand seemed to clamp shut his mouth, triggering a coughing fit from the recoil. "I want to take pride in myself—even if it's belated." Coughing crimson, the disciple added: "At least I've learned I have a bit of an eye for judging people now."

“Life is profound—go on, have a drink, you,” Sensei said thoughtfully. “Life is profound and its vicissitudes are unfathomable. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Hachida the disciple also said.

What exactly was the Yukoku Juku? Judging from its name, this academy concerned itself with the nation's future, and in terms of ideological alignment, would generally have been considered right-wing. At its core, since it stood on the position of preserving national traditions against extreme destructive ideologies, it should have been compelled to directly confront left-wing activists and engage in counteractions. Of course, the right-wing figures whom Sensei disparaged as "small fry" appeared to be conducting proper activities, their movements frequently reported in various journalistic outlets.

However, no such movements were observed in our Yukoku Juku. At times, discussions that seemed relevant would arise, but these too amounted to Sensei’s one-sided assertions, with Hachida the disciple merely listening attentively. Sensei's arguments were typically astonishingly far-fetched and unbelievably original—so much so that even his disciple would occasionally doubt his own ears—but despite this, he never voiced any objections.

To put it crudely, both the school leader and his disciples seemed to do nothing but idle away their time, indulging in food, drink, and sloth while funds remained. Even if such a situation were possible in reality, could anyone imagine it lasting long? Needless to say, no such possibility existed. During his third fundraising attempt, Hachida the disciple collided head-on with this reality. It became clear that the newspaper editors and station-affiliated individuals whom Kantō-sensei had supposedly once favored neither knew the man called Kantō Kiyosato nor remembered ever seeing his face; that their donations stemmed from social obligation, momentary whims, and financial convenience; and that they had even promptly forgotten about having contributed these funds at all.

The young man Hachida reported the facts bluntly, without any pretense of tact. Sensei likewise displayed neither shame nor attempts at justification. "Hmph," he snorted, staring at the youth's face with undisguised dissatisfaction. "Did you meet them directly?" Sensei inquired.

"I didn’t meet them," the young man replied. "The office boy handles all communications." Then he immediately added, "It’s always been like that. They say everyone’s busy." "You did show them this business card properly, didn’t you?"

As if to say "What else could I do?", Hachida the disciple spread his hands. "It can't be helped—these things happen often," Sensei said consolingly. "Those in journalism maintain honorable poverty—that's where their value lies. They'll spend hundreds of thousands without hesitation for their reporting, yet care nothing for their own purses. Which is precisely why the great Bismarck said—"

“What should we do about dinner?” Hachida the disciple asked. “We’re out of rice.” Sensei cut short his Bismarck quotation. When it came to food and drink, Sensei proved more materialistic and pragmatic than his disciple. The instant he heard there was no rice, Sensei’s stomach emitted a cavernous growl—he was gripped by violent hunger pangs as though he’d gone three days without eating. “You should’ve mentioned this critical matter earlier.” “I assumed we’d secure funding again today.”

“It can’t be helped.” Sensei tilted his head slightly and stroked his beard before continuing, “—Well then, I must trouble you. Go to Old Man Tanba’s place. Tell him Kantō Kiyosato wishes to borrow rice—he’ll understand. I’ll handle procurement tomorrow. But you—consider this an essential experience for character formation. Don’t treat it lightly.” Hachida stood up before the inevitable Bismarck references could resume.

It seemed Sensei had another source of funds; the next day, he went out himself and returned home dead drunk after dusk. “This isn’t mere drunkenness, you,” Sensei said. “This isn’t some vulgar state of intoxication—it’s... it’s that thing, you know... that...”

“From the back, from the back,” the young man Hachida said in a hushed voice. “What are you mumbling about?” Sensei glared at the disciple while swaying unsteadily. “How rude! What do you mean by ‘from the back’?” “No, it’s about the cat,” the young man Hachida said while wiping his mouth with the back of his right hand. “Since that damn cat’s been lurking around the kitchen, should I start preparing dinner?” “Why are you feeding dinner to the cat again?” “Dinner is for you, Sensei.”

As he said this, the young man Hachida waved his hand behind him and fluttered it. Then the kitchen door clattered open with a bang，and the young man Hachida burst into an exaggerated coughing fit in panic.

“Don’t go spouting ideologue nonsense about meals, you—it’s booze we need.” Sensei sat cross-legged there, smoothing the wrinkles on his striped trousers as he said, “I’m going to drink properly now. Go buy some shochu—I’ll treat you too.”

“Give me the money,” said Hachida the disciple, extending his hand. “Mo-ney, mo-ney, mo-ney,” Sensei took out a wallet from his morning coat’s inner pocket, extracted a single bill from it, and handed it to Hachida the disciple. “Lamenting the nation’s future and fretting over finances—Kantō Kiyosato remains ever busy. As the great Bismarck once said—”

The young man Hachida went to the kitchen to retrieve the sake bottle and hurried out through that way. Then came whispers between someone waiting in the outer darkness and another—though of course Kantō-sensei couldn't hear them. Arguing alone with General Bismarck all the while, Sensei picked up a slender hairpin from the old tatami mats, flung it toward the earthen floor without recognizing what it was—and fell over backward.

The next morning, the young man Hachida said while eating with Sensei. "I really am just a greenhorn after all. Yes, I’ve come to understand that quite well myself." "Humility is one of the virtues."

"I pushed as hard as I could, but got turned down flat. If you stepped in to handle the fundraising, Sensei, wouldn’t it all go off without a hitch? I’d have to take my hat off to you." He insisted this was a character flaw requiring more rigorous self-cultivation. The unspoken truth glared through—this was clearly an attempt to dump the fundraising burden on Sensei. But Sensei, being no petty schemer who'd parse hidden meanings in words, accepted his disciple's confession at face value and agreed to personally oversee the efforts for now.

One day, Sensei picked up the same hairpin as before from the old tatami mat and this time gazed at it suspiciously, scrutinizing it intently.

"Hey, you, Hachida-kun," Sensei called to his disciple and showed it to him. "What's this?"

“Hmm...” Hachida the young man tilted his head. A look of panic appeared in his eyes, but Sensei didn’t notice that. “I found this same thing lying around before too...”

Sensei held the thin object split into two prongs between his thumb and index finger, casually sniffing it.

“It smells greasy,” Sensei said. “What on earth is this? Who would drop something like this? What’s it even used for?” “It might be a cat.”

“Even a cat—with something like this?” “There’s been this bold cat passing through the house lately,” said the young man Hachida, swallowing nervously. “An impudent creature that saunters right through—sometimes from the front door to the kitchen, other times from the kitchen back out front—moving through as casually as you please.” “Using us as a shortcut, eh?” Sensei flung the hairpin toward the dirt floor while saying, “If that thing does this again, threaten to turn it into cat stew and eat it. Damned creature mocking humans.”

And then another morning. Suffering from a two-day hangover and having no appetite, Sensei—who had been sipping only miso soup—kept tilting his head and looking up at the ceiling with upturned eyes before asking his disciple, "Were you having nightmares last night?" This time, Hachida showed no sign of panic and quietly shook his head at Sensei.

“Then it must have been a dream,” Sensei muttered. “Somehow—it was groaning as if in pain... yes, making that kind of groaning sound.” “It’s definitely a cat.” “No—that’s not it! I distinctly heard ‘It’s Kizuge.’ No, that wasn’t any cat.” “Cats in heat make strange cries, you see. This really happened back home—there were wails like ‘The baby’s dead! The baby’s dead!’ every night behind the woodcutter’s shed. Since they actually had an infant there, people thought someone cursed them out of spite—it caused a huge uproar. Turned out to be just a cat in heat crying. Then later, same thing happened beside the rice storehouse...”

“No, it’s not a cat,” Sensei shook his head. “I distinctly heard ‘It’s Kizuge’—that part remains clear in my ears—and then a faint groaning sound.”

“Then it must’ve been a dream. You were snoring something fierce and kept thrashing about,” said Hachida the disciple. “Once you even kicked me right in the ribs—I swear it’s true.” “Could be.” Sensei frowned. “Hmm, could be at that. My apologies.”

Another day.

When Sensei returned from fundraising, the lattice door was closed and wouldn’t open.

There was no lock, nor had a crossbar been put in place. Since there was no precedent for such a thing, Sensei shook the lattice door while calling out repeatedly, "Hachida-kun! Hachida-kun!" The young man Hachida’s flustered reply was heard, followed by a clattering sound, and then Hachida emerged. “Welcome back. I’ll open it now.” The young man Hachida said while tightening his pants belt, “You returned early today, didn’t you?”

"What did you do to the lattice door?" "I made a little adjustment." The young man Hachida opened the lattice door, moving his body aside for Sensei as he showed an old five-inch nail. "I had this inserted here," he said.

"Why did you do such a strange thing?" "It’s because that cat’s been getting careless." "The cat—you mean that shortcut-taking one?" "What else? Since it keeps tromping through barefoot, the place ends up absolutely filthy." Sensei removed his morning coat and changed into a lined kimono with workman’s jacket while sniffing repeatedly.

“There’s a strange smell,” Sensei said. “Could someone have been here?”

“A human? No.” The young man Hachida shook his head. “I’d never let anyone in while Sensei’s out. Besides, I don’t associate with such people. Shall I brew some tea?” Sensei kept sniffing the air and tilting his head. Then again, not long after, one midnight he heard groans and mutterings of “Ora… mo… wagane wagane” in a half-dreaming state. Thinking “Ah, another nightmare,” he awoke come morning and concluded after reflection that it had indeed been a dream.

The economic depression worsened, and rumors of stagnation in the business world and bankruptcies among small and medium-sized business owners spread incessantly from person to person.

This phenomenon in Japan operated like seasonal influenza—striking intermittently, where authorities would hastily devise stopgap measures and attempt economic recovery through sacrifices from small and medium-sized businesses and low-wage workers. Yet since they never considered fundamental remedies, the cycle would repeat: no sooner did things settle than it struck again. According to Old Man Tanba’s reserved opinion, this was supposedly a necessary political maneuver to rescue Japan’s financial economy. Upon hearing this, Sensei Kantō puffed out his chest, accused Tanba of being a Red, and declared that anyone harboring such dangerous ideologies would face retribution eventually.

However, Sensei himself—who harbored no dangerous ideologies whatsoever—ended up facing retribution before Old Man Tanba did. This came to pass one evening when Sensei returned from fundraising, and Jisuke barged in as though he had been lying in wait. “Hey Sensei! You had the nerve to steal my wife!”

And he rolled up his sleeves. Jisuke was counted among the diligent workers in this "district." He was forty-seven or eight years old and had six children, but all except the youngest—who was five—had run off somewhere. His current wife Ohatsu was his third—about twenty years younger than Jisuke, said to be from Tohoku, fair-skinned and good-looking—though she wasn’t the children’s mother, and it had only been about two years since she and Jisuke had married.

Jisuke was ordinarily a composed man, and according to Old Man Tanba's account, "would thoroughly deliberate over whether he should eat or not before finally deciding to have his meal." However, he was what one might call a model of diligence, and things like barging into people’s homes or picking fights were so utterly foreign to Jisuke that even Tokusan—a gambling fanatic—wouldn’t have considered them worth betting on.

Now he shook his fists in anger, thrust out his unshaven dark face, rolled up the sleeves of his old workman's jacket—he looked ready to lunge at Sensei at any moment. "What're you shoutin' about? What's this?" Sensei floundered, thrusting one hand forward as if to block Jisuke's fist. "If I've done wrong I'll apologize—just calm down now." "Gimme back my woman!" Jisuke roared. "I'm tellin' you—return my wife Ohatsu!"

“Are you talking about Ms. Ohachi?” “That’s your country dialect—the real name’s Ohatsu, but that don’t matter none! You’re tryin’ to trick me right now, usin’ that head of yours while we’re talkin’, but I got witnesses—plenty of ’em! They ain’t usin’ their heads, but their eyes saw what happened!”

“Now, calm down—anyway, I don’t understand what’s going on. Please, Jisuke-kun, calm down.” As he watched Sensei sit cross-legged there, pinching the knees of his striped trousers to smooth out the wrinkles, Jisuke—his face still contorted with unresolved anger—berated him, declaring that stealing another man’s wife wasn’t something someone who bore the title of “Sensei” should do. “I know nothing of such matters. That must be slander born of someone’s malice,” Sensei replied.

“The witnesses said you’d pull a preemptive strike to cut me off at the start, Sensei—but they’ve all seen it with their own eyes!” Jisuke said. “That Ohatsu sneaks in through the back of this place, stays about an hour, then slinks out fussing with her hair or something before creeping home. C’mon, Sensei—you still gonna play dumb about this?”

“Now wait—just wait a moment.” Sensei stroked his beard. “—Ah. Hmm, so that’s how it is. Yes, that does seem plausible.” “What’s so ‘plausible’ about that?!” “Now listen here, Jisuke-kun,” Sensei interjected calmly, “this isn’t about whether witnesses saw anything or not—it’s about Ohachi-san herself.” “I told ya it’s Ohatsu!” “It’s about that person, you see.” Sensei adopted a trump-card tone. “Wouldn’t having the person herself come here settle matters? I believe that would be the simplest and clearest solution—what do you think?”

“That’s why I’m telling you to hand her over, Sensei!”

“So when you say ‘return her,’ are you suggesting I’ve done something to Ms. Ohachi?” “What’re you even askin’?!” Jisuke frantically scratched his head. “Listen—I ain’t barged in here today on some whim! Noticed somethin’ off ’bout Ohachi—er, Ohatsu—two damn months back! Been stewin’ on this proper-like—must’ve wondered a hundred times if I could sleep nights. Truth is, I always managed t’nod off. But I know what I saw—sleep or no sleep!”

“Now, you—Jisuke-kun,” Sensei interjected, trying to calm him down. “Let’s keep this simple. What you’re saying is that I should return Ohachi-san. As for me—regarding Ohachi-san—” “I told ya it’s Ohatsu!” “I’m saying it would be straightforward if you brought that person here—I mean, shouldn’t bringing the person herself be the first step?” “So you’re tryin’ to mess with my head now, Sensei?”

“What would I do with your head?” Sensei finally raised his voice, “The person you’re referring to is your own wife, isn’t she? If you’re going to thrust your wife’s misconduct onto me, then isn’t it only natural that you, as her husband, bring the woman herself here? Don’t you agree, Jisuke-kun?”

That this issue had been circling around the central topic went without saying. However, as they kept circling, their thoughts—pulled by centripetal force—eventually collided with the problem's core. And it was indeed an utterly straightforward matter, exactly as Sensei had said. "That's one of my students," Sensei said. "A young man named Hachida Tada Haru who joined the school about three months back." "So you ain't even a proper teacher, huh?"

“Don’t spout nonsense—this Kantō Kiyosato remains a patriot whether shriveled or withered!” “As I’ve been repeating—you’d understand if you asked Ohachi herself.”

“But she ain’t at home, Sensei.” Jisuke sat down on the raised threshold and pinched his thick lip between his fingers. “Seems she ran off in the middle o’ the night last night. Woke up this mornin’ an’ she was gone—still ain’t come back even now. It’s the truth, Sensei.” “My student also disappeared last night—though I didn’t notice until morning—so this might be an elopement.” “That woman took every last thing she owned,” Jisuke muttered as if to himself. “Why’d she do it, Sensei? Me an’ Ohatsu became husband an’ wife by mutual agreement. It wasn’t like I picked up some rock there on my own an’ dragged it over—Ohatsu herself had thought things through too. She figured marryin’ me meant a more secure future—that’s why she agreed to be together. That’s how it was, Sensei.”

Sensei had not been listening to a word Jisuke said. That early morning, when Sensei realized his student Hachida was nowhere to be seen, he thought it only temporary. Since joining the school, the young man had never gone out for personal reasons—he must have gone to visit a friend or something. But now, hearing Jisuke’s account, the moment Sensei surmised this was likely a prearranged elopement with Ohatsu, he realized his trust had been trampled like wastepaper and betrayed—plunging him into despair.

“Complaining like that won’t do any good,” Sensei said. “You must have some idea where that person’s run off to.” “I wish I did.” “Don’t you have any leads?”

Jisuke shook his head. He had met Ohatsu at a land reclamation site where she’d been cooking for the work crew’s kitchen, but when the project ended, the crew didn’t relocate—they just disbanded right there. So he couldn’t trace those connections anymore, and though he and Ohatsu had become husband and wife, they hadn’t officially registered their marriage—meaning her family registry and current residence were complete unknowns. Most folks in this “street” usually didn’t give a damn about formal registration until a kid came along—hell, they’d say, our women—who knows when they’ll shack up with someone else and vanish?

“That’s a problem.” “What about you, Sensei?” Jisuke shot back. “You know that damn brat’s folks, don’t ya?”

This time, Sensei shook his head.

“Then what about the guarantor?”

Sensei repeated the same motion. Recalling the Q&A session from when Hachida Tada Haru had enrolled, Sensei made a bitter face while Jisuke snapped in anger. He accused him, saying that hiring someone without checking their parents or guarantor was an absurd approach unbefitting of a man called Sensei. “That’s a legal violation, ya know,” Jisuke said. “You need a license just to keep a damn dog, but here you’re hiring a person without a guarantor—what kinda half-assed logic is that?! Shows folks ain’t what they seem, even ones called ‘Sensei.’”

“That’s not an employee,” Sensei retorted. “He’s a student of Yukoku Juku.”

Jisuke sighed. It was a deep, absurdly long, lifeless sigh. Whether Sensei's assertion that a student wasn't an employee made logical sense remained beyond Jisuke's comprehension. He sighed, pinched his lip between his fingers, roughly scratched his head, and sighed again.

“Well, uh—” Jisuke looked at Sensei. “What’re ya plannin’ to do ’bout that punk?” “I won’t do a thing,” Sensei replied calmly. “As the great Bismarck said: ‘To drag desertin’ soldiers back to battle lines is like tryin’ to stick fallen petals back on their branches.’ I follow the principle o’ not chasin’ after those who leave.”

“I ain’t got no clue ’bout complicated stuff—hell, might not even know ’bout simple things either. Haa... what’m I s’posed t’do?”

“In that case, all we can do is file a missing person report with the police.” “That’s no good.” Jisuke shook his head violently, “If we do somethin’ like that, her ex-husbands—the ones she ditched—might’ve already filed reports too. If three or four reports clash, even if they find Ohatsu, the cops’ll just be left scratchin’ their heads. This whole cockamamie mess ain’t even worth jawin’ about.”

Sensei went "Heeh—" and stared fixedly at Jisuke’s coal-black face with probing eyes.

“In that case,” Sensei finally said, “there’s no use sittin’ around here. Why don’tcha go home?” “Sittin’ here like this,” Jisuke answered like a man wrestlin’ with his thoughts, “I know it’s no damn good. But even if ya tell me to go home—I ain’t got the heart to go back. Don’t plan on stayin’ here forever neither. Just thinkin’ ’bout where that Ohatsu wench might be sprawled out right now—goddamn it, I’m ’bout ready to snap.”

Sensei’s eyes bulged. Even after Jisuke had left some time later, and even while preparing the evening meal, those eyes remained wide and bulging.—About a week passed, and one day, a postcard arrived for Sensei from Hachida Tada Haru. —I condemn Yukoku Juku’s empty theorizing; “All men must be men of action” stands as the ancients’ golden words. Let me boldly declare to you: I, Hachida Tada Haru, shall become the standard-bearer of women’s liberation through my very flesh! Ah! —Tadaharu

Such was the message. Sensei tore the postcard into tiny pieces and threw them aside the moment he finished reading, scrunched up his face, and scratched his beard. “Well, uh... let’s see...”

Sensei looked around his surroundings. “Well, first off—damn, this is exactly when I could use a stiff drink of shōchū. Even two cups or just one. But those hard-drinking bastards in Nombeyokochō—every last one of ’em’s a man of action.”

Sensei stood up, thought for a moment, then muttered, "First—Old Man Tanba," and stepped outside wearing an expression of resolve yet lacking conviction.

Dad

Sawagami Ryōtarō had five children. Taro, Jiro, Hanako, Shiro, Umeko. They were all young children—the eldest being ten, then nine, eight, seven, and five. And his wife Misao was pregnant. The people of this "street" knew full well that none of those five were Sawagami Ryōtarō’s children—that each had a different biological father, that all five fathers lived in this very "street," and that they themselves could distinguish their own offspring.

Since Misao, his wife, had been the one to strain her own womb, she of course would have known better than anyone else. It was believed that the only ones unaware of this were the children and Sawagami Ryōtarō.

Sawagami Ryōtarō was called "Ryō-san." He wasn’t particularly tall but was quite plump, his round face immediately giving the impression of good-naturedness. His thick eyebrows, small round eyes that slanted downward, thick lips, and the bulges of flesh at his cheekbones combined in such a way that his small, round eyes seemed to peer out from the shadows of those fleshy mounds.

"Ryō-san’s face had every qualification of a pushover," remarked Old Man Namiki, the notorious miser. Every feature—eyes, mouth, nose, cheeks, ears—seemed kneaded together from nothing but pushover parts. "Take a good look at Ryōtarō’s face," proclaimed Saita-sensei the Christian. That was the face of a man hypnotized by his wife, unable to awaken from her spell.

“This is no joke—take a good look at that person’s eyes,” Ogamiya’s Otsune-san said gravely. “Those eyes scorn people from the very core—no, they scorn people, gods, and Buddhas from their very foundation.” Misao, his wife, had a slender, petite build. Her face was narrow, with sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes that perpetually glittered with combativeness. Her skin was dark, her hair brown and curly, her forehead receding. She was thirty-two years old, three years younger than Ryōtarō, but to look at her, she appeared about four years his senior.

Misao was hardly ever home. She would handle tasks like preparing meals and mending the children's clothes, but spent the rest of her time somewhere in the tenement—engaging in gossip parties with other wives, getting into scuffles, mediating disputes while drinking sake, or else vanishing for half a day at a time.

“Ugh, being a woman’s such a drag.” She would lament like this several times daily without fail: “Men get to do whatever they damn well please, acting all high and mighty as tyrant husbands, while we women work till our spines crack yet can’t even go enjoy a single play. When you really think about it—what’s the point of living? Makes me downright pity myself.”

Ryō-san was making brushes for his trade with a gentle smile, diligently applying himself to the work. Ryō-san was a skilled brush maker—though they were hairbrushes rather than traditional ones—and wholesalers treated his creations as high-end products, supplying them to top cosmetics shops, Western goods stores, and department stores. However, because his work was slow and output limited, people called him “Turtle-paced.” Indeed, even his wife Misao seemed to acknowledge this turtle-like pace at work, and she would heap blatant criticism on him—not just about his labor, but even down to the way he lifted and lowered his chopsticks.

“Watching you work makes the soles of my feet itch,” Misao said. “How could such a sluggard of a man even be born? If your parents were still alive, I’d march right over and demand answers.”

Ryō-san narrowed his small, round eyes, formed a faint smile around his lips, and continued working in silence. On the amber-hued workbench, slightly to the right, stood a board about three inches thick. Materials were arranged around Ryō-san - tubes containing boar hair, brush bases, spools of thin wire, and pots of animal glue flanking both sides of him. He used his left hand to nimbly pluck boar hair from the tube. The number of strands to be inserted into each hole was fixed at approximately thirty, but he had never once managed to pluck exactly that many in a single grab. After plucking them up, each time he counted them carefully, adding two strands or subtracting one as needed.

“What’s one or two strands?” Misao reproached, “Even if you add two or three more of these skinny little hairs, it won’t make any difference.”

"That may be so, but..." With a faint smile and in a tone as if his tongue were weighted down, Ryō-san slowly answered, "I won't be satisfied unless it's thirty strands." When the count matched, he tapped the root ends against the thick upright board's edge to align them, wound the roots tightly with thin wire held in his right hand, threaded one end through the brush hole to pull the hairs into place, then snipped the excess wire with scissors. The three center rows had twenty holes each; the left and right rows seventeen—ninety-four total. After inserting thirty strands into every hole, he hammered the wire flat, applied animal glue, covered it with a backing board, and dyed it.

Since the animal glue always needed to remain melted, it was kept on the brazier year-round—and thus the pungent, acrid odor never ceased within the house.

“When I smell this stench, the whole world starts feeling pointless,” Misao said with an exaggerated grimace. “There must be some clever people out there—can’t anyone figure out how to remove this stink from the animal glue? Ugh, it reeks so bad I can’t stand being in this house!”

Misao never helped her husband. After criticizing his sluggish work pace and complaining about the stench of animal glue, she would promptly head out. She usually returned for the evening meal, but more often than not didn’t come home for lunch. Since Ryōtarō and the children were accustomed to this, it never seemed particularly strange when she didn’t return; when their father prepared the meals, everyone ate their rice amiably. The children were all obedient—though the four up through Shiro were elementary school students, each consistently ranked at the top of their class, and Taro had remained class president all this time.

“Those children are the first of this street’s seven wonders,” the people here would say. “No matter how you look at it, there’s no way children like that could have been born here.” The children—all five of them—shared little closeness with their mother. Whether because their father alone handled most daily necessities, or because their young minds instinctively pitied him, they never acted spoiled even when their mother was present—consulting him about everything and striving to assist him. The residents’ clothes consisted almost entirely of laundered and mended items; even when acquiring new garments, purchasing from secondhand dealers marked their utmost luxury. This meant two merchants regularly made rounds carrying assorted scraps and used clothing—though more often than selling their wares, they found themselves buying back rags instead, or so the residents would complain.

Ryō-san’s family was no exception—every item the children wore was someone’s hand-me-downs. Shirts, pants, blouses, skirts—all were riddled with patches, requiring constant washing, unraveling and resewing, patching, and mending tears. Of course, Misao wasn’t just silently watching either, but eighty percent of it still fell to Ryō-san to do. Due to his occupation, he was likely accustomed to detailed handiwork—one might even say patient tasks were his specialty—but being home all day with the children meant that whenever he saw them wearing soiled clothes or noticed tears forming, his hands would instinctively reach out to mend them.

Lately, the children themselves began doing what they could manage by themselves. Hanako was still in second grade, but she managed to handle the mending, while Taro and Jiro took charge of the laundry. Moreover, whenever they had even a little free time, they tried to help with brush making. "What disgraceful kids you are," Misao would often say. "Boys doing laundry and all—with that small-minded attitude, you'll never amount to anything decent."

The children remained silent. If they were to retort that their schoolteacher had told them to take care of their own affairs, their schoolteacher would end up becoming a target of mockery as well. “I’m not just some body, you know,” Misao insisted. “My side dishes stay separate.”

Whether it was scraps of meat or tuna offcuts, only Misao was given a separate plate of side dishes. In other words, since she was pregnant, she needed to consume that much nutrition. The others paid no attention, but the youngest child, Ume, being only five, would inevitably catch the aroma whenever meat was simmering and find her eyes wandering in that direction. Then Misao glared with eyes like those of someone facing an enemy. “What’s with that look?” Misao shouted. “I’ve told you I’m not just some body—I have to eat for two! Go ask anyone out there—they’ll tell you the wife of the Sawagami household puts up with a lot as it is!”

“Even this stinking scrap meat I can’t eat in peace!” she would sometimes wail. “If you want it so badly then eat it yourself! What do you care if I die of pregnancy beriberi? Go on—eat it then!” She would shriek shrilly while dumping her plate’s contents onto Ume’s face. Misao’s pregnancy was certain, and the neighborhood knew the father’s identity. About a year prior, a young man named Yonemura Gorō had moved into this “district.” Instantly Misao set her sights on him—as did widow Ohtomi—both women growing infatuated with Gorō. As a childless widow with ample free time, Ohtomi held greater advantage over Misao who had five children, making Ohtomi the apparent frontrunner. One day, after Gorō entered Ohtomi’s house, Misao stormed in thirty minutes later—having likely timed her entrance after watching him go inside. This erupted into a clawing brawl with Ohtomi, half-naked with her obi undone, until neighborhood wives intervened to separate them. Gorō had already vanished by then. It was when Misao screamed “After draining me dry, you’ve been carrying on with this woman?!” that two lingering questions among the wives were answered: how a woman like Misao kept attracting men successively, and why Ryōtarō—despite his brush-making skill—remained mired in poverty.

Delivering Ryōtarō’s finished brushes to the wholesaler and collecting the wages was Misao’s role, and she was also the one who controlled the household purse. Ryō-san never asked about the amount of his wages, nor had he ever inquired how much money was in Misao’s wallet. Misao could use what her husband earned however she pleased. Even so, given their limited income, what she gave to men must have been trifling. In other societies, talk of having suits tailored or cars bought for someone might be common, but in this "district," it wasn’t rare for a cup of shochu to hold the same significance as an entire suit elsewhere.

It remained unclear how much Misao had given to Gorō. Gorō lived with a craftsman named Mr. Taura, and though he occasionally took day laborer jobs, he would quickly grow bored of them; if he worked even ten days in a month, he spent the remainder idling about—such was his way.

Ohtomi-san was a formidable rival, but materially, Misao held the upper hand, and Gorō—well aware of this fact—skillfully played both sides. This past spring, when Ohtomi-san moved away, Misao came to monopolize Gorō, and thus the ceasefire trumpet sounded.

It was rumored that each of Ryō-san’s five children’s biological fathers still lived in this “district,” and that they too had not entirely cut ties with Misao. “Hey, Taabo’s mom,” Taro’s biological father said, “I hear you’ve got yourself a young man—your womanly charms have really been shining lately.” “Hey, Hanako’s mom,” Hanako’s biological father said, “You’ve been neglectin’ me lately—don’t just spoil that young buck all the time. Throw an old man a bone once in a while.”

“Don’t play innocent now, Minoji,” Shiro’s biological father said. “You’ve gone and put on some flesh—can’t be easy keeping up with just one young stud. How ’bout we get together proper-like after all this time—whaddya say?” Jiro’s biological father said nothing. Without uttering a word, he reportedly took direct action. These propositions and acts were performed openly where neighbors could see and hear everything, yet Misao never showed any sign of shame or anger. Rather, she flaunted herself before the neighbors’ eyes and ears, adopting an attitude meant to provoke envy.

Could Ryōtarō have been completely unaware of his wife's brazen promiscuity? The residents believed him ignorant—not only laughing behind his back but sometimes even making snide remarks to his face—yet Ryō-san would merely lower his small, round eyes and offer a gentle smile, showing no reaction whatsoever. “Since Japan’s damn founding,” the men said, “we’ve never seen such a gullible sap—not that we’ve been around since creation or anything.”

Yet occasionally, Ryō-san would gaze intently at the children. During meals, while sitting around the low table with them, he would suddenly stop moving his bowl and chopsticks, fix his startled eyes on Taro, shift that gaze to Jiro, then watch over Hanako, Shiro, and Ume in turn. "What is it, Dad?" Noticing their father's gaze, one of the children asked, "What's wrong?"

Ryō-san slowly shook his head and smiled gently.

"It's nothing," Ryō-san answered. "I was just thinking how big you've all gotten." One evening, Jirō came home crying. Misao was out as usual, but his father and siblings were all there. Since Jirō occasionally got into fights outside, at first no one paid it any mind. Ryō-san was making brushes, and Tarō sat beside him polishing the brush handles. Though Jirō’s crying was different from usual, Hanako was the first to notice.

“What’s wrong, Jirō?” Hanako stopped her sewing and looked at him. “You’ll worry Ume-chan. Stop crying, okay?”

“Dad.” Jirō looked at his father’s face. His own face was smeared with tears, and from his eyes down to his cheeks—likely from rubbing them with dirty hands—grayish stains had formed. “What is it, Jirō?”

“Dad,” Jirō said again, “is it true... we’re all not your real children?” Taro, Hanako, and Shiro all suddenly flinched as if a firecracker had exploded there, and they looked toward their father. In their demeanor lay the expectation that they had long suspected the same thing, and now that it had finally surfaced, they wanted to hear the truth laid bare.

Ryōtarō stopped his work and gazed at each of his five children’s faces in turn. With his usual gentle smile, while narrowing his small, round eyes. And then, he slowly resumed his work. “You should think about such things for yourselves,” Ryō-san said, “—whether you’re my children or not, you know.”

The children remained silent.

“Dad knows you’re all his own children.” Ryō-san paused and continued, “That’s why you’re all important to me, why I love you all so much—but if you don’t love Dad or think of me as your real dad, then I’m not your dad, right, Jirō?”

In Jirō’s throat, the remnants of his sobs hiccuped with a small sound, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "But everyone says so! They’ve been saying it forever—that none of us are your real kids, that our real dads are different people," Jirō said. "It’s not just me—An-chan, Hanako, and Shirō get told that too!" The father smiled soothingly.

“People say all sorts of things. You’ve heard them call Dad slow and spineless too, haven’t you?” Ryō-san gave a throaty chuckle. “That’s not true. Dad has strength and knows how to fight. When I was little, I got into twice as many fights as Jirō here, and never lost even once.”

Ryō-san rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt, showed the children his upper arm, and pointed to a brownish scar about fifteen centimeters long there.

"This," he said, "is where a friend cut me with a knife. It was when I was in sixth grade." And he matter-of-factly recounted how he had subdued the class's most violent troublemaker—one who even threatened their homeroom teacher. As he described having his arm slashed open with a knife while striking his opponent's nose bridge, the children pursed their lips and shuddered. Among them, only Taro lowered his eyes to avoid his father's notice. He seemed to know how the scar on his father's arm had truly come to be. Moreover, it was not the heroic tale Ryō-san told, but rather a humiliating event—one that Taro, even as a child, found too shameful to recall—and this truth showed in his expression as he quietly averted his gaze.

Ryō-san went on to explain that he wasn’t slow—that his work took time because he valued it deeply, and that this was for his children’s sake—to raise them properly, he had to maintain reliable work. “This is Dad’s true heart,” said Ryō-san. “If push comes to shove, I can take down three or five men anytime—won’t bother with weaklings, only strong opponents. And my work’s no different—if I really tried, I could finish two or three hundred brushes in a single day.”

Ryō-san smiled confidently and looked around at the children’s faces in turn. "But the tenement folks don’t know any of this—they’ll just spout nonsense and say whatever they please, eh Jirō?" He broadened his smile. "So what’ll it be, everyone—do you trust Dad, or those clueless tenement folks?" "It’s Dad," declared Jirō, thrusting up his hand. Tarō followed suit, then Shirō and Hanako raised theirs too, chorusing "Dad." Ume, not quite grasping things, scanned their faces before pointing at Hanako. "I’ve got Sis," she announced, making them all burst out laughing.

“Whether someone’s a real parent or child—nobody can ever truly know,” Ryōtarō said softly as he returned to his work. “If we can believe—right down in our bones—that ‘This is my dad’ and ‘These are my kids,’ that’s what makes a real family. Next time anyone says different, you all look ’em in the eye and ask—‘What about you?’”

"If there's anyone who can talk back, I'll take them on," said Ryōtarō as he firmly tightened the thin wire. Tarō was silently polishing them to a shine.

Tofu fritter

Katsuko was fifteen years old. Compared to other girls her age, she was shorter and underdeveloped, with a flat chest and narrow hips. Her skin was a dull brown without luster, its texture coarse, with thick hair growth on her arms and calves.—Her features were unremarkable—nothing specific stood out, but overall she lacked the fresh vitality typical of a girl her age, instead giving the strong impression of a middle-aged woman who had endured life’s hardships firsthand.

Katsuko had been raised by her uncle and aunt, and even now the three of them lived together. Her uncle Watakena Kyōta was fifty-six, and her aunt Otane was fifty-seven. Katsuko was the child of her aunt’s younger sister and had been taken in by her aunt immediately after birth. The exact circumstances were unclear, but her biological mother had married the president of a certain trading company shortly after giving birth to Katsuko, with whom she had three more children and lived a life of luxury.—It was said that when taking Katsuko in, they had made an agreement; even now, her biological mother sent a fixed allowance to her uncle and aunt, and Kanae—the biological mother herself—visited this "town" about three to five times a year.

Watakena Kyōta was said to have been a former middle school teacher. He was a smooth talker but an utterly lazy drunkard who spent not only the allowance from Kanae but nearly all the earnings from his wife and Katsuko on alcohol, never attempting anything resembling proper work. Kyōta had a habit of appending taxonomic notes to all matters. "My drinking is genetics' very specimen, you see." "Once this fish has been cut into fillets and boiled, it no longer belongs to *zoology* but to *hygiene*, you see."

And such were his pronouncements.

He took great pride in his own appearance. He had absolute confidence in his profile. He had dubbed this his “John Barrymore’s Profile,” and when drunk, he would repeatedly strike sideways poses to show it off even to his wife and Katsuko. “Take a look at my nose,” Kyōta said to his drinking companion. “This is no longer a matter of phrenology or human anatomy—it’s the very object of aesthetics itself.”

Mr. Shima, who suffered from facial nerve spasms, had become quite close with Kyōta not long after moving to this "town," but when Kyōta once expounded on his own nose, Mr. Shima smirked slyly and swiftly retorted. "That ain't no aesthetics." Mr. Shima said with feigned admiration, pointing at his own nose, "So it's nasology then? Pathological nasology, perhaps? Not bad at all." One must not direct sarcasm about appearance toward those who take pride in their looks. Mr. Shima’s remark had been nothing more than a feeble attempt at sarcasm, but Kyōta seemed to take offense, and after that, he stopped drinking much with Mr. Shima.

“It’s really awful weather,” Otane said at one point, “I feel like mold’s growing right down to the core of my head.”

The rainy season dragged on, days so damp that blue mold sprouted on the old tatami mats—days of oppressive gloom that continued relentlessly. Otane and Katsuko were working together on artificial flower piecework, while Kyōta had been drinking cold sake alone since morning; but upon hearing his wife’s seemingly disgruntled words, he suddenly adopted a serious expression and retorted: “You’re going on about the weather, but is that a meteorological complaint or an astronomical one?” Attached to the northern tenement stood a two-family old house. So ancient and neglected was it that the entire structure leaned southward, appearing ready to collapse at any moment. For this reason, three long cedar logs had been propped against that side as supports.

Now, when a violent storm approached, the residents of that house would hurriedly remove those support logs. This was something anyone would initially doubt as being "the opposite way around." After all, since a storm was coming, that was precisely when one should prop up supports—this being the common-sense approach. Yet the residents of that house would say, "That's common sense—and common sense doesn't apply to this house." If they were to prop up supports on that house, the strong winds would cause it to collapse into pieces. If they removed the support logs, the house would sway gently, adapting to the wind's intensity. In short, not resisting the wind was said to be this house's sole method of preservation.

"That’s no longer something architectural science can address," said Kyōta. He listened intently. "No—this falls squarely within Material Strength Science’s domain."

Otane, his wife, was obedient. It was not a matter of feeling inferior for being a year older than her husband. Both were well past that age by now, and Kyōta’s specialty was alcohol—even when drinking elsewhere, he never set foot in establishments with a feminine atmosphere.

The presence of women ruins the taste of liquor more than anything—that was his favorite saying. And perhaps because he still carried himself like a former middle school teacher, he never did anything violent or raised his voice at his wife or Katsuko. Thus, Otane’s obedience was likely an innate trait, but even as she struggled with managing their impoverished household and the ceaseless piecework that allowed no rest, she never once complained or asked her husband to get a job.

“In this world, there are so many people driven to parent-child suicide by hardship—how pitiful.” Otane would often say to Katsuko while working, “To those people, we’re still fortunate just to be able to keep on living. Really—what must it be like for those who choose parent-child suicide?”

Katsuko remained silent, either sighing so softly it was almost inaudible or stopping her work to stare at a single spot on the old tatami. There was no one more diligent than Katsuko, and those who spoke as little as she did were a rarity.

Since she had been taken in immediately after birth, and since Katsuko was Otane’s own flesh-and-blood niece, there should have been no difference in the depth of affection compared to that between parent and child. Despite this, not long after moving here, the neighborhood wives realized that Katsuko was not the couple’s biological child. This was four years prior, when Katsuko was still eleven years old. Apart from the time she spent at school, there was scarcely a moment when she wasn't seen working. Her movements lacked any girlish charm or brightness, being so brisk and adult-like that it seemed as though she might have been disciplined even with a whip.

“What’s with that child?” In those days, the neighborhood wives would often say: “No matter what you say to that girl, she just glares back with those awful eyes of hers and never gives a proper response—is she mute-deaf or something?”

“It’s because she was raised being abused. She’s become overly cautious—can’t get along with anyone and can’t trust anyone anymore.” The circumstances of her early childhood were unclear, but since settling here, the relationship between Otane and Katsuko had been felt by all to lack not only a true mother-child bond but any semblance of warmth or affection. Otane was not obedient solely to her husband; she submissively accepted all things that occurred around her, never once attempting to oppose anything—as a cleric fears defying divine will. If Katsuko did not grow attached to her, she accepted that lack of attachment. Katsuko was as reticent as a mute person; even when spoken to, she rarely responded, but Otane never pressed her for a reply. Even if no reply came, if she wanted to speak, she would simply speak; she never did things like getting angry over the lack of a response or ceasing to initiate conversation.

“You’re not an anthropological entity,” Kyōta said. “You’re not even zoological—at this point, one can only describe you as a botanical existence.”

Only once—when Katsuko graduated from elementary school—did Otane have a slight argument with her husband. Kyōta insisted there was no need to send Katsuko to school any longer, while Otane maintained that with the remittance money, she wanted her to at least attend middle school. "Calling that pittance a remittance—don't make me laugh," Kyōta said. "Stuck with that bastard child and then having the gall to call this scrap money a remittance? I can't even drink decently anymore." "That may be true, but middle school is compulsory education now," Otane persisted. After two or three more exchanges, Kyōta suddenly produced his "brilliant idea." "Alright then, here's what we'll do—since sending Katsuko to middle school will cost more, we'll tell them to double the remittance from before. How about that? If Tokioka agrees to that, then I might reconsider."

Thus Kanae made her appearance in this “town”. That was the only time Otane voiced her opinion to her husband. And likely having made contact with Katsuko’s biological parents, Madam Kanae came to visit for the first time. Since she was said to be seven years younger than Otane, she should have been forty-six or forty-seven at the time, but with her flashy kimono, hairstyle and makeup—giving the impression of having just stepped out of a beauty parlor—she appeared no older than thirty-two or thirty-three no matter how one looked. Her appearance delivered a kind of shock to the people of this “town”. In vacant lots and alleyways, housewives and children who had rushed out to see her formed human walls, all their eyes—mingling curiosity, admiration and jealousy—fixing upon her and shifting in unison toward wherever she walked.

“Hey, take a sniff,” a certain housewife said the next day. “The places she passed through still smell of perfume.”

At the Watakena household where Kanae had been welcomed, Kyōta was the first to start making a commotion. He was drinking alone as usual, but jumped up to usher Kanae in and immediately urged Otane and Katsuko to prepare some food. “Oh, Sis,” Kanae said to Otane, “is this the girl? “Huh.” Then, after looking Katsuko up and down, she fixed her eyes on the girl’s face and stared at her intently for a while. When Katsuko flushed and turned away, she sighed and shook her head.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Kanae said. “What an ugly child. Just like a crushed ganmodoki.”

Katsuko looked back at Kanae expressionlessly and slowly stood up to leave without a word. Otane went shopping with Katsuko in tow, grilling fish and simmering stews. The alcohol alone was delivered from the Naka-dōri liquor store. Above all, Kyōta always paid his liquor bills promptly, and since he drank a great deal, he must have been a reliable customer for the liquor store. Thus, while being pestered by Kyōta, they prepared the meal, and Kyōta and Kanae began drinking.

“Oh my!” Otane stared intently at her sister. “You can drink alcohol?” “It’s Papa’s training, you see,” Kanae replied. “A single bottle of whiskey is nothing. Besides, we have wide social circles—in high society, couples must always attend together. If you can’t even handle alcohol, you’d never manage being a hostess.” “That’s something,” Kyōta said. “In that case, sending Katsuko all the way to women’s college would be a piece of cake for you.”

"Don't talk nonsense, Mr. Kyō," Kanae made a swatting motion. "The bigger the business grows, the less spare cash we have lying around! Even my trifling purchases are all by check—it's nothing like what you people imagine."

“But still,” Otane said, “this child must at least go to middle school.” “Ah la parfait, that won’t do.” Kanae waved her hand, not even letting her sister finish half of what she was saying. “What a waste to send that crushed ganmodoki of a child to middle school! Elementary’s the bare minimum—just drop the subject already.”

And she poured a cup for Kyōta. The concepts evoked by terms like “high society” and “hostess” seemed utterly disconnected from Kanae’s manner of eating and drinking. She gulped down the poured sake as if taking a swig, then proceeded to pick at each dish of food one after another with her chopsticks. She sucked the grilled fish down to the bones; when a small bone got stuck in her teeth, she jabbed her finger into her mouth to dig it out, scraped it off on the chabudai table, then casually licked her finger clean. As the alcohol took hold, she launched into affectedly elegant tales—suddenly shoving Kyōta’s shoulder or cackling with her mouth stretched wide open.

All this time, Otane and Katsuko had been doing their side jobs, while Kyōta and Kanae drank and ate by themselves as if the two weren’t even there, said whatever they pleased, and laughed foolishly. After they had opened more than one and a half of the two two-liter bottles and completely devoured all the food, Kanae announced she was leaving while letting out a burp.

“Ah, that was fun! You’re so cultured—never a dull moment with you,” Kanae said to Kyōta. “Drinking with uncultured people—now that’s à la pareille for you. Thanks for the feast.” “Absolutely, yeah,” Kyōta muttered. “Such people are truly à la pareille.” Otane walked her to the ditch in the wasteland.

“Hey, Kanae,” Otane said when they parted, “please don’t say such cruel things about her face—it’s pitiful.” “Ganmodoki, huh?” Kyōta snorted.

“If you’d just stop saying things like that—you’ve got good looks so it’s easy for you, but still.”

“There’s no need to state the obvious.” Kanae turned up her nose. “Papa fell for me at first sight, you know. Well, goodbye.” From then on, the people of this “town,” especially the children, began calling Katsuko *ganmodoki* (tofu fritter). After finishing elementary school, Katsuko remained at home, doing piecework and helping with household chores. Whenever she had a free moment, she would clean inside and outside the house, sweep paper scraps and pull weeds even for the neighbors’ areas, and voluntarily take on the ditch cleaning that everyone else avoided, doing it at least once a month.

“At her age, it’s rare,” the housewives said. “If only she had a bit more charm—we wouldn’t complain—but she can’t sit still at all.”

Even after that, once or twice a year, Kanae visited in opulent attire. And she would call Katsuko a “crushed ganmodoki,” drink with Kyōta, and prattle on about shady matters in the manner of a stagecoach driver’s or palanquin bearer’s wife from some cheap play. It seemed certain that Kanae’s marital family were well-established businesspeople. But what kind of business they ran or what their household was like remained unclear. When she talked about things like some trading company or how the three children she had borne there were taking piano lessons and had two tutors each constantly attending to them, it did not feel as though she was speaking about the company itself or the children—rather, it seemed solely to elevate herself and flaunt her own importance. She would pepper her speech with foreign words at every turn, but their usage was mostly inconsistent, and many were crude gibberish unidentifiable as any language.

What kind of upbringing Otane and Kanae had, what parents and siblings they had, or whether they even still had any siblings—all these matters, like those of the other residents of this “town,” remained vague and elusive. Here, only the present existed as a rule—the past went disregarded. When past tales happened to be told, it had become common sense that ninety percent were embellished and distorted with exaggeration.

What was intriguing was this: when it came to such exaggerated tales, the storyteller would become exhilarated despite knowing them to be lies, and if the tale happened to be tragic, they would shed tears over their own pathos. Those listening, though thinking to themselves, "Ah, this is a made-up story," would still find themselves moved to tears—such occurrences were not uncommon. However, when it came to matters related to vanity, the circumstances changed entirely. Even when clearly recognized as lies, they would inevitably invite resentment and be harshly criticized; and if someone had actually been wealthy in the past or flaunted their wealth in the present, they would be slandered as though they were sworn enemies.

Kanae belonged to the latter category—dressed in lavish attire while scattering perfume across a hundred-meter square area, she would arrive with her head held high and depart with it just as haughtily. She didn’t so much as glance at the residents forming crowds to welcome or see her off, let alone offer any greetings. Nevertheless, Kanae’s reputation here wasn’t bad. Even the housewives—women second to none in sharp tongues who called Katsuko *ganmodoki*—looked upon Kanae with envy and longing, feeling at most what might pass for womanly jealousy.

Once, a group of socially conscious renowned wives came here as a group to distribute old clothes, sweets, powdered milk, household medicines, and other items free of charge to the residents. For the residents, it must have been a great joy—like starving beasts pouncing on prey, they attacked those supplies and snatched everything away in the blink of an eye. And as the renowned wives stood dumbfounded—"That’s all? You only brought this paltry amount?"—the men bellowed.

“Don’t bring such cheap stuff and put on airs!” another man roared; “Get lost now—if you dawdle, we won’t let you off easy!” he threatened, and the children started hurling stones at them. Why did those very people show something closer to reverence than resentment or malice toward Kanae, who embodied arrogance itself?

“The charity group was attacked because they exposed the residents’ destitution,” commented Mr. Saita, the Christian. That group of renowned wives had attempted to satisfy their own guilt and sense of superiority through their charitable giving. The poor were more sensitive to such things than anyone—they’d recognized their poverty was being exploited and grew enraged; it’s written right there in the Bible: when your right hand gives alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.

“Well, it’s simple,” Old Man Tanba remarked. The reason the people here held no resentment toward Madam Kanae was likely because they sensed she was one of their own kind. So what about Katsuko? An unprecedentedly hard worker who never failed to clean even the areas in front of the neighbors’ homes—unattractive and unfriendly though she was—she never acted spitefully toward anyone nor got in anyone’s way. Supporting Kyōta—a drunkard layabout who didn’t earn a single yen—while she and her aunt scrambled to make ends meet through piecework, she never once complained about not being able to attend middle school.

The people here mock Katsuko as *ganmodoki*—and without even the decency to lower their voices so she wouldn’t hear.

“People would say there’s no ill will,” Old Man Tanba remarked. “It’s not just no ill will—they all hate her, because that girl’s showing them the physical manifestation of their own plight—how no matter how hard they work, they’re never rewarded.”

Katsuko thus turned fifteen. That winter, Otane entered the hospital for about three weeks to undergo surgery for a gynecological tumor. The cost was covered by Kanae, but with the simultaneous declaration that "the remittance portion will be deducted," Kyōta was driven into a corner.

“Hey Katsuko, you’d better think this through properly.” Kyōta said with an alcohol-laced belch, “This illness of your aunt—to whom you owe a debt deeper than even your birth mother—could very well be life-threatening, isn’t that so?” Katsuko silently continued her piecework. “So as proof you haven’t forgotten Auntie’s kindness, this is the time to work your hardest. You ought to know well what Auntie’s worried about—what weighs on her mind most in the hospital.”

Kyōta stared at the girl’s face with probing eyes, as if ascertaining whether she had understood the meaning of his words. Katsuko showed no expression whatsoever, merely sped up her hands at her piecework. “If only you had slightly better looks and a more mature figure,” Kyōta muttered as if to himself. “Then you could’ve gotten easier, better-paying work—but with you being what you are, piecework’s all we’ve got. You’ll do Auntie’s share too. Understood?”

Katsuko nodded quietly as if to show understanding, but still did not speak.

For nearly three weeks, Katsuko worked day and night without rest, as if testing the limits of her own capabilities. Piecework was never consistently available; there were times when it piled up two or threefold, and others when it dried up for over ten days straight. What Katsuko feared more than anything was that "drying up." To prevent it, she had to finish jobs faster than other workers and more skillfully than anyone else. In short, she needed to earn the reputation that "her work is dependable and quick." Day and night, Katsuko's mind—operating without respite—dwelt ceaselessly on this goal, utterly consumed by the thought.

Kyōta, contrary to his heavy drinking habits, had never once missed his three meals a day. Even when drinking out, he would always return home to eat at mealtime. Moreover, he demanded fish or meat for all three meals and insisted on having miso soup as well. “No good, this mackerel’s spoiled. Look at this skin.” Kyōta said while poking at the simmered mackerel on his plate with chopsticks, “Fresh fish have their skin properly intact. Look at this—the skin’s all flaking off messily here, isn’t it?”

“Scraps again?” Kyōta wrinkled his nose. “This isn’t some street stall’s beef bowl—serving scraps day after day makes me sick to death. This isn’t a matter of culinary art; it’s an issue of food hygiene.” Katsuko said nothing. With her fifteen-year-old arms and mind, she was doing everything she could. She had neither the money nor the wisdom to select fish based on freshness or buy meat that wasn’t scraps. And she also had no capacity left to lend an ear to her uncle’s complaints. Katsuko worked herself to the bone and earned nearly the same wages as when she and her aunt had worked together. She never went to bed before 1:00 a.m. or slept past 4:00 a.m., getting at most three hours of sleep—during which she would lie as still as someone who had fainted, neither tossing nor snoring, in a deep slumber.

One midnight—or rather, a little past 2 a.m.—Kyōta woke up, went to the restroom, and upon returning and trying to get back into bed, happened to look at Katsuko.

Katsuko lay on her back with one leg sticking out from under the futon. This wasn't something she usually did. When she slept on her back, she would stay in that position; when she slept on her side, she would remain that way until waking. But this time she had thrust a leg out from the futon, leaving her upper thigh exposed.

Kyōta crouched to cover her with the futon. Katsuko’s underdeveloped body lacked even a trace of girlish charm. Her chest and hips were as bony as a boy’s, with no softness or pliancy to catch the eye.—Normally this held true, but whether through some trick of the faint nighttime light filtering through cracked glass panes, Katsuko’s exposed leg as seen by Kyōta—particularly the thigh—appeared startlingly alluring, its supple thickness and weighty tautness radiating an almost shocking sensuality.

Immediately, Katsuko opened her eyes. Rather than having awoken from sleep, it felt as though someone who hadn’t been sleeping had opened their eyes—and with pupils utterly still, she stared at her uncle. “It’s nothing,” Kyōta said, “just a normal thing. Just stay still.”

Katsuko said nothing as usual, merely staring at her uncle’s face. In those eyes was neither a hint of surprise nor a trace of emotion. They remained cold and clear, like glass marbles. "Close your eyes, Katsuko," Kyōta said. "Just stay still and keep them shut. It's nothing." But Katsuko’s eyes remained fixed on her uncle without moving. So Kyōta himself closed his eyes, but as if he could see Katsuko’s wide-open eyes behind his closed lids, he immediately opened them again and snapped in a sharp voice, “Close your eyes!”

Katsuko's lips slowly parted, revealing her teeth. It might have been a smile, or perhaps a sneer. Kyōta shuddered with bone-chilling revulsion and hastily shut his eyes again. Katsuko kept her eyes wide open throughout, never uttering a word. "Women, old man," Kyōta declared to the stallkeeper while drinking oden in Nonbe Yokochō Alley, "whether fifteen or thirty—they’ve all got the same tricks. You’ll see some thirty-four-year-old suddenly looking as innocent as a girl of fourteen, then turn around and find some fourteen-year-old staring at men with eyes like a thirty-five-year-old harlot. Demonic creatures, I tell you."

“Boss talking about women—now that’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Women, I tell you, old man.” Kyōta pressed on, “That’s not anthropology’s business—natural history’s realm—no, yōkai studies. Wait no—or rather, yeah, it’s squarely yōkai studies’ subject matter, I say.”

Otane was discharged from the hospital, and Katsuko became even busier. Though discharged, she had been ordered to rest for another two weeks. Katsuko now had additional tasks beyond her usual work and chores: preparing special meals for Otane—the doctor had sent a dietary chart insisting this regimen be strictly followed until she could rise—tending to her personal needs, and making medicine runs. "I suppose I've had some good fortune too," Otane said, stretching her limbs languidly in bed with an expression of intoxicated contentment. "When they told me I was being released from the hospital, I was terrified—but really, if dying means no more scrambling to earn my keep and finally getting proper rest, that wouldn't be so bad either."

“Since the discharge went well,” Otane continued, “I’ve already slept soundly for over twenty days, and now they’re telling me to rest for nearly half a month more. Since I’ve been old enough to understand things, this is the first time I’ve ever experienced such happiness.” A happiness too profound for words—too human—overflowed vividly in Otane’s eyes. Yet she never once acknowledged Katsuko’s labor during her absence, nor expressed gratitude for the care she would now receive; there wasn’t even a hint that such thoughts had crossed her mind.

It was also clear that Katsuko had never expected such care or gratitude from her aunt in the first place. Due to the excessive labor following her aunt's discharge from the hospital, Katsuko's sleeping time was further reduced, causing her to occasionally doze off while working during daylight hours—each time resulting in her aunt waking her—until she eventually became able to sleep with her eyes open without even nodding off. It wasn’t a conscious feigned sleep but rather something like a self-defense instinct to avoid being roused; moreover, she rarely made mistakes in her work.

“What are you doing?” Late one night, Otane called out in a hushed voice, “What are you doing there?” “There was a rat just now,” came Kyōta’s evasive reply. “Because there was a rat here, you see—it was dangerous.” “You’re sleepwalking.” “It’s gone now.” Kyōta mumbled, “There’s a rat scurrying around here—right, from here to over there.” “You’re sleepwalking.”

“I’m—you’re saying I’m sleepwalking?” "The other night you were sleepwalking too, you strange man—like a child." Eventually Otane cleared away the sickbed, and their life resumed its normal rhythm. Throughout this period Katsuko never voiced a single complaint nor showed any sign of discontent on her face, but the neighbors began noticing how alarmingly she had wasted away, her features now bearing unmistakable haggardness.

And then, one night about fifty days later, Otane noticed an abnormality in her niece’s body.

The residents here hardly ever went to public bathhouses. Though exceptions existed, throughout the year they generally made do with basin baths. That day, having received her wages and not having bathed properly in quite some time, Otane went with Katsuko to a bathhouse called Kusatsu Onsen on Nakadori Street. —and was startled when she saw Katsuko’s naked form. Her thin-fleshed, bony frame showed swelling breasts with nipples and surrounding areas that had darkened. And her abdomen had also swelled somewhat, while the vertical line running downward from her navel had grown distinctly darker.

Otane observed her niece’s condition without saying a word. There was no change in Katsuko’s daily routine except that her appetite had grown erratic—sometimes skipping meals entirely, occasionally devouring double portions, vomiting upon waking—patterns that had become noticeable. Otane began cautioning her husband. This was because she recalled several instances past midnight when he had sleepily muttered phrases like “A rat was wandering around.” Perhaps having noticed Otane’s vigilance, Kyōta thereafter ceased his strange sleepwalking behavior and made no further peculiar gestures toward Katsuko.

One day, Otane wordlessly took Katsuko with her, boarded a train from Main Street, and went to Nakabashi Ninzen Hospital. The place was known for its low examination fees, though its building was old and its doctors incompetent. At the hospital—explaining that there was currently no gynecology specialist on duty—the director conducted a cursory examination and informed them that the pregnancy was unmistakable, likely around the end of the second month, with no abnormalities in the mother's body. When Otane obliquely probed about obtaining an induced abortion, the director casually replied that while she was still underage, it wouldn't be impossible provided they secured parental or spousal consent and could cover the necessary expenses. When Otane asked in a carefully neutral manner what these necessary expenses might amount to, the director answered with matching nonchalance, letting slip an approximate figure.

After leaving the hospital, as Otane walked home with Katsuko along the back streets, she asked who the father was. Katsuko had been in the waiting room after the examination and had not heard the conversation between her aunt and the director, so the question about who the father was did not seem immediately comprehensible to her. “There’s no point in hiding it.” After explaining the facts, Otane said, “This is your own affair—it has nothing to do with me, and no matter the reason, I don’t care one bit. So tell me the truth—who was the father?”

The moment she was told she was pregnant, Katsuko's entire body stiffened and shrank, appearing as if all her bodily fluids had been wrung out until only bone remained. Katsuko opened her mouth, breathing through her teeth, and clenched her fingers with all her might.

“It’s not something you can hide. We’ve got to take care of this somehow. Katsuko, tell me who the father is—will you?”

Katsuko did not answer. Perhaps her aunt's words weren't reaching her ears. With vacant eyes fixed on a single point ahead, she merely staggered along after her aunt.

Otane had already formed suspicions about the father's identity. Counting back the days suggested the incident had occurred during her hospitalization—there had been that midnight rat commotion. Since Katsuko worked ceaselessly day and night, she'd had no chance for such transgression outside—but within the house, opportunities abounded. The sole inexplicable point was how Kyōta hadn't touched her in over five years now, had grown to detest women entirely, avoiding them completely. Until turning fifty, he'd been not just excessively active but entangled in cheap affairs with trivial women, causing endless trouble—then abruptly ceased all contact as if in reaction, avoiding even bars with feminine atmospheres altogether.

He himself had always boasted that drinkers had no need for women, and there had never been any instance of him breaking that principle. Even Katsuko's birth parent called her "ganmodoki"—her features were so plain and her figure so devoid of feminine charm. Why Kyōta would have considered laying hands on her—that remained a considerable mystery. But to Otane, this was neither significant nor consequential. Even if Kyōta were the father, no feelings of resentment or jealousy stirred within her. She didn't know if this counted as old-fashioned thinking, but since her monthly cycles had ended, she'd vaguely felt herself no longer a woman—completely freed from those carnal emotions. Moreover, this tumor's removal had literally stripped her of womanhood, making her all the more dispassionate toward such matters.

But that was not the end of it. Inside Katsuko’s body, something grew day by day; they had to decide whether to let her carry it to term or abort it. In any case, since there was no option but to rely on her sister Kanae for the expenses, they first approached her husband.

In the dimming light of dusk, they sent Katsuko to the liquor store on an errand, and as soon as they were alone, they began talking.

Kyōta was shocked. In his extreme shock, he seemed to slip out of his own body; what remained there was something that had once been Kyōta but was now merely an empty shell—or so the impression he gave. That was, however, only a very brief moment. He noticed that Otane was utterly calm, that the issue had been narrowed down to two points—whether to have her bear the child or abort it—and that there was not a whiff of dramatic emotion to be found; he then appeared to hurriedly slip back into his own hollowed-out shell from which he had just emerged.

“You can’t possibly—” Kyōta retorted, “—think it was me who did something to Katsuko, do you?” “I’m only asking which option we’ll take.” “Fair enough.” Kyōta adopted a deliberately grave expression. “With two months already gone, deciding our course must take precedence—the father’s identity can wait. But let me state plainly: you may suspect me, but it wasn’t I. This is no jest. We’re practically parent and child rather than uncle and niece—it’s even in the family registry. The notion that I’d commit such an act is unthinkable.”

“Which will you choose?” Otane said to her husband, “Will we have her give birth or have an abortion?” “There’s no question of letting her give birth—she’s too young, and there’s social propriety to consider. Here, rather than ethics, criminal medicine—no, that is—a forensic approach would be more rational.” “Please speak plainly—you mean we’ll get rid of it?” “You can only talk in tabloid phrases, can’t you? That’s right—we’ll abort it.”

Otane now brought up the funding issue—how they ultimately had no choice but to ask her sister; how this would be difficult given the debt incurred from her own hospitalization; how they needed to thoroughly devise a strategy for negotiations to avoid refusal—and spoke earnestly about these points.

When they heard someone at the entrance, the couple halted their discussion, and Otane went to see. At the entrance stood a uniformed police officer; he asked if this was Watakena Katsuko’s house.

Otane answered that it was. “Please go immediately to Ise Masu on Nakadori Street,” the officer said. “Katsuko has committed an assault. I’ll accompany you.”

“What are you saying Katsuko did?” “It’s an assault case—assault,” the police officer said. “Depending on circumstances, it may become manslaughter or even murder. We’ll have to wait for the interrogation results to know for certain, but in any case, you must come with me immediately.”

At that moment, Kyōta came out.

“Thank you for your trouble,” he bowed to the police officer, then said to Otane, “I’ve been listening. Leave things as they are—you go with them right now, right away. No need for preparations.”

He pressed her to hurry. The police officer looked at Kyōta and asked if he was Katsuko’s father. Kyōta—as if wiping sweat after kneading flour—drew the back of his limp hand across his forehead and briskly replied that Katsuko was his wife Otane’s biological niece. Then, abruptly shifting his tone, he asked in return that while he’d heard it was an assault case, what violence had Katsuko herself suffered? “No, Katsuko isn’t the victim—she’s the perpetrator,” the officer said. “She stole a *deba* knife from the front of Gyogin and stabbed a clerk—no, a shop assistant—named Okabe Sadayoshi at the neighboring liquor store Ise Masu. The assistant is in critical condition.”

Otane's jaw went slack as if unhinged, her mouth hanging open while her eyes opened wide. Kyōta stood with an expression declaring his decision to take a noncommittal stance—unable to grasp how to handle the situation though he scrambled to unravel its implications in his mind, finding no starting point.

“Please hurry,” the police officer said. “I’m not in charge of the crime scene, so once I escort you there, I must return to the police box immediately.” Otane removed the hand towel hanging from her collar, handed it to Kyōta, then stepped down into the earthen-floored entryway while rubbing her hands together and slipping into her geta. She seemed momentarily shocked, but there was not the slightest sign of panic or emotional agitation in Otane’s demeanor.

At Ise Masu’s shop, six or seven people—uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, and others in white work coats who were clearly police personnel—were bustling about doing things Otane couldn’t comprehend. Katsuko had been escorted to the police station, and the victim, Okabe Sadayoshi, after receiving emergency treatment, had been transported to nearby Kusata Hospital.

The police officer who had brought Otane along handed her over to a plainclothes man there and left. The plainclothes man was apparently a detective named Horiuchi; after briefly taking notes from Otane, he said they should go to the station together.

“Before that, I want to visit Ise Masu’s shop assistant,” Otane insisted. “Since Katsuko has already been taken into custody by the police, there’s no need to hurry. I’m worried about how badly injured the shop assistant is, and I want to apologize.” Detective Horiuchi paused to consider this, consulted with another plainclothes officer who had a mustache, then said he would accompany her himself.

Around the liquor store, crowds of people noisily came and went while exchanging furtive whispers. Some pointed at Otane, but she neither saw nor heard anything. At Kusata Hospital too there were police officers. After listening to Otane’s request and consulting with a doctor, they denied her visitation. “They’re administering a transfusion right now—he’s unconscious,” said the officer stationed at the hospital. “I’ll let them know you came, but given how things stand here, you should go to the station first.”

"What's the condition of the injury? Is his life in danger?" "I can't disclose anything at this stage," the police officer answered. "All I can confirm is that the victim suffered massive blood loss and repeatedly called the perpetrator's name before losing consciousness. Anything beyond that falls under the investigating officer's purview—we wouldn't want to overstep. In any case, proceed to the station. And remember your position as the perpetrator's legal guardian."

It was past eight in the evening when Otane returned home. Kyōta must have been drinking alone; his face had turned deathly pale, and the stench of shochu clung to his nostrils. "How was it? What was the situation? What happened with Katsuko?" Swaying his upper body unsteadily while remaining seated, Kyōta pressed, "Is it true she attacked the liquor store clerk? Did she really use a deba knife?"

Otane went to the kitchen and, while washing her hands, said, "I'll explain now," and began preparing the meal. "I've been thinking this whole time—if Katsuko really did stab that clerk, there's only one reason. Right? You'd think so too. There's only one reason—that clerk's the one who got her in that condition. Right? That's it, isn't that right?" "That clerk has only just turned seventeen." "Katsuko is fifteen."

“Women and men are different.” “In anthropological physiology they’re no longer distinct, I tell you—in America children develop so fast they’ve had to drastically lower marriageable ages. Even here in Japan, teenager problems have become headaches for ethics and anatomical sociology.” Kyōta continued his meaningless prattling; Otane ate her meal alone. While his verbosity appeared senseless, it gave the impression of laying smoke—as if to conceal some underlying motive.

“Quite the picture of composure.” Kyōta looked at Otane and said, “Admirable how you prioritize filling your belly when your own blood-niece gets arrested for assault. Women will always be physiological beings before psychological ones.” Otane finished eating in silence and cleared the dishes. Repetitive as it may seem, her demeanor again showed no signs of being too shocked to speak or struggling to process grief for her niece. Since it was late and she was hungry, she would eat first; what needed discussing could wait until after. Her attitude seemed to say nothing had changed.

“Katsuko isn’t saying anything.” As she sat down to begin her side work, Otane started talking: “She did say she took the deba knife from the fishmonger’s stall next door and that she was the one who stabbed Sadayoshi. But no matter how much they asked why she did it or whether she held some grudge, she wouldn’t answer. Yes—since the detective told me to—I asked Katsuko myself. If there was a reason behind it, I said, being only fifteen might mean she wouldn’t receive too severe a punishment.”

“No, it’s got to be the one who knocked her up.” Kyōta insisted, “She could talk about other things, but she can’t say this ’cause it’s shameful. It’s got to be that.”

Otane simply listened in silence to her husband’s ceaseless assertions. Even when summoned by the police, Kyōta would turn away, saying, "I have nothing to do with this—Katsuko is your niece." Without offering any resistance, Otane would go when summoned, and when asked about her father, she would answer as Kyōta had instructed her: that he was ill and couldn’t come.

The investigation into Katsuko made no progress whatsoever. No matter what methods they tried, she would not state her reason for committing the crime. “She’s your bad seed,” one detective said. “No matter what we ask, she just stays silent—sometimes baring her teeth. You think she’s smiling, but she’s not. Her lips slowly spread like this until her teeth show through. Watch closely, and it’s not a smile. It’s not like when a monkey snarls in anger either. Not smiling, not angry—just... chilling to watch. Ah, she’s your bad seed through and through.”

Otane went to visit Kusata Hospital. Okabe Sadayoshi had fortunately survived and was diagnosed to require three weeks for a full recovery. The stab wound was in his chest, but narrowly missed his heart; the transfusion went smoothly, and the condition of the wound was generally favorable. "I don’t know why she did this to me—I really liked Katchan." The boy Okabe reportedly answered the detectives’ questioning thus: “I felt so sorry for Katchan—working herself to the bone without being properly fed. She was always so skinny, with sunken eyes. So whenever she came by, I’d buy her big steamed buns. Sometimes we’d even go to Myoken-sama together and talk while eating them.”

The boy repeated that he didn’t understand Katsuko’s feelings. Katchan was teased by everyone as “ganmodoki,” but the boy never called her that himself. If he saw someone else doing so, he’d even step in to stop them. Katchan also seemed to like the boy. When given a large steamed bun, she would look delighted; when invited to Myoken-sama, she would come along and even engage in some conversation. And yet why had she done such a thing? No matter how he thought about it, he couldn’t understand. Katchan must have made some mistake—it had to be that way—the boy kept insisting.

“Yes, I don’t feel anything about it—I don’t find Katchan hateful because of what she did, nor do I feel resentful or bitter,” the boy said. “If there’s anything I can do so Katchan won’t be charged, I’ll do whatever it takes—since I was the one stabbed with that thing, and I myself don’t feel any ill will, there shouldn’t be any reason to punish Katchan, should there?”

When Otane told him that story, Kyōta said, "See? I told you so." It’s precisely because he’d done something wrong that he was saying such things. He cursed the boy as a "brazen brat of sixteen or seventeen," ranting that no one in this world would nearly get killed for no reason with a *deba* knife yet feel neither hatred nor resentment—let alone spout nonsense about not wanting to press charges—unless they were practically confessing their own wrongdoing.

While juggling her side work, Otane went to Ise Sho, visited the police, and stopped by Kusata Hospital to check in. The discussions at Ise Sho concerned Okabe’s treatment costs and arrangements for taking custody of Katsuko. As for the money, she had sent her sister Kanae a pleading letter outlining the circumstances, but regarding the custody arrangements, since Katsuko remained stubbornly silent, the police had formed a poor impression, making it unlikely that things would progress smoothly anytime soon.

Thus, after being summoned to the police station over a dozen times, Otane returned home and told Kyōta that those who had relations with girls under eighteen could be charged with assault depending on the circumstances.

“Well ’course that’s how it is,” said Kyōta, sprawling on his side with an alcohol-laced belch. “Kid’s seventeen but still counts as a man—we being her legal guardians on paper, only natural he’d get charged with assault if we press it.” “They want you to come in,” Otane said, settling into her work. “Detective knows you ain’t sick. Said you’ll catch charges yourself if you don’t show.”

“Me? To the police—but why?” Kyōta stared suspiciously at Otane’s face. “For what purpose?” “Katsuko says she has something to tell the detective.” “What does that have to do with me?”

“I don’t know.” Otane kept working with her hands as she said, “You’ve got some involvement with an underage girl, don’t you? Now that they found out the clerk from Ise Sho didn’t die, Katsuko says she has things to tell them—so she started demanding they call Uncle in. The detective already spoke like he’d heard something.” “That’s a lie!” Kyōta sprang up. “I don’t know what that delinquent girl said, but it’s all lies! Who’d be fool enough to believe such slander? I knew from the start—that ungrateful brat was bound to pull some backstabbing stunt like a pet dog biting its master’s leg!”

Otane appeared slightly taken aback by her husband’s outburst, yet without pausing in her work, she slowly turned her gaze toward Kyōta. That was a fact, but her face maintained its usual whetstone-like calm, showing no trace of having been emotionally stirred.

“But lies are lies—hmph! What can they prove with lies? Eh? What exactly can they prove?” Kyōta kept shouting.

Otane retorted for the first time.

"Did Katsuko spout some nonsense?" "It’s obvious! Why else would the police call me in—that delinquent brat!" Kyōta roared back. "We raised that cast-off bastard from her swaddling clothes, and now she repays us with this treachery? A piece of shit worse than vermin!"

But he couldn't prove anything—what could that bastard prove?—and so he kept shouting alone.

The next morning, after drinking all the remaining liquor, Kyōta left the house but never showed up at the police station. He visited three wholesalers who provided his wife with side jobs, took the money he had borrowed in advance from them, and vanished without a trace.

Katsuko returned home three months later. She had been placed in what might be called a protective institution where the abortion was completed. Given that Katsuko was a minor and based on the contents of her confession, the abortion had likely been administered through legal channels. Though briefly mentioned in some newspapers, details of Katsuko’s pregnancy and the means of termination remained undisclosed, unknown to anyone.

The treatment costs for Okabe were paid by Kanae. She appeared as usual in her opulent attire—at that time, Katsuko was still detained—and launched into a lively monologue all by herself. The target of her sharp tongue was Kyōta; it seemed he had even gone to Kanae’s place to beg for money.

“I could smell something off at first glance—first glance!” Kanae said, turning up her nose. “People with shallow guts show everything on their faces. That man looked like he’d put his left and right shoes on backwards and still had to run a hundred miles. I didn’t hand over a single ten-yen coin—adiós! Not even a newborn would get fooled by that act.”

Perhaps not wanting to mention Katsuko, she chattered as much as she wanted, left the money, and departed.

Katsuko, having returned home, began working diligently again from that very day as though nothing had happened. She showed no change in demeanor toward her aunt, offering neither thanks nor apologies, nor did she ask what had become of her uncle.—The neighborhood children, likely admonished by their parents, now merely stepped aside when Katsuko passed, ceasing to mock her as “ganmodoki.” Who had assaulted her, why she had stabbed the Okabe boy—since she herself said nothing, even Otane didn’t know. It seemed Katsuko had told something to the detective in charge, but whether due to professional regulations or not, no information leaked from the police side, and the details of the assault case were settled as if in darkness, ending without anyone knowing.

With Kyōta gone, they naturally had no more business at the liquor store, and since there was another shop that sold miso and soy sauce at a discount every ten days, their connection with Ise Sho seemed to have been severed.

There were rumors that the Okabe boy had recovered well and been discharged from the hospital, but Otane naturally said nothing about it, and Katsuko behaved as if it had nothing to do with her, making no attempt to approach Ise Sho.

And one day, on her way back from an errand, Katsuko was stopped by the Okabe boy. The boy wore denim pants and a jacket, tied an apron dyed with the name of a sake brand around his waist, and had on rubber half-boots.

“What’s wrong, Katchan?” the boy called out in a bright tone, supporting his stopped bicycle with one foot on the ground. “Haven’t seen you at the shop at all. Oh—right, your uncle’s gone now.”

Katsuko looked up at the boy with calm eyes, then slowly lowered her gaze as she said in a barely audible voice, "I'm sorry." The Okabe boy seemed to barely comprehend those words, his pupils glinting as he stared fixedly at Katsuko’s face.

“I don’t understand,” whispered the boy with earnest intensity. “Why’d you do that, Katchan? Huh, why?”

Katsuko looked up at the boy again, then lowered her eyes as she answered that she had meant to die. “So you wanted to die yourself, Katchan?” Katsuko nodded. The Okabe boy tilted his head. “I don’t get it—if you wanted to die, why’d you do that to me? Why?” Katsuko stared into space before murmuring, “I can’t put it into words.” “Even now,” she said, “I don’t really understand.” “When I wanted to die... I was scared you’d forget me. When I thought how you’d forget me right after I died—it terrified me. So much I couldn’t bear it. Truly unbearable,” she said.

“Hmm.” The Okabe boy tilted his head again, returned the foot he’d lowered to the ground back onto the pedal, and lowered his other foot instead. “What a shock,” he said.

Katsuko raised her eyes. The Okabe boy whistled, looked ahead with upturned eyes, but suddenly turned around and said. “Want to eat manju again?” Katsuko shook her head and answered, “I don’t want any.” “Well, see you around sometime.” The boy grinned. “I’ve started skating—not roller, ice skating. When I get good, you should come watch me, Katchan.”

Katsuko remained silent. The Okabe boy righted his bicycle, waved, and pedaled away, gradually increasing his speed as he departed. Watching his receding back, Katsuko murmured under her breath, "I'm sorry, Mr. Okabe."

Choro

His real name was Tsuchikawa Haruhiko. He moved to this "town" about five years ago, but ever since then, he insisted that he was thirty-seven years old. None of the neighbors saw him as younger than forty-five or forty-six, but whenever asked, he himself would answer that he was thirty-eight. It was unclear how many wives he had had. Even since coming to this area, he had gone through three [wives], and after the third one left, he had already been living as a bachelor for over a year.

He stood about one meter sixty in height, with a muscular yet emaciated build. His face was thin and small, with only his eye sockets and mouth standing out prominently. ――He was a restless man. Neurotic enough to be embarrassed by his own name Haruhiko, he was a pragmatic sentimentalist who combined altruism with egoism―and thus an entrepreneur. Tsuchikawa Haruhiko’s mind was always packed with grand business ventures. In this regard, he appeared to share common ground with fellow resident Hachida Kōhei―but such a view was superficial. In reality, the majority of residents here were, even if their ambitions remained mere fantasies, all notable entrepreneurs and businesspeople.

The veracity was uncertain, but Tsuchikawa Haruhiko was said to have connections to the stock market district and to frequently make shady profits. None of the residents here were the type to frequent the stock market district—if that were the case, one could only conclude that such rumors originated from the man himself. And observing his daily life, it did indeed seem certain that he periodically made modest sums somewhere—not through day labor or temporary jobs, but by keeping his hands clean while earning.

It was difficult to prove just how restless a man he was. The only ones who knew the details were likely the women who had been his wives and a few of his housemates. No—there were also the children of this town. He had a nickname—“Choro”—said to refer to beach bugs found along the coast, but how those perpetually scurrying beach bugs came to be associated with Tsuchikawa Haruhiko made one marvel at the children’s precise observation and sharp insight.

His house always had housemates. Even when he still had a wife, there was always at least one housemate. They were irregular residents who never stayed long—some disappeared after thirty days, others remained for over a hundred. The second wife he had taken since coming here had eloped with one such housemate—a man who had only been living there for seven days. All these housemates were brought in by Tsuchikawa Haruhiko himself—no one knew where he found them or what connections they had—but strangely enough, they all shared similarities in build, temperament, or manner of speaking that led the children to bestow upon them the collective nickname "pumpkins."

The nickname "pumpkins" quite accurately represented both the appearance and personalities of generations of housemates. Their physiques varied in size, and their facial features and ages differed, but in terms of their slow, heavy movements, taciturnity, and laziness, they all belonged to the same breed, with only minor differences.

And now, the seventh-generation "pumpkin" was living there. Tsuchikawa Haruhiko called him Bankun, though he didn’t know what characters were used to write it. He was likely between thirty and forty years old—of average height and build with a solidly fleshed frame—but his movements were sluggish and his speech ponderous, spending all day idling about and doing almost nothing except wave a fan and eat meals.

“You nurture your vigor. When I launch my venture, I’ll have you work for me.” “Your current role is listener,” repeated Tsuchikawa Haruhiko—known as Choro—once more. “I’m constitutionally incapable of enduring even ten minutes without an interlocutor. You need only become the audience for my discourses.”

The corners of Bankun’s eyes drooped, narrowing his gaze, and his thick lips quivered faintly. He likely smiled—though discerning whether it was genuine would prove difficult——even Tsuchikawa Haruhiko seemed inwardly astonished by this seventh-generation pumpkin’s reticence and indescribably sluggish movements. Though equally slow and lazy as their predecessors, the previous pumpkins had at least helped with one or two household tasks. They made a show of assisting——clearing dishes after meals, sweeping floors, lighting fires, drawing water——even if never thoroughly. Of course each had their flaws; unlike this seventh iteration, none could quietly endure Haruhiko’s loquacity. When conversations touched their own interests, even these taciturn men lost patience and haltingly voiced opinions. To this, Haruhiko had reluctantly acquiesced. What proved intolerable were those who offered neither objections nor engagement——men who cowardly feigned sleep——and such specimens never lasted long as housemates.

Though Bankun was a thorough idler, he possessed near-perfect qualifications as a listener; consequently, Haruhiko favored this seventh-generation pumpkin over all previous housemates. “You see, people have something called compatibility, you know,” said Choro. “I’d had eight wives—no, ten to be precise—but none had it. The longest lasted two years—a deaf woman who lived alone. She absolutely loved grilled salted mackerel—once even put it in miso soup and shocked me—and to this day, just thinking about that woman makes the smell of grilling mackerel stick in my nose. When you’re hard of hearing, maybe your nose and tongue get a bit duller too?”

Tsuchikawa Haruhiko spoke about his ten wives while the seventh-generation pumpkin endured with stoic patience. To call it patient endurance was merely an objective observation—in truth, if one could peer inside him, it wasn't endurance at all. His body simply sat there maintaining the appearance of listening to Choro's stories, while his true self might have been sleeping within that flesh or perhaps had slipped free to yawn in some quiet corner of existence.

“That wife—the one who loved salted mackerel,” Haruhiko said, “I split with her after about six months. Then nearly two years later, she suddenly showed up out of nowhere. I was too busy scheming for my ventures—running around day and night, traveling by land and sea—so I hadn’t even had time to take another wife yet. This was back when I was in Koami-cho. When I asked why she came back, she claimed she couldn’t stand it anymore after grilling mackerel.”

He looked at Bankun’s face as if to confirm the effect. Bankun sat cross-legged with his eyes half-closed like a Zen monk in training, but the moment Haruhiko looked at him, his left cheek twitched faintly. “I’m happy you get the humor.” “Honestly,” Choro muttered contentedly, “if she’d said she missed her ex-husband or something, that’d be one thing—but to get nostalgic over the smell of grilling salted mackerel? That’s just damn pathetic.”

At that point, the conversation would leap to business ventures. Generally speaking, Tsuchikawa Haruhiko’s actions and words lacked continuity. One moment he would be expounding half-baked opinions about lumber, then abruptly pivot to posing questions like “What’s tastiest in Chinese cuisine?” He’d assert that his favorite food was plain rice—that rice balls seasoned with sesame salt were the most delicious, energy-boosting meal one could find the world over—only to then launch into declarations that no venture held more promise than cement manufacturing.

These topics, and the way they leaped from one subject to the next in an endless relay, were excruciatingly tedious and absurd for the listener—to the point of making life itself feel unbearable. Perhaps Madam Salt Mackerel was able to return precisely because her hearing impairment proved advantageous; similarly, labeling whichever-generation Mr. Pumpkin dozed off as cowardly might not have been entirely fair.

There was another reason Tsuchikawa Haruhiko was called Choro. Not only did he talk nonstop, but he never kept still for a moment while doing so. This became particularly pronounced with the seventh-generation housemate. In other words, it was because he now had to handle absolutely everything himself.

For instance, in the morning, he would start the fire in the kitchen stove, cook rice in a clay pot, prepare miso soup, and slice pickles. He set out the low dining table, arranged the dishes, and if there were leftovers, put those out too. ――As he worked to start the fire, his talking would begin simultaneously—intertwining with the progression of his labor, then leaping freely, sliding sideways, somersaulting without interruption—his words continuing endlessly. "This thing called miso," he addressed Bankun from before the charcoal stove, "nutritionally speaking and in terms of versatility too—it's the king of foods, you know, Bankun."

And starting with miso soup—which no Japanese person could go a day without—he would speak of dressed dishes, simmered dishes, kneaded fish cakes, pickles, grilled dishes, and so on, expounding on variations in their preparation methods that defied imagination before heaving a great sigh and lamenting.

“Ah, if only I’d invented this first—then by now I’d have risen to become an industrial magnate influencing all of Japanese industry!” Could there possibly be anyone who would laugh at this, show keen interest, or awaken to some new philosophy of life? When discussing any topic, if the speaker themselves grows excited and amused, the listener’s interest inevitably wanes, leaving them bored. How much more unbearable then, when the subject was something as commonplace as miso—a daily staple—and someone expounded passionately in minute detail about its culinary applications.

“Rice ain’t no small thing, Bankun,” he went on. “If they’d never come up with them atom bombs, Japan would’ve won the war—get it, huh?”

The seventh-generation one slowly narrowed his eyes, then slowly opened them again. It was as if someone had filmed a camera lens shutter’s opening and closing in high speed. “Why Japan would’ve won the war,” Choro continued, “lies in provisions being the foundation of military power—and provisions depend on soldiers’ food.” “The Japanese troops were lucky—they could cook rice anywhere with just rice and water through mess tin cooking. But those bread-eating foreign soldiers? Wherever they went, they had to drag along baking ovens and specialist cooks.” “For side dishes too—pickled plums, takuan radish, or just salt and miso if needed—our men could make do. But foreigners? Stew required stew pots, croquettes needed frying pans—meatballs, omelets, steak—all needing special gear: knives, spoons, forks—whole cartloads of nonsense.” “So while our boys efficiently cooked their mess tins and dashed to the front seasoned with sesame salt,” Haruhiko said, “those others were still pulling bread from ovens on one hand while stirring stew pots with the other.”

“This way you can’t wage a proper war—right, Bankun?” Choro continued while setting out the low dining table. “While they’re waiting around for their bread to bake and stew to simmer, we’d finish up quick with mess tin cooking—swiftly done with pickled plums—and head straight out to the frontlines. Now, this was way back when American and British military observers came to watch grand maneuvers.” “Apparently, when they observed Japanese soldiers’ daily lives at the barracks on Mount Fuji’s foothills, what astonished them most was this very matter of meals—does this ham smell a bit off to you, Bankun? Could you give it a sniff?”

Even as the seventh-generation pumpkin sniffed at the object, his tongue had already sprung to life. "The American and British military observers—after seeing the reality of mess tin cooking, beds worse than civil engineering camps' barracks with soldiers sleeping on straw under blankets, and acknowledging how canned beef had been stockpiled since the First Sino-Japanese War—marveled that this was a wonder of military logistics organization. They declared no civilized nation's army could possibly rival Japan's instant field rations!" he asserted passionately.

“So if it weren’t for that barbaric invention called the atomic bomb, Japan’s military victory would’ve been certain—but since the US and UK nations are so fixated on their imperialism, they cunningly exploited their own weaknesses—is that ham no good?”

Bankun’s large nostrils flared, slowly returned to their original state, and he placed the dish on the tatami mat.

“You know making that ham wasn’t accidental, right Bankun?” Choro stowed the ham plate under the low dining table and brought an earthen pot from the kitchen while continuing, “This shares an inseparable relationship with glass manufacturing. Ancient history really—maybe BC? No, wait—glass existed back in Egyptian times, but they probably didn’t have ham then. Oh—your bowl’s missing.”

Haruhiko surveyed the low dining table while quickly darting a sidelong glance at Bankun. He likely assumed the seventh-generation pumpkin would go retrieve his own bowl, but the pumpkin showed no sign of moving. Choro thought he would wait for the other to stand up, but before that could happen, his body began moving on its own—reflexively jumping to its feet, darting to the kitchen, and fetching Bankun’s bowl. “Ah, right—there was a German officer among those military observers.” His narrative looped back abruptly: “He possessed keener observational skills and critical insight than the other observers—likely submitted a detailed report upon returning home. That’s what drove Hitler to write his Yellow Peril theory. For the U.S. and British militaries, this issue of soldiers’ provisions remained a perpetual headache.”

Choro observed Bankun devouring three bowls of rice, two and a half bowls of miso soup, and about eighty percent of the pickles all by himself, and felt a pang of desolation. Our seventh-generation pumpkin ate his meals quickly. All day long, he would lumber about lethargically, doing absolutely nothing—as if conserving every ounce of energy for mealtimes. But once seated at the low dining table, all functions concentrated in his hands and mouth as he shoveled, chewed, and swallowed with the precision of a fully revved engine—a relentless cycle executed at magnificent speed. He showed no concern whatsoever for what constituted a single person’s portion.

For rice, three bowls each; for miso soup, two bowls each; and for side dishes and pickles, portions for two on a plate—this was Haruhiko’s custom. Therefore, the slower his pace, the more Bankun would encroach upon even his own allotted portion, and though he resolved not to let that happen, alas, he found himself incapable of halting his own conversation. The moment he tried staying silent to focus on his meal, his stockpile of splendid stories would instead come pouring out, drastically slowing his eating pace.

“You, rice is poison if not chewed well.” “It’s strange for men our age to be saying this,” Haruhiko declared on one occasion, “but Gresham certainly said it too—unless you chew each mouthful over a hundred times, your body won’t properly absorb the nutrients.”

Bankun twitched just one eyebrow slightly. Around the time Choro's words seemed to have entered through his mouth and settled into his stomach via his throat, he let out a slow belch before speaking carefully, pausing after each word. "Rice," he said, "doesn't taste good if you chew it too much. Just two or three chews, then gulp it down. It's that moment when half-polished grains scratch your throat—the smell and taste are irresistible." Then, as if demonstrating exactly how irresistible it was, he thrust his lower jaw forward and added, "Even if that weren't the case, I'd hate chewing that much—it's exhausting."

Tsuchikawa Haruhiko prided himself on being an entrepreneur and had plotted countless business ventures. If taking his own words at face value was not an error, several of these ventures had indeed been realized and reached stable operational phases. However, ultimately, small-capital enterprises would be swallowed by large capital. Businesses that failed to meet expectations would naturally collapse; those showing future promise would immediately have large capital’s hands reach out to plunder them.

“With their so-called conglomerates,” he lamented, “Japan’s financial circles are just a pack of shriveled ghouls with puckered assholes, you know. Whenever they spot a promising new venture, they don’t nurture it—they pounce to plunder it.” “Like thieves or bandits—Japan’s financial world’s still stuck in the Warring States period, utterly barbaric. Absolutely!” Bankun listened obediently to such talk. It seemed almost unbelievable—astonishing, really—that a man this lazy and indifferent to everything could so admirably fulfill his duty when it came to listening to Haruhiko’s stories. Not that the content interested him, of course. He knew that as long as he remembered his role as listener—that duty alone—he’d never lack for food or shelter. These conditions were etched into his marrow, enforced by some stubborn conscience—or perhaps mere necessity.

Choro would often heap criticism upon Japan’s financial circles, financiers, and economic organizations, ridiculing and scorning them. For example, even when Japanese trading companies expanded overseas, if five companies opened in the same area, all five would try to sell every product imaginable like general stores. In contrast, foreign trading companies handled only the products they specialized in. Suppose a customer who came to a pottery shop to buy pottery asked, “Do you have any fishing hooks?” At this, the clerk would bow politely and add—as if delivering a PR pitch—that Sogashi & Co. one block over handled such items, and that store stocked every fishing hook imaginable in the world, guaranteed to satisfy their needs. At Sogashi & Co., it was no different—in short, a sense of national responsibility in commerce had taken root, one founded on mutual aid and collective support for profit blocs. Therefore, by adhering to their respective specialties, the five trading companies mutually prospered. However, in Japan, since everyone engaged in general-store-style management and attempted to monopolize all customers, they ended up in cutthroat competition with each other, and it had been a historical pattern that they ultimately collapsed together.

“This, you see, proves Japan isn’t yet a capitalist country—it’s barely reached a free economy and just drifts there aimlessly.” "In Japan there are no Western-style financiers," Haruhiko declared. “They’re all penny-pinching merchants—street hawkers with slightly better grooming, haggling over ten-yen and hundred-yen profits.” “Now they’ve started using seamless rails at JNR—to tell the truth, that seamless rail idea was mine.” Choro nodded deeply. “This was before the war—five or six years before World War II began, I think. I presented that idea to JNR—no, it was the Railway Ministry back then—to the Railway Ministry’s vice-minister and delivered an impassioned speech. Can you imagine what the vice-minister said in response, eh, Bankun?”

The seventh-generation pumpkin turned his eyes extremely slowly to the left, returned them to the front, carefully turned them to the right, and brought them back to the front once more.

“I bet you can’t imagine, hmm,” Choro said with satisfaction. “The vice-minister replied like this: ‘Tsuchikawa-kun, Japan is facing a critical era right now. I can’t disclose details—it’s confidential—but our nation will soon be struck by an iron famine. Your idea won’t work.’” “What do you mean by ‘no good’? I asked.” Choro continued, “The vice-minister answered: ‘The most urgent material for national policy is iron. At the Railway Ministry, you see, we’re currently considering expanding rail joints by two millimeters—shaving one millimeter off each end of every rail to repurpose that iron for national policy’s critical supplies. Your seamless rail proposal,’ he said, ‘runs counter to national policy—there’s no other way to put it.’”

"Certainly, the vice-minister had not been talking nonsense," Haruhiko immediately continued. "Soon we transitioned to a controlled economy and entered World War II—the iron shortage grew so dire they went so far as to remove streetcar rails. You have to admire that vice-minister’s foresight—all well and good—but after our defeat? Now it’s JNR! Whether for efficiency gains or rationalization, who knows—they’ve adopted seamless rails! Stolen straight from my idea! They claim postwar governments bear no responsibility for prewar affairs, but how can Japan’s vaunted national railway shamelessly pilfer ideas from someone as destitute, powerless, and isolated as me?"

Bankun spoke in an extremely cautious and precise manner, as though he had thoroughly examined the entire legal code. "Why not file a complaint with the Patent Office?" he said. Choro shook his head.

"If I’d obtained a patent, maybe," Choro responded, "I thought about filing—no, applying—if that vice-minister seemed likely to adopt it. But after hearing what he said, it felt pointless, and above all, I didn’t have the funds upfront." Bankun’s eyes narrowed quietly, and he himself seemed to withdraw behind them. Tsuchikawa Haruhiko had a silver tongue, skilled hands, and even his brain was just as sharp. He moved about ceaselessly, keeping his tongue wagging all the while, devising business ventures even in his dreams.

“I was amazed, you know—even I was amazed last night!” While cooking breakfast, Choro said with an expression of barely contained amazement, “It’s not unusual to dream up new ventures in your sleep—but last night I dreamed of a business you mustn’t even scheme about.”

The seventh-generation pumpkin's eyes slowly looked upward, slowly returned to the front, gently looked downward, then returned to the front once more. “Up until now, I’ve only plotted ventures that either immediately caught the capitalists’ eye or required more capital than I could muster—how utterly foolish that was, you know. Hmm, why didn’t I realize that sooner? I’m starting to doubt myself.” Though he did not elaborate with examples about what constituted a business one must not plot, given how Tsuchikawa Haruhiko had become intensely excited and was gaining momentum, it seemed he had finally grasped something.

“In other words,” Haruhiko said, “it’s like this: something that starts out looking utterly small and ordinary—anyone might notice it, but no one would think it could become a business. Just some trivial thing—you know? Then gradually we expand our reach bit by bit. By the time those fools in society take notice, it’s already grown into a massive enterprise they can’t touch. Even if big capital tries to absorb it, it’s developed too far—they end up getting cold feet. That’s the kind of venture I mean.”

“Just you watch, Bankun—this time I’ll hit the mark.” Haruhiko started to thump his chest with his fist but stopped as if reconsidering and said, “And I think the time has finally come for you to shine as well.” Bankun’s nostrils twitched and narrowed, and if he were a dog—though this is purely hypothetical—one might have imagined his tail tucking itself between his legs. To put it in a word, he seemed to be afraid.

Tsuchikawa Haruhiko went out for about two days, longer than usual. Whether he had gone out to that stock market district or was busily working on a new venture, Bankun had no idea—nor, for that matter, did he even try to figure it out. This seventh-generation pumpkin, embodying the very essence of pumpkinhood, surely must have prayed that Choro would not embark on any ventures—and if he did start one, that it would fail.

What had Choro’s multifaceted mind conceived? He went to the northern terminus of the city tram, investigated river fish wholesalers, and verified both the wholesale prices and supply conditions of live crucian carp and carp. “We’ve entered an era where everything’s instant now,” he declared at one wholesaler’s shop. “Frozen foods dominate—nearly all fish and meat get frozen and peddled in plastic bags. Yet while nobody embraces trends faster than the Japanese, nobody tires of them quicker either. This instant age will exhaust itself soon enough. But even if it lingers, upscale folks in Yamanote’s mansion districts can’t normally obtain live river fish—take some there and they’ll leap at the chance without fail, mark my words.”

“Yamanote, huh,” the wholesaler owner said. “I’ve heard that sort generally can’t stand river fish.” “That’s just prewar talk.” Haruhiko insisted with an uncertain tone yet clearly, “That’s from before the war, I tell you—it must be. After all—” Here he suddenly regained vigor. “After all, these days salmon and herring have become luxury delicacies, you know!”

The wholesaler owner muttered a noncommittal reply along the lines of, "Well, if you say so..." "Got it! This is it!" After exiting the shop, Haruhiko declared to himself, "Even the specialist wholesalers are like that—nobody knows about this."

“Why hasn’t anyone noticed this?” he muttered as he walked. “Major companies run marine food businesses—some have even grown so big they own pro baseball teams! Yet nobody’s tried starting a river fish specialty venture. Isn’t that strange? Well, that’s exactly why this chance came to me! Oh yes, this’ll hit big for sure.”

Haruhiko resolved to first become a seller himself, steadily build a customer base, then gradually expand his salesforce while establishing a distribution network. Simultaneously, he would construct fish farms in neighboring prefectures to launch integrated operations. As he dwelled on this brilliant concept and its assured success rate, he thrilled alone, shaking his head repeatedly with evident pride.

Now, around ten o'clock that morning, Tsuchikawa Haruhiko went to Yamanote and set up his goods beside a bus stop in a middle-class residential area. After careful consideration, he had decided to dress like a farmer from a neighboring prefecture and even adopt a regional dialect in his speech. Dressed in an old workman's coat bought from a secondhand store, workman's trousers, rubber boots, and a hand towel wrapped around his head, he took from his wicker basket a square enamel-coated container holding live crucian carp and a barrel-shaped enamel-coated container with live carp, arranged both beneath the row of plane trees, and waited for customers.

He was satisfied that he had successfully negotiated with the wholesaler. If sales went well, he could enter into a long-term contract exclusively with that shop; he had acquired the crucian carp, carp, two containers, and wicker backpack at a rather low price. "The ancestor of some big Kansai capitalist," he muttered while rubbing his hands together, "started his business by picking up rope scraps and straw mats from the roadside, chopping them up to sell to plasterers. It's all about spotting what others overlook—hey look sharp! That one might be a customer."

A middle-aged woman approached him from the bus stop sign. She wore clothes that looked rather expensive—high-heeled leather sandals, an obi sash embroidered with gold thread—from whose surface dangled a gourd-shaped pearl connected by a thin gold chain, swaying listlessly. It was likely what’s commonly called a "sagemon" hanging accessory, but on a woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties, it seemed far too girlish and incongruous. Carrying a leather handbag measuring roughly seventy centimeters long and thirty wide with gold-leaf patterned designs, and wearing thick glasses, she reached Choro’s side and pinched the frames to push the lenses forward as she peered into the two containers.

"My, what unusual fish!" the middle-aged woman said. "What do you call these?" Choro answered in a rural accent that this one was crucian carp and that one was carp, both caught by him during odd jobs on the side.

The middle-aged woman adjusted her glasses and stared intently at Tsuchikawa Haruhiko. "You’re from the countryside?" Haruhiko answered that he was.

“I recognize that accent,” the middle-aged woman said. “It’s similar to how that maid who was at my house until recently spoke—you’re from Miyagi Prefecture, aren’t you?”

Choro swallowed his saliva. "I dunno nothin’ ’bout no prefecture," he stammered in reply. "My folks was from somewheres near Miyagi Prefecture, see, but they shipped me off far away when I was just a li’l squirt. So how’s ’bout buyin’ some, eh?"

The middle-aged woman pinched the rim of her glasses and studied Haruhiko’s face as if examining a rare insect before asking, “Where exactly are you from?” “Nearby prefecture, y’see,” Choro replied, hastily wiping sweat from his forehead. “These here crucian carp an’ carp—fresh-caught just now, see? Still wrigglin’ lively-like. Why don’tcha buy some?” “What a peculiar accent!” Shaking her head, the woman abandoned her scrutiny of his speech and peered again into the containers. “I’ve seen these fish before, but remind me—what did you call them?”

“This here’s the small one—crucian carp,” he answered. “This here’s the big ’un—carp, y’see.” “So, crucian carp and carp, you say?” “That’s right, y’see.”

"How dreadful!" The middle-aged woman took a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her nose. "Crucian carp and carp and such—how dreadful of you, oh how dreadful!"

And then she walked away toward the bus stop. “Tch, country bumpkin,” Tsuchikawa Haruhiko wrinkled his nose and spat to the side. “Typical of those highfalutin ‘zamasu’ types—blamin’ me when you don’t know the first thing about it. You’re the one with the ugly mug! Hah! Flauntin’ them glasses like they’re somethin’ special. Who’d be impressed by that junk? Oh, do come again now!”

He hurriedly stopped his muttering and bowed. A gentleman in his fifties approached and peered into the two containers. The suit, tailored when he'd been heavier, hung loose on his now-slimmer frame—both jacket and trousers of seemingly expensive fabric bagged and wrinkled, the hip areas sagging like empty sacks. The gentleman switched the flattened briefcase and cane from his left hand to his right, tucked the briefcase under his arm, then tapped the pavement with his cane tip while inspecting the fish containers before fixing his gaze on Tsuchikawa Haruhiko.

“Did you catch these yourself?” the gentleman asked. “Or did you use a casting net or fish trap?” “I’m from a nearby prefecture, y’see,” Haruhiko answered hesitantly. “These here’re crucian carp an’ carp, y’see. Caught ’em myself durin’ breaks from farm work.” “These carp are paddy-bred.” The gentleman spoke without even listening to what Choro was saying. In reality, before Choro’s words had even finished, he was already tilting his head and speaking on his own. Haruhiko couldn’t comprehend what “paddy-bred” meant, but sensing it wasn’t praise and seemed to be finding fault instead, he bristled.

“Don’t be jokin’ with me, sir—this ain’t a joke,” he shot back. “Take a good look—these here’s the real natural deal.”

"This one's crucian carp? Looks just like a goldfish," the gentleman continued undeterred. "I recognize these fish—they're from Lake Inba or Tega, aren't they? This one's farmed crucian carp too. Farmers these days have started putting on airs, I see." "You're quite the expert, sir," Choro shifted tactics, his voice oozing false deference. "Ain't no matchin' wits with a fine gentleman like yourself! How 'bout puttin' that sharp eye to use? First-time customer special—I'll let 'em go cheap for ya."

“You see, I’m an expert in this field,” said the gentleman, “not in commerce, but in angling. My garden pond always holds forty or fifty carp I’ve caught myself. It may be presumptuous of me, but you—these paddy-bred carp of yours reek to high heaven. No one could possibly eat them.”

With that, the gentleman picked up his briefcase and cane and walked off toward the bus that had just arrived. "What a damn know-it-all! Who's he to go on 'bout 'paddy-bred' nonsense?"

Choro sneered, but even so, he grew concerned and peered into the carp container. He gently slipped his hand in and poked at it, then brought his finger to his nose and sniffed. "It’s just fishy! Spouting off like he knows everything—huh! His fancy garden pond’s no better than Lake Inba or Tega! Bet he’s one of those smooth-talking con artists. Just wants to shock people with whatever nonsense he spews."

He recalled what the wholesaler’s old man had said. People from Yamano-te seemed to dislike river fish. The old man had said it with that clueless air of his, but maybe he’d known more than he let on. As he thought this, he suddenly felt desolate—the whole world seemed filled with hardship, a hopeless place where only the cunning could survive—and he let out a deep, drawn-out sigh. The third to approach was a young madam of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, wearing a wool two-piece suit with fine vertical stripes, a small red hat resembling a Turkish-style cap, and a shoulder bag slung over her left shoulder. Her delicate face was pretty, her makeup understated, and when one drew near, an elegant perfume scent wafted through the air.

The stiletto heels of her rust-colored pumps were so thin and high that Haruhiko found them precarious-looking. Forcing a strained, polite smile, he gestured toward the containers.

“What’s this?” the young madam asked, peering into the container. “Fish, I see.” “Hmm, this here’s crucian carp, y’see,” Choro answered. “Crucian carp—you know of ’em?” “Oh, so this is what they call a crucian carp?” The young madam bent down, her eyes shining as she gazed intently at the fish. "My, how beautiful! It looks just like it’s alive, doesn’t it?" “Exactly right—they were alive till we brought ’em here, y’see, but we hadda take ’em outta the water for transportin’, countryside bein’ a fair piece away an’ all.” He forced a strained smile and gestured toward the carp container. “But ’stead o’ that, these here carp’re alive, y’see—lively as can be!”

“Oh my, it really is carp!” The young madam watched intently, “I do remember carp—oh my, how their scales shine gold!”

“Poke ’em and they’ll jump right up, y’see.”

Choro poked one of the carp with his finger. When that one showed no sign of leaping, he jabbed the next, then jabbed another, but they merely gaped their mouths—whatever their grievance might be, not a single one put on a lively leap. "I’m just a farmer, y’know," Choro declared in a foolishly loud voice. "Caught these here during breaks from farm work." “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Truly beautiful. I’ve never seen crucian carp before.” The young madam gazed at the crucian carp and then the carp with eyes shining in admiration, but when she finally turned her gaze back to Choro, her voice suddenly turned businesslike as she inquired: “Don’t you have any salted salmon?”

Haruhiko’s eyes snapped wide open. He opened his mouth to say something, but when no words came out, he closed it. He opened it again to speak—but the young madam was already looking toward the bus stop. It was as though Haruhiko and the very existence of the crucian carp and carp in the two containers had suddenly been erased from that space. Then, having presumably noticed the bus approaching in her direction, she glanced at her wristwatch with an elegant motion and departed with a leisurely gait.

Tsuchikawa Haruhiko packed up his goods. First he placed the carp container into the backpack basket, laid a board on top, then put in the crucian carp container. He covered it with a bamboo-woven lid and tied it with string. “Don’t you have any salted salmon?” she had said. Hoisting the basket onto his back, he mimicked her voice: “Don’tcha got no salted salmon? Hah! These Yamano-te types—call themselves Japanese with that?”

“I’m here to sell river fish.” Even after boarding the streetcar, he muttered in a tone barely containing his outrage at this intolerable slight: “Didn’t I explain everything proper? This here’s crucian carp, that’s carp—then that empty-headed madam goes ‘Oh how lovely, truly exquisite, their scales gleam gold!’ spouting all that drivel before asking ‘Don’t you have any sal—’”

Tsuchikawa Haruhiko glared into empty space.

That night after dinner, Choro launched into a tirade. As always, he cheerfully spouted matters neither interesting nor amusing, clapping his knees alone and rolling about laughing by himself. Bankun, Seventh-Generation Pumpkin, neither flinched nor yielded, squarely enduring this verbal assault without retreating half a step or dodging sideways. "There was this farmer selling crucian carp and carp by Yashikimachi's roadside," Choro began his tale. "Then along comes this fancy Western-dressed madam - peers right in and goes 'What's this?'"

The farmer, apparently thinking she was a promising customer, enthusiastically explained about the crucian carp and carp. The madam listened to all of this, then asked the farmer with an unfazed expression. “Don’t you have any salted salmon?” Choro said in an exaggerated put-on voice. “No, you—you should’ve seen that farmer’s face!” He suddenly burst into laughter—“After making him explain all about the live crucian carp and carp right in front of her, ‘Don’t you have any salted salmon?’”—but before he could even finish, Choro exploded with laughter and finally rolled over laughing again.

The Seventh-Generation’s lips moved ever so slightly. Choro, his laughter subsiding, noticed the Seventh-Generation’s barely perceptible lip movement and sat up straight while composing himself.

“Don’t you find this story amusing, Bankun?” Bankun reflected deeply before replying that it was. Haruhiko pressed again. “But isn’t it laughable?” This time, Bankun didn’t deliberate. He appeared to have long practiced such self-restraint.

“I don’t like laughing,” he said. “—It tires me out.” The next day, Tsuchikawa Haruhiko left and did not return home. Choro was a restless dreamer and an impatient chatterbox. The reason ten—or to be precise, nine—wives had left him, and six pumpkin companions had fled, was likely that Haruhiko’s Choro-like nature—restless and overly talkative—had become unbearable to tolerate. Haruhiko himself had declared, “I can’t last an hour without someone to talk to.” At the same time, even with these conversation partners he dragged in from who-knows-where—those pumpkins—it seemed Haruhiko would be the one to grow bored if they didn’t flee first. Until now, everyone on the other side had always retreated before he grew bored. Therefore, he must have assumed that Seventh-Generation Pumpkin Bankun would naturally be no exception. Humans are often deceived by this kind of inertia—take for instance someone at their regular bar who feels reassured thinking “the bill’s usually about this much,” brings that amount, drinks that amount, yet—no, in short, Seventh-Generation Pumpkin thoroughly betrayed Haruhiko’s expectations.

Bankun was entirely different from the other six pumpkins. He differed in every respect and was the most genuine pumpkin. Thus their positions reversed, and it was Tsuchikawa Haruhiko who fled. True to his nickname, he vanished with mouse-like speed—then one day some eighty days later, children playing near a cluster of konara oaks in the wasteland were startled when a man addressed them.

“Ah, it’s Choro-san!”

one of the children shouted.

That was Tsuchikawa Haruhiko. He wore a new but ill-fitting suit, a flimsy cheap soft hat on his head, clutched a leather briefcase under his left arm, and had geta on his bare feet. “It’s me,” he said with a forced smile at the children, looking around with restless eyes as if being pursued. “—Do you know what became of Bankun who was at my place?” “I know,” one of the children answered, “the Pumpkin, right?”

“Ah, Pumpkin. How’s he doing?” “He’s not doing anything. He’s still at the original house, right?”

When the child sought agreement from their companions, the others nodded and said things like “He’s still there,” or “Same as before.” Choro froze for an instant, then began darting his eyes about warily. “Still at the original house, you say?” he shot back. “Has he been alone all this time?”

“He’s with the aunt.” “The aunt?” “Yeah, you know,” one answered. “She was at your place before, Choro-san—that aunt who’s always mad.” “The fat one, y’know,” another child added.

Haruhiko thought for a moment, then muttered something under his breath. The short-tempered fatty. If the wife the children knew was—he tilted his head, appearing to try recalling each of the women who had become his wives one by one—but perhaps he thought the risk of being discovered by Seventh-Generation Pumpkin was greater, or perhaps because his mind was filled with schemes for new ventures, making other thoughts impossible to function properly, he soon adjusted his briefcase and forced a smile at the children.

“Well then, boys, see you later,” he said, pinching the brim of his soft hat, “keep my visit a secret, will you?” “Why?” one of them asked. “Aren’t you going home?”

"Yeah, 'cause I'm busy." He forced a smile. "I'm terribly busy—gotta meet someone about the registration at two. Well then, boys, take care." He quickly started walking while glancing around, gradually quickening his pace until he vanished into the distance, heading toward Nakadori.

Hajime-kun and Mitsuko

Fukuda Hajime-kun was twenty-seven years old and had dropped out of a certain private university; currently he was working in waste collection. He was thin and small-statured, a man with a sallow complexion, and because his lower jaw protruded, it always looked as though his lower teeth were biting into his upper lip. His wife was named Mitsuko, who claimed to be twenty-three years old, but the neighborhood wives had determined she was no younger than thirty-five. Shorter than Fukuda-kun and thinner, with a face that the neighborhood wives said looked exactly like a rat’s, it was her restless, darting eyes that drew people’s attention more than anything. She always applied stark white makeup, painted on thick lipstick, wore garishly patterned dresses or kimonos that defied common sense—and again borrowing the neighborhood wives’ words—“clattered around from morning till night.” She was ever-present.

This couple lived on the second floor of a scrap collector named Aizawa Shichimio who specialized in scrap metal. The Aizawa family had seven children between the couple, with the eldest being eleven and the youngest two years old. The Aizawa family was a lively one, with his wife Masu-san pregnant again.

Fukuda-kun and his wife made their presence starkly known throughout the tenement within five or six days of moving in. —One morning around eight o’clock, no sooner had they begun arguing upstairs than Fukuda-kun came scrambling down the ladder-like stairs, thrust his feet into someone’s sandals left in the earthen-floored entryway, dashed out into the alley, then whirled around to glare up at the second floor he’d just fled and let out a shrill, metallic yell.

“Hey, Mitsuko, get out!” He stomped his feet so violently that the ditch plank flew up. “You damn Mitsuko! I’m done with you! —Get out! Out now!” Residents came rushing out from the tenements flanking both sides of the alley, drawn by the commotion. Fukuda-kun wore nothing but a sleeping yukata tied loosely with a thin cord, its front hanging open to reveal his scrawny chest and pallid, lifeless legs.

"There were tooth marks on his chin."

Later, the wives discussed it among themselves: “That must’ve been his wife biting him.” “It might be none of my business, but I’ve never seen a marital quarrel like that in my life,” another wife said. “It’s one thing to yell ‘Get out!’ during a fight, but for the husband to flee outside and then shout ‘Get out!’ at his wife still inside the house from out there—what kind of sense does that even make?”

“There’s no malice in it.” “We need someone like that around every now and then,” one of the middle-aged wives said amusedly. “Otherwise the nagaya’s atmosphere would never liven up.”

In this way, Fukuda-kun and his wife instantly became the talk of the *nagaya*.

Every morning, Aizawa Shichimio would wake them from downstairs, and once breakfast was finished, the two of them would set out together for work and return together in the evening as well.

It was Aizawa Shichimio who arranged the waste collection job for Fukuda-kun and at the same time provided the vacant second floor of his own house. Aizawa seemed to hold goodwill toward Fukuda-kun, and his wife Masu-san and their children appeared to feel the same way; however, toward Fukuda-kun’s wife Mitsuko, they seemed to harbor not just dislike but outright reproach. To be sure, in this “street,” anyone who wore heavy makeup or flaunted absurdly flashy kimonos would inevitably face one of two fates: either incurring resentment or being branded “Okichi-san.” But Mitsuko’s case had reached such extremes that even Aizawa’s four-year-old child disliked her and met her with scornful glares.

Mitsuko would call Fukuda-kun *“Ha-ji-me-san”* in a syrupy voice that stretched out like pulled taffy. Fukuda-kun would call her “Mitsuko,” and each time, Mitsuko would respond in that syrupy voice of hers: “Naaani, Ha-ji-me-san.”

It was said Aizawa’s wife Masu-san suffered from headaches, but every time she heard Mitsuko’s voice like that, she’d remember how long it had been since she last had sugar and get a headache—or so she complained. “Our Fukuda went to university for liberal arts,” Mitsuko said during her first conversation with Masu-san. “A private one, but quite prestigious—they say getting in was harder than Tokyo University. He had to drop out due to family circumstances, but the vice principal was so distraught he told him he should keep studying even if he had to work as a janitor. Why, even the principal came personally to persuade him many times, I hear.”

Of course, Masu-san knew nothing about educational systems and had no concern for whether universities even had titles like “vice principal” or “principal.” She knew what chalk was from her elementary school days, but she had never heard of “student servants,” so what it meant to “become chalk” or why a principal would come recruiting—these things seemed utterly incomprehensible to her, far more so than even Mitsuko herself likely understood the nonsense she was spouting.

Women of Mitsuko's temperament shared two traits: an uncanny ability to detect whether others possessed quasi-intellectual knowledge, and the nerve to baffle such individuals with whatever vocabulary proved convenient—or rather, whatever improvisational lexicon suited the moment. “When I was little, I was so delicate—they said I had an allergic constitution,” Mitsuko said. “That’s why I was raised in my wet nurse’s hometown until third grade. They treated me like spun silk wrapped in cotton—even had me ferried around in a baby carriage.”

"Huh, a baby carriage," Masu-san said. "Did you have polio or somethin'?" "Oh my, Masu-san, 'baby carriage' was just a figure of speech—how mean of you!" Mitsuko said. "What I really meant was being pampered like royalty." Since giving birth to her eldest son at nineteen until the very day she turned thirty, Masu-san had been polished and worn down by life’s grindstones and files, ultimately acquiring the wisdom and patience needed to coexist with even the most unpleasant neighbors.

"My ancestral home is in Furuichi of Ise, you know—where that samurai Mitsugu appears in the play about Yoshiwara's Hundred-Man Slayer," Mitsuko narrated. "We're called the Kiba family, an old house with six centuries of history. When I returned from my wet nurse's village to my real home in fourth grade, even as a child I was utterly astonished by how vast and grand the mansion was." And so, if one were to write it exactly as she told it, she would begin an outrageous description that would undoubtedly infuriate even the most lenient of readers. To give a scaled-down example at about one-tenth its grandeur: she would earnestly prattle on about things like a gate resembling a daimyo mansion’s entrance leading to a main house over two kilometers away, a private water reservoir, a power plant using that water to generate electricity for the estate, over a dozen servants’ quarters complete with a kindergarten and special-needs elementary school for their children—and as for the mansion’s sheer size, well—all manner of tales so divorced from reality they transcended mere fantasy.

“If I’d stayed meek and mild at home, I could’ve married into any wealthy family,” Mitsuko said. “But then in my third year at girls’ school, I fell for Fukuda. Our social standings didn’t match, so my parents opposed it, the relatives kicked up a fuss—they even held five whole family meetings over the scandal! I got so fed up I just eloped with Fukuda and came here.” “Huh, in that case,” Masu-san retorted, “is Mr. Fukuda also from Ise?”

“Oh my, that’s a bit hard to explain.”

“If you were in your third year of girls’ school back then, then Mr. Fukuda must’ve already been a university student at the time, right?” “How suspicious you are!” Mitsuko pretended to swat at Masu-san. “That’s not something easily explained—you shouldn’t go prying into people’s romances!”

By focusing all her attention on mending the children’s shirts, Masu-san barely managed to control herself. Everything about Mitsuko followed this pattern. Her stories made no distinctions of era or direction—east, west, north, south; front, back, left, right—nor between seasons, day and night, or the young and old. “When I think about what people must imagine Fukuda doing that sort of work now, I just can’t help but laugh,” Mitsuko said. “He was in the humanities department, you see. For pursuing literature, experiencing the life of the lower classes is paramount. After all, there’s no way to eradicate human rights issues except through the lower classes—back when I attended Ochanomizu Girls’ School...”

Mitsuko would claim she had attended Toranomon Girls' School at times, Ochanomizu at others, and Tsuda Eigaku as well. In principle, it was established as her hometown girls' school in Ise Furuichi, but she could freely change it to anywhere depending on the circumstances, even going so far as to list names like music teachers or language instructors. Toranomon Girls' School had ceased to be renowned long ago—indeed, if the author’s memory serves correctly, its fame lasted only until the Great Kanto Earthquake of Taisho 12 [1923], after which it relocated to Shibuya or somewhere similar, rendering the very name "Toranomon" obsolete in the context of girls' education. As for Ochanomizu, it belonged to teacher-training institutions rather than girls' schools—or so it was believed—though such distinctions held as much interest for the residents of this "street" as whether a pinch of salt existed or not.

While such women are generally deemed vain, Mitsuko seemed less intent on impressing others than on becoming intoxicated by her own fabrications. Her aim was not to impress others or stir feelings of envy, but rather to become enraptured by—and envious of—the illusions she herself had spun. She seemed to apply this not only to Masu-san but to Fukuda-kun as well. Since Masu-san was an outsider, she could simply treat it as entertainment—like listening to a rakugo story. In fact, she’d even told her husband that while over half of it made no sense to her, it still served as a better distraction than doing piecework alone.

But Fukuda-kun couldn't do the same. Mitsuko was his wife, and though it was unclear how long they had been married, depending on circumstances, they might end up having to spend their entire lives together. If that were the case, he couldn't possibly keep quietly listening to Mitsuko's unrestrained, outlandish fabrications forever. Thus, at a rate of roughly once a week, a cloyingly dismal quarrel would erupt.

“Hey, stop using that weird English. Nothing you say makes any sense.” “What’s the harm?” Mitsuko whispered in a honeyed nasal tone, “We’re husband and wife. You shouldn’t speak so formally.” “Acting all formal—you always bring in these bizarre words where they don’t belong. Fine, I’ll bite—what’s this ‘Natcharii’ you just mentioned?”

"Natcharii is just Natcharii! For someone who went all the way to university before dropping out, you don’t even know that? Ha-ji-me-san."

Fukuda-kun, being considerate of the people downstairs, didn’t raise his voice even when arguing. Mitsuko was the same. Mitsuko similarly kept her voice low, but her nasal tone—cloyingly sweet and viscous like molten black sugar oozing from a pot—frequently led Shichizō Aizawa downstairs to misinterpret things. He would jab a finger at his wife Masu-san’s shoulder, point upward at the ceiling, and hiss “Shh” while gesturing for her to listen closely.

“That’s not it. You’re such a pain.”

Masu-san showed no interest in such matters; while doing her night piecework, she indifferently admonished her husband: "It's just them fighting again. You always jump to the strangest conclusions." "You’re slow on the uptake again—you don’t sense a damn thing, I swear." "When the one in my belly is born, we’ll have eight children." "I’ve had enough of this," Masu-san retorted. "Even if you get all worked up over some strange notion and start whining, I want no part of it anymore."

“I get it. There’s no need to keep up with the upstairs fight. Fine—I said I get it already.”

"I know I'm being tedious," Fukuda-kun patiently persisted upstairs, "but could you stop with that 'Ha-ji-me-san' business? There's no need to enunciate every single syllable like that. Every time you call me that, my stomach starts to squirm." "You’re such a shy one, aren’t you? You’ve had your share of hardships but never been loved properly. If we truly loved each other, even how you address me would carry warmth—Mister Foo-ool."

Fukuda-kun hunched his shoulders. The cartilage connecting the joints of his spine seemed to dissolve, as though his entire spine were contracting, and his body shrank away smoothly.

“Why don’t we visit my family home in Furuichi sometime?” Mitsuko would habitually say. “The Kiba house has passed to my brother’s generation now, but I was Grandfather and Grandmother’s favorite—and besides, I’m the eldest daughter.” Because her grandparents doted on her excessively, they tried more than once to arrange a son-in-law marriage to make her the Kiba family heir, which caused uproar among all the relatives and led to numerous family meetings being held. The private power plant had also, truth be told, been built by her grandparents overriding the clan’s opposition in preparation for when she would inherit.

“That’s why I can return to Furuichi anytime with my head held high.” Mitsuko narrowed her eyes dreamily and said, “My brothers made such a fuss worrying they’d be accused of scheming over the inheritance—why, to exaggerate a little, it was like having a brass band greet me at the station! Don’t you think that’s wonderful, Ha-ji-me-san? Let’s go back together someday.”

On the rare days when Shichizō Aizawa earned a little extra, he would invite Fukuda-kun out for drinks. He wasn’t much of a drinker himself, but with such a large family, no matter how much he earned, there was never enough left over for alcohol. Moreover, even when they drank, ninety percent of it was shōchū—and since Budō-wari, shōchū mixed with grape wine, hit faster, they usually stuck to that as their regular drink. “In this world,” Aizawa would always say when slightly drunk, “there’s folks who have a drink every evening—every single day, Fukuda-kun. I’d give anything to live like that just once before I die.”

"I'll only tell you this—strictly between us," Fukuda-kun blurted out one day. "I don't need a nightcap every day. If I could just—separate from Mitsuko—that's my only wish."

“Ain’t it simple? We’re in a democratic age now. If you wanna split up, just go ahead and do it already.” “That’s exactly why I’m saying—if only I could do that.” “If only you could, huh? Is there a reason you can’t?”

Aizawa stared fixedly at Fukuda-kun with an expression of having heard something utterly suspicious.

"You don't really know Mitsuko, A-san," Fukuda-kun said. "There's something... wrong with her—like she's possessed by some spirit. Take how she never raises her voice. Even when we fight, she just keeps grinning creepily and says things in this hushed tone."

“Yeah, that’s true,” Aizawa said, sipping his Budō-wari. “Sometimes I’d think I heard a little noise up there—ah, never mind. So what about this quiet voice?”

“She just saw right through whatever I was thinking,” he said. “Like, suppose I started thinking about wanting to leave her—then Mitsuko would curl her lips into this thin smile and say in this hushed voice, ‘Oh, so you want to leave me now,’ all while staring straight into my face with these piercing eyes. Just like this.” Fukuda-kun made such an expression. “I’d think to myself, ‘My body feels sluggish today; I don’t want to go out and work.’ Then she’d smirk thinly with her lips and say, ‘You should take a break once in a while,’ staring fixedly into my face with those piercing eyes. Yeah, I’d get so creeped out that I’d end up going out to work after all.”

“She smirks thinly and stares intently, huh...” “It’s been like that from the very beginning.”

He met Mitsuko at a suburban diner. During the day, he worked at a certain electronics company while attending the evening division of a private university, and once a week on Sundays, he went to that diner to eat. Mitsuko worked there, assigned to customers who drank heavily, but one time when his eyes met hers, she curled her lips into that thin smile of hers and fixed her gaze intently on his face. “Then my head went all fuzzy, and I couldn’t move a muscle.”

Next, a similar thing happened again, and the third time, Mitsuko came to him as he was eating. Placing a warmed sake decanter and two whiskey glasses before him, she sat down herself. After pouring liquor into both glasses, she handed one to him and kept one for herself. As she drew out each syllable—"Yo...ro...shi...ku"—she drove her trademark smile and penetrating gaze deep into his core, as firmly as rivets being hammered home.

“Please don’t tell anyone I’m working here,” she suddenly said—just came right out with it. Fukuda-kun said emphatically. “Right after she said ‘Yoroshiku,’ she immediately told me—‘My family’s very particular about status, so if they find out, I might be dragged back and locked up in a house imprisonment room. Though they call it that, it’s actually two rooms—ten-mat and eight-mat—with a maid and manservant attached. Still, I’m too selfish to stand that,’ she said.”

All that time, he couldn’t say a word, nor could he refuse the glass placed before him. Moreover, strange as it may seem, as he listened to Mitsuko’s words, her family’s strict household, its members, and even the house imprisonment room with its two rooms, maid, and manservant began to feel as though he had known them intimately for ages. “The opportunity for us to get together was also created by Mitsuko—it was around the fifth or sixth time. When I tried to leave after eating at that diner, she came chasing after me from behind—‘Hajime-kun, not that way. Come this way,’ she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me along.”

The place he was taken to was a three-tatami room in a rundown house, with a six-tatami room and a four-and-a-half-tatami room; the family occupied the four-and-a-half-tatami space, while a middle-aged couple lived in the six-tatami room. In the three-tatami room Mitsuko rented, there were only two thin futons and two furoshiki bundles—no furnishings to speak of.

“I ran away from home because I was forced into a marriage I hated,” Mitsuko said. “Having been raised like a sheltered daughter, I have no idea how to live properly—it’s like a water sprite fallen from a tree.” “But they say if you’re in love, you could boil tea in your navel! Let’s just play at being newlyweds like this for now,” Mitsuko said. Thus began their cohabitation—he worked part-time while attending night university, Mitsuko waited tables at a diner—and though they owned no proper furnishings, they could at least drink tea. They never tested whether one could truly boil tea in a navel, but when he returned from night classes to organize his notes, Mitsuko would come home from her shift and arrange customers’ leftover dishes and drinks on the low dining table, hosting their modest midnight feasts.

The feasts were indeed modest affairs, but the bizarre fabrications that gushed forth like a torrent from Mitsuko's lips—through their relentless continuity and ungraspable leaps in content—produced an accompaniment of extraordinary variety, and already had Fukuda-kun firmly in her grip.

“You’ve heard about her family home in Furuichi in Ise, haven’t you, A-san?” “Yeah, from my old lady.” "At first, it was much simpler—there were no reservoirs or power plants. She boasted about having twelve hunting dogs and however many Persian cats. The mansion’s size was probably about the same as now—after all, she said that even though it was the house she was born in, she’d never seen all the rooms. There’s that rakugo story, right? Where you need to bring a lunchbox and stay overnight to tour the whole mansion—she claimed hers was even bigger than that one."

When he struggled to believe her, she would say “You think I’m lying, don’t you?”—pinning him in place with that smile and that piercing gaze. “Fine, go ahead and think it’s a lie. You’ll find out soon enough.” When it came to her story about attending girls’ school, he checked at his night university library. He discovered that Toranomon Girls’ School did indeed have an official name and was located in Shiba Toranomon—hence the nickname—and that Ochanomizu had been a normal school. As for Tsuda Juku, the nonsensical terms Mitsuko used left no doubt she’d never attended, but the moment he learned these facts, she sensed it—piercing him with that trademark smile and stare—and said, “Fine, go ahead and think that.”

"You could never understand this, A-san, but when Mitsuko smiles and stares like that—there's this indescribable force in her eyes. Not human, more like... something else entirely. Some kind of unknowable power that binds me completely, renders me completely immobile. Suppose I close my eyes—even through my eyelids, I still see it glaring back at me."

“This might sound strange,” Aizawa said, glancing at Fukuda-kun, “but I heard that once during a fight, you ran outside and yelled ‘Get out!’ up at the second floor.” “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aizawa said while scrutinizing Fukuda-kun’s face, “Still, a man dashing outside to yell ‘Get out!’ at his wife from out there—that’s a bit beyond normal bounds, don’t you think?” “But what else could I do?” Fukuda-kun retorted with deadly seriousness. “Right before that thin-lipped smile and unblinking stare of hers—I can’t make a single sound, let alone speak up. I can’t even twitch a muscle. Didn’t I just tell you that?”

“Hmm... Yeah, I see.” Aizawa nodded deeply, sipped his Budō-wari, then said after careful thought: “Mr. Tanba… Oh right—you haven’t met Old Man Tanba yet. Never mind. There’s this old man named Tanba in this tenement. He once said that even if there were ten million married couples in the world, not a single pair would be alike—all ten million would be different. And among them, he said, there are couples who never should’ve paired up in the first place. If those don’t split up quick, the stronger one’ll devour the weaker. Now, I don’t mean any offense—but you two might just be that kind of mismatched pair. No exaggeration here.”

Fukuda-kun, still holding his first glass of shochu, lightly sipped at it with his lips as he stared fixedly at a single point ahead, his gaze unfocused.

“The first time I met you, A-san, was at that employment office.” “Yeah, that’s right. I had some bulky items to move and needed someone to lend a hand.” “It was that job moving scrap metal from the burned-out lot,” Fukuda-kun said. “By then I’d already dropped out of school—the electronics company had gone bankrupt before that—and that woman Mitsuko had closed her diner too. She kept saying a housewife’s main duty was protecting the home—what she called the ‘main trap’ of married life. Must’ve misheard the phrase somewhere, but she insisted the Japanese term was ‘main thrust.’ Well, whatever you call it, she quit the diner. So I had to shoulder all our living expenses. When I was zoning out in front of the employment office that day, I seriously considered just running away somewhere.”

“Why didn’t you run away?” “It was you who called out to me, A-san. When I asked if there were any clerical jobs, they said those were about one in a thousand. Right then I thought—maybe this was my chance to run away.” “So it was me who called out to you?” Aizawa laughed. “Fate works in strange ways... Ah, they say we encounter such karmic bonds several times in a lifetime.”

“That may be so, but I’m about at my limit—lately, when night falls...” “What happens at night?” “There’s no point saying anything,” Fukuda-kun shook his head. “It’ll be five years soon since I got together with Mitsuko. All that time, nonstop—being stared at and smirked at by her. No—even this conversation with A-san right now, Mitsuko sees right through it all.”

“Don’t go saying such awful things.” Aizawa slightly withdrew from Fukuda-kun, ordered a refill of Budō-wari from the stall owner, and then, trying hard to remain objective as he composed himself, quietly asked, “So where exactly was Mitsuko born?”

Fukuda-kun silently shook his head and licked his shochu glass. Then Aizawa asked about her real age, and Fukuda-kun silently shook his head again. "Who would know something like that? Mitsuko filed the marriage certificate all by herself—she didn’t even show it to me." Aizawa was astonished and widened his eyes. "Are you two formally married?" he asked loudly. Fukuda-kun raised his right hand, then weakly lowered it and struck his thigh.

“That’s not the issue—it’s Mitsuko herself.”

Fukuda-kun's words abruptly cut off there. As if the string of a soaring kite had snapped, he suddenly fell silent—then the words that should have followed appeared to fly from his mouth like that severed kite drifting into oblivion.

“I think she might kill me.” Fukuda-kun seized upon a new topic. “You know how you suddenly wake up in the middle of the night? When I do, there’s Mitsuko propped on one elbow, half-risen, staring down at me from above.” “And when she notices I’ve woken up,” he continued, “she gives this thin smile with just her lips and stares at me unblinkingly.”

Aizawa shuddered and muttered, “Just like Lady Oiwa.” “Hajime-kun,” Mitsuko says, “you were holding a pretty girl in your dream just now, weren’t you? Who was thaaat?”

“Were you having that kind of dream?” “I might’ve been—I don’t remember myself—but when Mitsuko says that, I start feeling like I really did see such a dream.” “Then what happens?” “She presses down on me.” Fukuda-kun swallowed a yawn and licked his shochu glass. “She used to dote on Hajime-kun like this, you know,” he said.

Aizawa looked up, his expression one of strained listening. He wore a look as though he were in his own home at midnight, utterly transfixed by some noise from upstairs. After roughly explaining what had happened, Fukuda-kun slowly pressed both hands to his own neck. “And then she does this,” he said, “staring unblinkingly into my eyes while keeping that thin smile on her lips.”

“Even then, do you keep your eyes open?” “The whole time—she insists I keep mine open too. I hate it.” Fukuda-kun shook his head, pressing his lips together before stretching them wide. “It’s truly awful—my face becomes like a Hannya’s, doesn’t it? Horrifying.” “A Hannya?” “Just for an instant—but it turns into this monstrous thing. Exactly like a Hannya mask. I can’t stand it—makes my blood run cold.”

“Ah, ah—I see.” Aizawa nodded deeply as if finally grasping the logic. “Hannya, huh... Might vary from person to person, but that’d be downright chilling.” “So I try to keep my eyes closed, but that woman Mitsuko insists I open them and won’t listen.”

"People have their quirks, ah." Aizawa tilted his head left then right, wearing a complicated smile. "Quirks—they say humans come in all types. Take my old lady—well, never mind. Anyway, if that's how it is, better split up quick before things get worse. Otherwise you might end up in a life-or-death mess, ah." "If only I could..." Fukuda-kun heaved a deep sigh. "If only I could do that..."

The above conversations did not occur in a single sitting but were a composite of exchanges that took place whenever the two men occasionally drank together, compiled and organized here—in reality, there were far more nuanced and provocative details.

But when it came to the psychological conflicts and physical circumstances between spouses, merely pursuing them through words alone proved futile. In fact, even during the intervals when these conversations took place—maintaining gaps of roughly five or six days to about ten—Fukuda-kun would suddenly rush out into the alley and start shouting up at the second floor.

“Hey, get out—!” he shouted with a deadly earnest expression, thrusting his right fist skyward. “Mitsuko, you bitch—get out!” Yet mere hours later, Mitsuko’s cloying whisper— “Ha...ji...me...san...nee~e”—would already be drifting down from the second floor. “Here—this is all I’ve got,” Aizawa said one evening, thrusting several bills toward Fukuda-kun with heartfelt urgency. “Take this and vanish somewhere. You made it to university—that means you’ve got potential. Even doing scrap collection like I mentioned—you can survive anywhere that way. Ah—the rest’ll sort itself out. You need to flee this place right now, ta—”

Aizawa started to say "ta—" but choked on the word. He had likely intended to repeat "right now" once more, but at that very moment, a voice called out from outside the stall.

“Ha...ji...me...san”

Aizawa nearly tumbled off his stool when Mitsuko lifted the shop curtain and showed her face. "I was on my way back from the butcher's when I heard your voice," Mitsuko said, turning toward Aizawa. "Oh, Mr. Aizawa, you're here too? I didn't realize you were here at all." "See, I told you," Fukuda-kun said next, licking his shochu glass. "That woman Mitsuko sees through everything. She didn't really go to the butcher's back then—she must've seen through our conversation and come here."

“I ain’t never been so shocked in all my born days,” said Aizawa. “When she turned around goin’ ‘Oh, Mr. Aizawa’s here too?’ I squeezed my eyes shut tight as I could.” “You closed your eyes, huh?”

“Ah, I squeezed them shut—the moment I imagined her fixing that piercing gaze on me and flashing that thin-lipped smile, I was too terrified to keep my eyes open. Even now, just remembering it—” There Aizawa fell silent, then whispered to Fukuda-kun while holding his breath as if sensing someone behind him, “Let’s drop this subject, ah—they say even a strategist steers clear of danger, you know.”

Fukuda-kun downed the shochu in his glass in one gulp and hurriedly nodded several times. “My romance with Fukuda was so trying, you know,” Mitsuko was telling Masu-san at the Aizawa household. “After all, I was only a second-year girls’ school student—legally still a minor! The newspapers sensationalized it as some sort of ‘scoop,’ and oh yes, I’ll show you those articles someday. I’ve clipped and saved every one of them. I’ll really show you someday—even the country papers wrote pieces that weren’t half bad.”

Masu-san kept her hands moving ceaselessly over her piecework as she said in a tone utterly devoid of emotion, "So you couldn't get pregnant." "It's not the woman's responsibility," Mitsuko answered. "If a woman's truly resolved, there are endless ways to avoid pregnancy."

Masu-san suddenly turned around with a start, as if she had been startled. With the expression of a drowning person who had just spotted a life preserver within reach, she asked back, "Is that really true?" "But I'm living proof—don't I have no children?" Mitsuko said. "Didn't you know that?" "I don't know about such things."

“You don’t know any of them? —Oh, how carefree you all are.” Mitsuko sat up straight. “Fine—you already have plenty of children at your place, don’t you? It might seem impertinent telling someone older like you this, but I’ll teach you two or three simple methods.” For the next twenty minutes, as Mitsuko continued explaining about breathing and pressure points while demonstrating various postures and movements, Masu-san yawned with a look of disillusionment, resumed her work, and muttered under her breath, “She’s talking about swallowing snakes whole.” Mitsuko kept up her fervent demonstration.

On Frugality

In one of the eastern tenement houses, near the water spigot at the end, lived the family of Shioyama Keizō. His wife’s name was Rui, and they had three daughters: the eldest, Haru, was twelve; the second, Fukiko, ten; and the youngest, Tomiko, eight. —These were their ages when the family moved into the tenement: Shioyama was around forty and working as a postal deliveryman. Under the adept management of Mrs. Rui, the Shioyama family lived a life that exemplified model citizens—diligent, thrifty, modest, docile, and clean—practicing these virtues in their daily existence.

What first astonished the residents here was how well Mrs. Rui took care of her possessions. If the weather was fair, Mrs. Rui would spend the entire day—or rather, it would be more accurate to say almost every day—stationed at the water spigot, washing this and that, then drying utensils by lining them up beside the house. —These included old box trays, bowls, chopsticks, rice containers, geta sandals, high clogs, umbrellas, rubber-soled tabi socks, old rubber boots, rubberized raincoats, and rubberized rain hats—but among them, thirty or forty cedar disposable chopsticks stood out conspicuously. The people of this "town" rarely ordered from upscale restaurants or the like, but they knew that places such as soba shops and diners provided cedar disposable chopsticks. However, people didn’t bring home disposable chopsticks from such restaurants. If they did have disposable chopsticks, the tenement wives surmised, it must have been because they had ordered something like soba or donburi for delivery.

“She’s showing off,” one of the wives said. “Back in the day, they must’ve lived well—ordering from upscale restaurants every single day, no doubt about it.”

And then one day, one of the meddlesome wives hinted at this to Mrs. Rui.

“Not at all,” Mrs. Rui denied earnestly with a humble expression. “How could we afford such luxuries with our tightly budgeted life? These were just things we received.” There had been a small soba shop right in front of the house we used to live in, but when their business failed, they closed up shop. At that time, among the unsellable items they were gathering to discard, there was one bundle of disposable chopsticks, which she took because it seemed wasteful. After that, she would bring them out and use them when guests came, but once they were split, she couldn’t serve them to guests anymore. “But they might still be useful for something,” Mrs. Rui would say, “and when I think about the people who made them, I couldn’t bring myself to just throw them away.”

“Even the most trivial thing—if you put yourself in the shoes of those who made it, you can’t treat it carelessly, you know,” Mrs. Rui said. “They say even a single sheet of paper requires all sorts of pains and hardships to make. Truly, not a single thing with form should be treated lightly.”

With this, Mrs. Rui had won over all the housewives of the town in one fell swoop. The master of the household, Shioyama Keizō, neither drank nor smoked, and never took days off work. The three sisters—Haru, Fuki, and Tomi—were thin and though their complexions were poor, they were gentle and amiable, never once disobeying or talking back to their parents. “Yes, thanks to all of you,” Mrs. Rui replied to the wives while washing laundry at the water spigot as usual. “They do listen well—that’s their only virtue, really. If you notice anything wrong with them, please don’t hesitate to scold them thoroughly. Being reprimanded by others is the best medicine for them—I beg of you.”

Having washed them in this way, she would place a door plank beside her house and neatly line them up to dry on it. As for what exactly was laid out, one need only refer to the beginning of this chapter where it had been recorded; it could indeed have been called a spectacle in demonstrating both fastidious cleanliness and meticulous care of possessions.—On one occasion, a middle-aged woman passing by noticed this display of items, stopped, and gazed at it with deep admiration before eventually turning to Mrs. Rui and posing the following question:

"Excuse me, but are these for sale?" The Shioyama family’s life was as precise as clock hands. Keizō’s departure and return times from work, the daughters’ departure and return times from school, meals, and baths were all rigidly fixed as if measured with a ruler; and though it was quite a rare case in this “town,” the family’s clothing also changed with the seasons. Of course, they had been washed and mended countless times—their colors faded and patterns subdued—so even when switching from lined to unlined garments, it hardly drew anyone’s notice. Yet there were sharp-eyed housewives among them who would click their tongues in thinly veiled irritation.

“Did you see?” said the sharp-eyed wife. “The Rui household started wearing lined kimonos today. Hmph—what a pointed display of arrogance. Truly insolent, don’t you think?” As long as one lived in such a tenement, there was such a thing as interaction among the residents. The sharp-eyed wife declared that while her own household could wear lined kimonos just fine, putting them on without consideration for others was nothing but inconsiderate showiness.

Mrs. Rui would keenly pick up on such backbiting. And immediately, she would employ skillful measures.

“Your family must all be so healthy and well, mustn’t they?” Mrs. Rui turned amiably to the sharp-eyed wife and said, “We’re all so frail in my household—it’s such a bother. If only we had good earnings like yours! But with just the delivery work here, it barely amounts to anything. Even when I take on side jobs, we can’t afford proper food. That’s why the children’s constitutions lack vitality, I suppose. Come autumn, they’re already catching colds.”

And she would make the other party understand that wearing lined kimonos was an unavoidable necessity, while repeatedly expressing how envious she was of those who didn’t have to worry about such things.

When even this didn’t make the other party relent, she would go to borrow a pinch of salt or half a small dish of soy sauce, lamenting earnestly about the hardships of their life, and declare with heartfelt sincerity, “I’m forever in your debt.” When returning them, she would make it about double the amount and shower them with effusive words of gratitude seasoned with heartfelt sincerity.

“Words don’t cost a thing,” was Mrs. Rui’s favorite saying. “As long as you know how to speak properly, you can get by anywhere in this world. Make sure you remember that well.”

This was something she would often say to her daughters and to her husband Keizō as well. It wasn’t clear how much Keizō earned or how much Mrs. Rui made from her side jobs. The daughters also helped with the side jobs, so when combined, their earnings were presumed to amount to a modest sum. Yet their lifestyle remained astonishingly frugal—no matter where one looked in their daily life, there was not a single thing that could be called wasteful.—Mrs. Rui would go out once every five days to procure food supplies at the wholesale market.

It was located in a town reachable by taking the streetcar from Hondōri Avenue north for about five stops, then walking five minutes from there. From rice and wheat to soba noodles, udon noodles, vegetables, fish, meat, miso, soy sauce, and pickles—they carried everything, with thirty-percent discounts offered on the 5th and 10th of each month. Mrs. Rui would go precisely on those days to buy five days' worth of supplies in bulk, meaning the thirty-percent discount would be further reduced by about ten percent—depending on the item, prices sometimes even dropped below half.

“Some say factoring in train fare and time makes it more expensive in the end—yes,” Mrs. Rui would say. “That’s not untrue, but staying cooped up at home all day isn’t good for one’s health either. Going out once every five days to see the world and get some exercise is medicinal in itself—not to mention securing cheaper goods. For poor households like ours, we must exercise wisdom befitting our station to survive.”

When buying large quantities of pickles and such, she would take her daughters along to split the load between them; yet even then they would sometimes be refused boarding on the streetcar. In such cases, the mother and children had no choice but to walk home—the daughters, already thin and slight of frame, would end up pale-faced and drenched in greasy sweat.

The food they bought was thoroughly utilized. Needless to say, they used daikon leaves, and from carrot greens to their tapered ends, potato skins, parsley, mitsuba roots, and even butterbur leaves—nothing went to waste. Carrot greens and butterbur leaves in particular were said to be rich in vitamin C, and she would say, "Throwing these away is like discarding expensive medicine." Since she spoke of vitamin C and such matters, it seemed she possessed some nutritional knowledge. Of course, since this "town's" residents had low incomes and needed to provide family meals, they instinctively balanced their food's nutritional value. This wasn't wisdom learned from modern nutritional science—it was experiential knowledge passed down orally from their parents' generation. Yet despite appearing to have new knowledge, whenever Mrs. Rui bought sardines, she would remove their heads and bones at the water spigot, flatten the flesh, and wash them with painstaking care. She would leave the tap running continuously, washing them one by one in repeated cycles.

“What’s the point of washing them so much?” a neighbor woman admonished. “Then you’ll just wash away all that precious flavor and nourishment!” “I suppose so...” “Everyone in my household hates the oiliness of sardines,” Mrs. Rui replied. “Yes—they won’t eat them if there’s even a hint of greasiness.”

"It’s such a bother," she would say, and continued washing vigorously.

Two years passed, then three. Haru, the eldest daughter who had graduated from middle school, got a job at the post office where her father worked and began attending night high school in the evenings. It was shortly after this that one of the neighbor wives discovered an astonishing fact and delivered a great shock to the residents of this town. The reason being that when this neighbor wife went to Nakadori Post Office on Central Street to exchange a postal money order for cash, she discovered that the Shioyama household had savings.

“That bearded man—he’s the post office manager, right?” said the neighbor wife. “He called over Haru-chan, who was handling the paperwork, and said, ‘The interest entries are done, so take these home with you,’ and handed her three savings passbooks. I couldn’t believe my eyes! But then that manager said, ‘Yours keeps dwindling away, doesn’t it?’ And Haru-chan replied straight out, ‘I need it for my school fees.’”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the neighbor’s wife, her face as though she’d seen a ghost. “My guts were twisted so bad, I could barely remember which alleys I stumbled through to get home.” “Saving money in times like these…” said another woman. “Some folks in this world do cursed things that beg for lightning strikes.”

At this time, Mrs. Rui lost all standing in the community, and the Shioyama family came to be subtly excluded from neighborhood interactions as though they carried some vile contagion. ――But Mrs. Rui no longer so much as flinched. In this kind of "town," where residents came and went with such frequency that three years of staying put made one an old-timer, Mrs. Rui had reached a point where she no longer needed to be considerate of her neighbors or engage in unnecessary appeasement.—And so, without secrecy, she began openly demonstrating her thorough frugality.

If poor people were to economize, the first thing they would cut would be their food expenses. Entertainment expenses were of course out of the question; if they had free time, they would do handiwork. Because Haru-chan attended night high school, she wouldn’t return until nearly ten; but in place of going to school, she had to do twice as much piecework. Keizō, the master, was no exception—after returning from work and finishing dinner, he wasn’t given even a moment’s rest before being driven to his side job.

There would be little to say about the second daughter, Fuki, or the third daughter, Tomi, and in this household, no coercion or oppression took place. Though Mrs. Rui was said to take command, she never barked orders at her husband or daughters about what to do, and she worked harder than anyone else. If one were permitted a spiteful turn of phrase, it could be said that Mrs. Rui was rousing her household to diligence by setting an example through her own labor.

The family of five worked diligently in silence. It resembled five skilled workers seated before an assembly line's belt conveyor. If we were to consider Mrs. Rui the foreman, beyond that role she also shouldered cooking duties, work at the water spigot, and the meticulous tasks of housekeeping.

The second daughter, Fuki, also found employment immediately after graduating middle school. She worked as an office assistant at a transport company where mornings began early and shifts ended late—her start time was firmly set at seven o’clock, but while her leaving time could be as early as six o’clock, there were nights when she wouldn’t return home until past nine. There exists something called the Labor Standards Act, and all workers are supposedly protected under this law—but instances where one suspects this “law” exists more for abuse than observance are hardly rare. Therefore, I must ask you readers not to assail me here using this “Labor Standards Act” as your shield.

Fuki indeed performed such work—voiced no complaints despite receiving no overtime pay, harbored no aspirations for further education like her sister had, commuted as obediently as a fatalist submitting to fate, and applied herself to side jobs upon returning home.

The savings grew. If even with this much diligence, coarse clothing and simple meals, and frugality pushed to the limit, savings still failed to grow, then banking as a business must be in dire straits. Yet the Shioyama family's savings swelled steadily. Simultaneously, from the opposite direction, something unseen crept toward this household.

Half a year after Fuki had started working, Haru—employed at the post office—collapsed. Initially thought to be merely a cold, she rested for three days before returning to work, but when she collapsed again with persistent high fever and was taken to the hospital, tuberculosis was diagnosed. Though hospitalization was recommended, they first brought her home to rest and convened a family meeting about admission.

Moreover, there were still few health insurance doctors, and it was a time when the gap between the number of patients and available beds was vast, making the prospect of hospital treatment exceedingly difficult. New effective medicines were being released one after another, but they were all prohibitively expensive for the Shioyama family’s means, and there was no guarantee that they would provide a definitive cure.

“In the old days,” her father Keizō said, “this illness was called the ‘urging disease.’ It was said that young women would come down with it once, you know.” Keizō voicing his own opinion was such a rare occurrence that everyone stared at his face, at once acknowledging him as the household’s rightful head while holding their breath in belief that he would produce a brilliant plan to save them from this crisis. However, Keizō, having become the focus of everyone’s gaze, floundered and merely stroked his jaw with an awkward air; he did not seem likely to present anything resembling a brilliant plan.

“So,” Mrs. Rui pressed impatiently, “what are you getting at?”

Keizō slid his hand from his jaw—where it had been stroking his chin—up to his temple and mumbled, “Nothing in particular.” “In other words,” he mumbled again, then spoke in an uncertain tone. The ‘urging disease’ was, he explained, when a daughter came of marriageable age and began inwardly pleading, ‘Please let someone take me as a bride.’ Those pent-up feelings would congeal into illness—meaning rather than special treatment, simply finding a marriage prospect would cure her.

“I don’t want to!” Haru averted her eyes while flushing her pale cheeks. “I’ve never once thought about wanting to get married!” “This isn’t about Haru-chan—it’s about people from the old days,” said Mrs. Rui. “I’ve heard that too, and truly, whether they want to marry or not, it’s not uncommon for girls her age to catch this illness—they say it’s like measles or something.”

As you have no doubt already surmised, the couple’s thoughts had strayed from the main issue of treating tuberculosis to how they might avoid spending money. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to cure their daughter’s illness—the couple loved their daughter Haru, and their fervent wish to see her healthy remained unchanged. However, frugality and affection did not seem to coexist. There were absolutely no available low-cost hospital beds, and the new medicines were prohibitively expensive with uncertain effectiveness to boot. If that was the case, then wasn’t it unavoidable for them to tentatively trust in old traditions and attempt home remedies? After all, people in positions of responsibility were out there proclaiming things like "Tuberculosis is nothing to fear" and "Tuberculosis can definitely be cured."

Haru began home-based treatment. The only certainty was that she did not go to work, did not attend night high school, and stayed home sleeping. However, what kind of treatment was administered or whether rest was maintained remained entirely unknown to third parties, and in the lives of the family members excluding Haru, not the slightest change could be discerned.

“Oh, we’re managing fine, thank you,” Mrs. Rui answered the women’s questions with a bright expression as she washed disposable chopsticks at the water spigot. “You see, we’ve been talking about settling our accounts next month. When you’re poor, illness strikes you hardest, doesn’t it?”

But Haru soon died. It likely hadn't been half a year since she'd fallen ill. Those who attended the wake saw that Haru no longer resembled a human being—she had become like a desiccated twig from a withered tree. "Back when I lived in the countryside," one of the neighborhood women said after the wake, "during Obon I visited a temple and saw paintings of hell. There was one called Hungry Ghost Hell or something, with spirits so emaciated they looked like walking skeletons. Haru-chan was the spitting image of those hungry ghosts."

“She didn’t die of illness—it was starvation,” another housewife said. “They didn’t even give her a single egg, even though it was tuberculosis.”

"When they occasionally bought sardines, they washed them for half a day until there was nothing left of flesh or skin," another housewife added. “Well,” Mrs. Rui said to her husband and two daughters after completing the seventh-day memorial service, “we must forget about Haru-chan now. We used up so much savings for her sake—to make up for it, we’ll need to work much harder. You understand, Fuki? Tomi?” Keizō nodded first, then the two daughters nodded. Mrs. Rui had been earnest. No matter what the neighbors said, they had done everything possible for Haru. They never missed giving her an egg each day, going to a shop called Tori-ku in Nakadori to get fresh blood drained from slaughtered chickens and making her drink it daily. But what mattered more than such food was love. Instilling in her—through love—the confidence that “I will recover.” This was more crucial than new medicine or diet—that was what Mrs. Rui had believed.

“Even His Majesty the Emperor’s infant would die without their allotted time,” Mrs. Rui said. “Thinking illness can be cured just by food or medicine or doctors is superstition—ask your father. One of the Emperor’s own children had doctors from across Japan gathered and spared no expense in treatment, yet still couldn’t outlive their destined span. That’s what humans are.”

The Shioyama family regained their footing and resolutely restored their daily rhythms. When the new year arrived and Tomi graduated from middle school, she too immediately began working. It was the post office where her father Keizō delivered mail and where her late sister Haru had been employed. Tomi was the thinnest and smallest of the three sisters—at her job interview, the bearded old postmaster had reportedly wondered if she were still in elementary school. Tomi collapsed during her third month of work. The neighbors remained oblivious. Katnuma Jirō’s wife next door—the neighborhood’s self-proclaimed information hub, nicknamed “Radio Station” by fellow housewives—only learned of Tomi’s condition when the Shioyama home erupted in commotion one night. Hearing Mrs. Rui’s desperate cries of “Tomi! Tomi!”, she rushed over in alarm to discover the girl had been bedridden for days and now lay unconscious after vomiting blood.

By the time the doctor arrived, Tomi was already dead. The doctor had diagnosed that despite being born with a weak heart, the cumulative strain of holding a job and doing side work had caused part of her heart to rupture—this was what Katnuma Jirō’s wife broadcasted. She had been asked by Mrs. Rui to summon the doctor and thus naturally seized the chance to witness the examination. “But still,” one of the housewives said, “Tomi-chan was more dutiful than Haru-chan, wasn’t she? Haru-chan was bedridden half a year or so, but Tomi-chan was gone in a flash. That stingy family must’ve made quite a profit in their cost-benefit calculations.”

The housewives had no idea.

Mrs. Rui did not consider cost-benefit calculations—at least not consciously. Rather, because there was Haru’s precedent, she seemed to have exerted herself beyond what was necessary. However, the pace of Tomi’s worsening condition outpaced the rate at which Mrs. Rui depleted her nerves—in reality, she simply couldn’t keep up. “That child kept wanting to eat nothing but greasy things.” “The doctor said greasy foods are worst for weak hearts,” Mrs. Rui said. “Even healthy people—greasy things cloud the blood, and when that murky blood circulates through the body, it leaves residue. That’s how you get cancer or wasting sickness.”

Perhaps Mrs. Rui thought her own words alone wouldn’t be believed, for she read aloud a newspaper clipping titled “Medical Advice” to her husband and daughter. To summarize, meals should be low-calorie with plenty of vegetables, rice in small portions, and fruit was preferable. Such was the content of the article, but it had actually been Dr. Somebody’s response to a reader’s letter about hypertension—a part Mrs. Rui omitted when reading it aloud.

“Look at cows and horses—they eat nothing but grass and straw, yet they have such splendid bodies, don’t they?” said Mrs. Rui. “Right? Even elephants and hippopotamuses eat nothing but grass, don’t they? And look how huge they are! None of them get cancer or waste away. Come on, have you ever seen an elephant wasting away?” While working on side jobs, Keizō nodded expressionlessly, and Fuki stifled a yawn as she too labored without pause.

Then, over the next three years, Fuki died, followed by Mrs. Rui. Fuki had contracted the same tuberculosis as her eldest sister Haru, though hers was a particularly virulent form called galloping consumption that claimed her life after just two months of home care. Mrs. Rui too fell to tuberculosis—this time attacking her lungs, intestines, and lymph nodes—and by the time they discovered it, people said there’d been nothing left to save. To describe it this way might make it sound brutally simple, but brutal simplicity was precisely what it had been. While the tragedy seemed to begin with Haru’s death, that was merely its visible manifestation; its true roots likely stretched back to Keizō and Mrs. Rui’s wedding day. I refuse to entertain that trite sophistry about all living creatures marching toward death from birth. In the Shioyama household, Mrs. Rui had seized control the moment they married. No schemes or violence brought this about—it simply unfolded that way, with their family traditions of diligence, frugality, obedience, and thrift solidifying at that very moment. From Haru’s birth to Mrs. Rui’s own death, these customs functioned with the precision of a metronome’s swing, each tick marking another exacting hour. There existed no romance here, no humor—not even the faintest whiff of human warmth.

“I might have been wrong,” Before dying, Mrs. Rui said to her husband, “I believed all that talk—how saving one yen a day brings family prosperity, how houses without savings have no future.”

“Even now, those kinds of posters are still up,” Keizō comforted her. “The newspapers are still running ads telling people to save, and important figures are still giving talks about it. You weren’t wrong about anything. It’s all right—you don’t need to worry.” “Even if I was mistaken about something,” Mrs. Rui said, “I’m only human. I can’t possibly know everything there is to know.”

“You did well. You didn’t misunderstand a thing—it’s all right.”

Mrs. Rui did not seem to be listening to her husband. As evidence that she had remained fully conscious until the moment of death, her mind appeared filled with worry about what would become of the household items she had meticulously kept clean until then—the geta clogs, trays, bowls, disposable chopsticks, and other utensils.

“Yes, she truly was a good wife.” At the wake, Keizō told the gathered neighbors: “She didn’t crave fancy foods or fine clothes. Never once asked to see a play since we married. Worked herself raw—frugal, always frugal—yes.” “This’ll sound like a joke,” Keizō added with a hollow laugh, “but I reckon that one even skimped on her own life. Yes.”

Tanba-san

Tanba-san must be sixty-two or three by now, someone said. Some said he was still in his fifties, while others insisted he had already turned seventy. He would smile gently and deflect questions by claiming he didn’t know himself—that he must have forgotten. Even his name was simply Tanba-san, leaving unclear whether it was a family name or nickname. As for his resident registration—no one here cared about such formalities, least of all Tanba-san himself. The slum dwellers relied on him so utterly that doubting his identity never crossed their minds. When troubles arose—when sorrow gripped them, when hardship choked them, when anger flared beyond bearing, when joy overflowed—and when all became too much to endure, they sought out Tanba-san.

Professor Kantō Kiyosato had visited Tanba-san for counsel on multiple occasions, and even Reverend Saita of the Christian church had secretly gone to borrow his wisdom.

No one remembered how long Old Man Tanba had been living there. Even Sō-san of the Imoya potato shop, whose family had lived there since his parents’ time, had no clear memory—he tried to recall, saying it might have been eight or nine years ago. In the two-house tenement to the west lived a violent man called Yoshi 'the Hornet'. He had a wife and two children. At the time he worked as a day laborer—though he had apparently been a miner before—and once he started rampaging while drunk, no one could restrain him. He owned a Japanese sword. The hilt was wrapped in bleached cotton cloth, and the blade had nicks along its edge. At some mining mountain, when a huge brawl broke out, he had taken on over a dozen opponents in a sword fight and cut down several of them. This was Yoshi 'the Hornet’s' boastful tale.—That same Yoshi, about a year after moving there, got drunk and began rampaging again, chasing his wife and children around while brandishing his Japanese sword and shouting “I’ll cut you all down!” Being used to this, the wife and children fled immediately, leaving Yoshi to fly into a rage and slash at the pillar of the latticed entrance with his sword. Yelling curses like “Damn you!” and “Screw you!”, he hacked at it with all his strength. There was no stopping him—even the dullest drawn Japanese sword carried terrifying menace. The watching neighbors turned pale, and among the old folks and housewives, some found their legs frozen stiff, unable to flee even if they tried.

If left as he was, there was no telling what might happen, so they decided someone should go call a police officer. “That’s when Tanba-san came out, yeah,” Sō-san recounted. “All the tenement folks had formed a wide circle around him, their faces lookin’ like they were ’bout to drop dead any second, rattlin’ like old storm shutters in a gale. Then Tanba-san starts walkin’ real slow toward that bastard—cool as a cucumber, he was. I was watchin’ too, swear to god I thought he’d get himself carved up right then.”

Tanba-san calmly approached Yoshi and spoke to him. The watching crowd shuddered, as if they could already see the old man being slashed apart; the wives shut their eyes and clung to each other’s shoulders. —But no such thing occurred.

When Old Man Tanba spoke to him, Yoshi let his sword droop limply, muttered something brief, then retreated into his house still holding the bare blade. That was all. The house fell utterly silent inside, showing no further signs of violence. Old Man Tanba returned to the crowd wearing a gentle smile, announced "Everything's settled now," and walked away.

Everyone erupted into an uproar as if they had witnessed a miracle. They speculated that he must be a master swordsman or perhaps a hypnotist, until they finally confronted the question of who he truly was. “Isn’t that Tanba-san? Don’t you know him?” two or three people said. “He’s been here a long time, hasn’t he? You don’t come across good folks like that often. Did you really not know?” they pressed Sō-san of the potato shop. This was likely because it was well known that Sō-san had been a resident since his parents’ generation. It was then that Sō-san first acknowledged the existence of Old Man Tanba.

Even so, Sō-san couldn’t shake his bewilderment—how had that uncontrollable Yoshi, drunk and raging out of his mind, been calmed down? Why had Yoshi deflated so completely after just a few words from him? “So I asked Yoshi when he was sober—‘What’d Tanba-san even say to ya back then?’ y’know,” Sō-san recounted. “Then that bastard Yoshi scratches his head and goes, ‘Ain’t got no face to show now, but I pulled some dumb stunt and can’t apologize enough to everyone,’ and spills the whole story.”

According to Yoshi’s account, Tanba-san had come to his side and said, “Shall I take over for a bit?” Yoshi turned around, thought What a strange old man, and asked, “What?” “Shall I take over for a bit?” Old Man Tanba repeated. And, waving a hand toward the pillar, he added, “Must be tiring to do alone.” “I was completely drained,” Yoshi confessed to Sō-san. “Even if you said you’d take over—hell, I wasn’t doin’ any construction work or nothin’. Tanba-san just kept smilin’ all gentle-like, sayin’ how it must be wearin’ me out doin’ it alone. But there ain’t nobody to take shifts with me—how’s that s’posed to work? I looked at the sword in my hand and the pillar all hacked up, suddenly felt so drained and ashamed I just slunk back home. Spent the whole damn day sulkin’ in bed.”

When Sō-san told that story, he would pour such fervor into it as if he had become Yoshi “the Hornet” himself, striving to imbue his gestures, expressions, and voice with as much realism as possible.

Old Man Tanba was said to have been a metal engraver. In his youth, he had excelled at plain engraving for tobacco pouch clasps, kiseru pipes, and hairpins, and for a time had gained considerable renown; but now that users of such items had grown rare, he worked on luxury compacts, obi clasps, hairpins, and pendants. Since there were almost no orders, he would make pieces whenever the mood struck him and take them to his old shop to leave on consignment. And if those pieces sold, he would receive payment.

“Well, I’ve no family—just a lone old man—and at my age, desires fade,” Old Man Tanba said. “It’s merely something to pass the time till I die.”

Within the nagaya tenement, even among the few houses kept clean, Tanba-san’s was undoubtedly the first to be counted. The sliding doors glided open and closed without resistance, and no mud marred the clapboard siding. The narrow three-foot earthen floor lay dustless, footwear perpetually aligned toes-outward in military precision. His kerosene stove left no soot stains in the cooking area, while the aged tatami mats showed neither frayed edges nor worn patches. Both the two-mat entryway and six-mat inner room remained perpetually ordered, devoid of superfluous objects. A single tea cabinet and low dining table. A sturdy workbench and a box with drawers for tools and raw metals. These stood ever-fixed in their positions. Arranged with such exactitude—not a centimeter’s deviation—they might have been mistaken for built-in fixtures. —No hibachi warmed the space.

Once each morning, he would put a small amount of tea into a large earthenware teapot, pour boiling water to fill it, and sip it little by little. When guests came, he would sometimes brew fresh tea, but usually served them the same batch. "It just don't sit right with me," Watanabe-san said. "That's weak-ass tea leaves steeped to death, but watchin' Tanba-san drink it—looks so damn tasty it makes my mouth water. Swear to god."

The old man poured a small amount into a little bowl, cradling it in both hands as he pursed his lips and slowly brought them to the rim, sipping as though savoring something precious.

He never served meals to guests. It was unclear what he ate, but the old man seemed to have two meals a day—morning and evening. His kimono was of finely striped cotton, with its mending seemingly sent out for repairs; he always wore immaculately clean garments free of grime, and even in winter he went without tabi socks.

At Old Man Tanba’s house, there were daytime guests and nighttime guests. Daytime guests often had various consultations, while nighttime guests were mostly about financial matters—or rather, requests for loans. In this "town," the only one from whom money could be borrowed was the old man, and there seemed to be no instances of anyone being refused when requesting a loan. The reason there seemed to be none was that those who borrowed money from the old man never spoke of it to others. The old man, of course, kept his mouth shut, and the borrowers themselves never spoke volubly to others. This was because the old man would admonish them, “This is a secret.”

“If others find out, it would cause me trouble,” Old Man Tanba said gently. “I can’t lend to you and refuse others, and it’s not as though I always have funds available.” And then he added in a voice thick with sincerity, “There’s no need to rush to repay it—if you can’t repay it, you don’t have to.”

What he said was always the same, no matter when or to whom. One time, a wife came and pleaded, “Please don’t lend money to my good-for-nothing husband.” She said it was because if he borrowed money, he’d drink it all away and never go to work. At that time, the old man denied ever lending money. “I don’t lend money,” Old Man Tanba said with a soothing smile. “But men do face troubles they can’t even share with their wives and children. Supporting a family through this world’s rough seas is no easy task—truly no easy task at all.”

“I understand that well enough, but if he doesn’t go to work, we’ll all starve to death.” “That’s true—it would be a dire situation indeed if it came to that.” After expressing sympathy for the wife’s worries, the old man continued gently, “Let us consider this carefully. Now, this is a tale from long ago—there was a craftsman, perhaps a carpenter or a cabinetmaker. He had a wife and children, and if I recall rightly, his mother lived with them too.”

The craftsman had gone astray, stopped going to work, and instead sold or pawned items from the house, becoming consumed by drink. When the wife tried to take up work herself out of desperation, the mother stopped her. "'Only when the husband works can you call it a family,' the mother supposedly said. 'If the husband drinks himself to ruin and the wife must earn instead, that family might as well be broken.'" Old Man Tanba inclined his head slightly. "If things have come to that, wouldn't it be better for the whole family to starve together?"

The wife relayed this to her husband and said, “If you don’t work, we’ll all starve to death—the whole family together.” “This is just a story—I don’t know if it’s true or not,” Old Man Tanba said, “but no husband would sit idly by while his wife and children starve to death. Why not give it a try? Why don’t you put your mind to it? A man can’t keep drinking himself into ruin forever.”

That wife never came to Old Man Tanba’s place again, and no rumors ever arose that her husband had borrowed money from Old Man Tanba.

This story had become a legend in this "town," though its truth remained uncertain; I also believed similar tales appeared in the Konjaku Monogatari or Kokon Chomonjū anthologies. But since all residents here recounted it, I dared to present it here—anticipating readers' corrections—as follows: long ago, a thief broke into Tanba-san's house. Some said that someone had likely heard the secret rumor about the old man hoarding small savings and that a man called Dan, who had been around at the time, had instigated it.

The man called Dan was a bachelor who had lived next to Old Man Tanba for about half a year. He was constantly at the old man’s house—so much so that even Old Man Tanba seemed at his wit’s end. Dan did no proper work, yet showed no particular signs of poverty. He took all three meals at the Nakadori Cafeteria and would occasionally buy candy to distribute to the neighborhood children.

“I tell you, there’s nothing I enjoy more than having conversations like this,” Dan would say. “Conversation’s a wonderful thing, don’t you think, Old Man Tanba?”

That could not be called anything resembling a conversation. Usually, Dan would ramble on alone, and it was clear that ninety percent of his stories were lies. The old man spoke when necessary, but he was generally a man of few words—for instance, when Hira-san from the "cottage" came to visit, he would sit facing him in silence for half a day or so. This was partly due to Hira-san’s exceptionally reticent nature, but it was indeed certain that the old man did not welcome Dan’s visits. The old man showed no such signs, but Dan must have noticed, for eventually his visits began to grow less frequent, and he moved away somewhere.

Shortly after Dan moved out, a thief broke into Old Man Tanba’s house. The old man’s house had no door locks either—they closed the storm shutters but never locked them, so even the rawest novice could slip in easily. The thief must have been startled to find the interior so immaculately tidy. Spotting a box with a drawer, perhaps mistaking it for a cashbox, he tried to flee clutching it to his chest. The old man had woken up and may have been observing the thief’s movements; it was then he first spoke.

“You’re mistaken about that,” he whispered in a low, gentle voice. “That’s my toolbox for work. The money’s over here.” The thief stopped in his tracks and turned around. Old Man Tanba’s low voice and soft tone seemed to hold him there, though he still kept his body angled toward escape. “What?” he growled defensively. “I’ll get it for you now—it’s not much.” Still speaking in that same whisper, Old Man Tanba rose quietly, opened the cupboard, and took out his wallet. Though worn and frayed at the edges, he carried it over and placed it directly in the thief’s hands.

“This is all I have for now,” Old Man Tanba said, “but if you’re ever in trouble again, come back. I’ll set aside a little for you.”

"And next time, come through the front door," he was said to have told him. The thief accepted the wallet, left the toolbox behind, and walked away. This fact had been known to no one.

After half a year or perhaps a year had passed, it was said the thief had been caught by police, and one day he came to Old Man Tanba’s house accompanied by detectives for an on-site investigation. This served to corroborate his confession that he had done such-and-such things at this house.

“That’s preposterous—it must be some mistake.” Old Man Tanba answered the detectives’ questions in that manner. “No one would bother breaking into a poor tenement like this, and we’d certainly never had such a thing happen here.”

“Then I take it there are no facts indicating that this man broke in during the night or stole money or valuables?” “Yes, that’s correct.” The old man smiled at the detectives. “There’s not a single thing worth stealing here. Couldn’t that person have just seen it in a dream?”

Through this interview with the detective, the details involving the thief became widely known. Indeed, that’s just the sort of thing Tanba-san would do. What’s more, that thief’s punishment would be lighter for Tanba-san’s case alone—so the residents here agreed among themselves.

“That bastard Dan must’ve tipped him off,” one man said. “He was always campin’ out at Tanba-san’s place—bein’ neighbors an’ all—no way he didn’t blab about Tanba-san stashin’ some cash.” “Dan was a bastard you couldn’t trust worth a damn,” another man said. “Always jawin’ about blowin’ his nose with thousand-two-hundred-yen bills like they were snot rags.”

There were some who agreed, saying, “Yeah, yeah,” but since they showed no sign of understanding that outdated quip, the one who had said it seemed to be gripped by loneliness.

When Kodataki Sanzō, the secondhand dealer, just moved here, he got drunk, visited Old Man Tanba, and ranted about beating a certain colleague to death. When they heard the circumstances, it turned out that an important regular client had been taken over from him. This regular client’s household had an extraordinary amount of discardables—empty cans, liquor and beer bottles, magazines, newspapers, rags, and more—so much that it couldn’t all be carried away in one trip. These items were put out twice a month. They didn’t charge for taking them; instead, claiming it was “for having someone clean up,” they would give an average of three ko in return.

“That’s quite a rare household,” Old Man Tanba said. “They must be quite wealthy.” “But that’s not the case at all—they’re renting the place, the fence is falling apart, and they’ve got unpaid bills piling up at the liquor store—that’s what everyone around here says.” They were a middle-aged couple living together, and the husband was constantly drinking. Guests were constantly coming over, and from morning till night they would drink, argue boisterously, and sing. At times like these—he would start to say—but Kodataki Sanzō pulled himself back toward anger.

“See, a client who pays *you* to take their trash—that’s not something you come across every day! But not only did you bastard snatch that away from me, you’re so damn incompetent that someone else took it right from under your nose! ‘Don’t get careless,’ my ass!”

“There are such people in the world,” Old Man Tanba said. “When someone’s ashamed of their own deeds, they spit venom instead. I know this might sound like I’m boasting of my own misdeeds, but six or seven years back, an old man came saying he wanted to die—that he’d grown thoroughly sick of living.” He had no family—no wife, no children—and was said to be over seventy. Though he’d once been master of a prosperous merchant house, by then he peddled toys at night stalls. His body remained sturdy, but each morning when he rose to cook rice, the thought of repeating the same motions would sap his vitality clean away. He’d end up squatting before the charcoal stove, staring vacantly for half an hour at a stretch. “Nothing tasted good anymore,” Tanba continued, “and he never craved anything particular.” “He used to enjoy treating himself to drinks poured by young girls now and then, but lately even glimpsing women from afar turned his stomach.” The worst came at the public baths—the sheer revulsion of seeing his own naked flesh defied words. It wasn’t mere thinness or leathery wrinkles that repulsed him, but his very corpus—a loathsome, defiled thing he could no longer abide.

“Well, he went on like that—saying he wanted to die cleanly, to vanish completely from this world,” Old Man Tanba said. “So I went and fetched a dose of powdered medicine from the tea cabinet’s drawer. ‘This here’s a drug mixed into metalwork alloys—a potent toxin you can’t buy anywhere regular-like. Drink it, and in an hour you’ll drop dead without a lick of suffering. If you’re truly set on dying, go ahead and take it,’ I said, pouring water into a teacup and handing it over.”

The old man thanked me and drank it down. His decisiveness startled me, but perhaps having steeled himself with that act, he began recounting his life story when prompted. Until this recent war, he’d run a kimono shop in a place called Himono Town—a wife, two sons, five clerks, and a maid under his roof, making him a neighborhood notable. When the war started and corporate controls kicked in, he closed the shop to become a director at a joint-stock company dealing in national uniforms and silk thread. Back then, he’d partnered with military connections, struck lucrative deals, watched money flow in, kept mistresses on the side—living like royalty who’d conquered the world. But then winter of the eighteenth year came: his eldest son, draft notice in hand, ran off with another man’s wife and drowned himself with her at Atami—the first crack in their fortune. His second son, drafted earlier, died fighting on the continent. The air raids stripped them bare, and four or five days before Japan’s surrender, his wife starved to death.

“I still talk every night with my dead wife and children, and the two women I kept,” the old man concluded—his wife, both sons, and the women all laughing and chatting as if alive. Strangely enough, both his family and the women all held goodwill toward him, with never any resentment or hatred. Even when talking with his eldest son—the one who’d committed double suicide with another man’s wife—he came to fully understand the circumstances, and it became clear their relationship had been perfectly natural and hadn’t caused trouble for anyone. “It’s truly a strange thing,” the old man said, “but compared to when everyone was alive and living together, conversing with those who are gone in the dead of night feels far more real and carries a raw, vivid pleasure.”

“It’s precisely because you’re alive,” I told him. Old Man Tanba smiled. “To put it another way—as long as you’re alive, those people remain alive too. Such things aren’t all that common, it seems.” The old man nodded as if to say “I see,” then fell silent and pondered for a while before finally asking anxiously whether the medicine he had just taken would take effect in an hour. “That’s right—the effects should start showing in another ten minutes.” The old man fell into thought again, but as his complexion gradually paled, he stared intently at his own hands and then said, “Is there really no way to undo it?”

“No,” I answered, “for every medicine there’s one with opposite effects. If there’s a drug to stop diarrhea, there’s one to loosen bowels; if there’s medicine to neutralize stomach acid, there’s another to stimulate it—and so on.” The old man cut me off urgently: “Does this poison have such an antidote too?” “Of course poisons have antidotes,” I replied. “Though I can’t recall if I have any here—” Just as I said this, he lunged at me with such violence I thought he’d strangle me. Old Man Tanba clutched his own neck as he spoke: “He started shrieking—‘Give me the antidote now! Now!’—in this shrill voice. ‘Or I’ll charge you with murder!’ I’m not lying—that old man truly screamed like that.”

Old Man Tanba gave the old man the antidote. After pretending he could hardly find it—making sure the old man fully tasted the terror of approaching death— One medicine was a fever reducer, another a stomach remedy, and needless to say, the old man returned home unharmed. “Murderer? Don’t make me laugh!” Kodataki Sanzō snorted. “The bastard begged to die himself, then turns around screaming ‘murderer’? Shows how humans can’t keep up their fancy airs when death comes knocking.”

Kodataki Sanzō soon left. As for his earlier rant about beating a colleague to death, it seemed he had already forgotten.

Kodataki Sanzō later recounted the incident to Kantō Kiyosato and admiringly said, "Tanba-san is quite the con artist."

“I was dead serious about beating one of my colleagues to death—whether I actually could’ve killed him, I don’t know, but I was truly resolved,” Kodataki Sanzō said. “My second child had just been born, and I’d started feeling motivated about my business—thinking I could finally make ends meet. Then not only did they steal my client away, but they called me an idiot on top of it! For someone living hand-to-mouth like me, that’s a matter of life and death.”

“There was no such old man six or seven years ago,” Professor Kantō said. “I don’t recall anyone like that existing—it’s clearly a made-up story.” “I thought the same afterward,” Kodataki Sanzō replied. “All that talk about wanting to die and poison killing you in an hour—listening to it somehow made my anger cool.” “So your boiling water’s turned tepid,” Professor Kantō remarked with a laugh. “Just like that old man in the tale, it seems you were dosed with something too, Kodataki-kun.”

“Thanks to that, I managed to avoid doing anything foolish.”

One day, Sone Ryūsuke visited Old Man Tanba and asked for his advice on what to do about his wife having an affair. Sone was a thirty-eight-year-old plasterer’s laborer and had five children with his wife. This wife was called ‘Demon Hag’ by the local women here—razor-thin with a dark complexion, her narrow, receding forehead framing eyes that shone with the sharpness of an eagle’s. Her cheekbones were sharply prominent, and her perpetually pale, purplish lips were invariably pursed into a tight line, resembling a tightly shut clam shell. —She was thirty-five years old, but no one believed it. The majority claimed she was forty-five or forty-six, and there were even those who asserted she couldn’t possibly be under fifty.

Her name was O-Koto, but she did not get along well with other women—she would only speak when voicing complaints, getting angry, or asserting her side of things; otherwise, she neither offered morning nor evening greetings nor responded when addressed. Instead, perhaps she got along better with men—whether old or young—for she seemed perpetually interested in them, and it was said her eyes would change whenever she saw one.

O-Koto was often gossiped about by the neighborhood wives alongside Misao, the brush maker’s wife. They shared many similarities in build and appearance, and their penchant for men was said to be remarkably alike.

“But the brush maker’s wife is still better,” the neighborhood wives said. “This one’s a Demon Hag, but at least the brush maker’s wife knows how to keep up appearances and handle social interactions properly.”

In this way, O-Koto was disliked by the neighborhood wives. However much interest and curiosity O-Koto may have had toward men, given the appearance and temperament that earned her the nickname "Demon Hag," amorous incidents were unlikely to arise easily. In stark contrast to the brush maker’s wife, who was a master in that regard, O-Koto had until then remained pure and unblemished. The five children were undoubtedly Sone Ryūsuke’s—and to those curiously insistent on demanding proof, one would tell them to meet O-Koto just once—and though she was now pregnant, not a single soul doubted that seed too belonged to Ryūsuke.

It was said that even such an O-Koto had finally taken a lover. According to Sone Ryūsuke’s account, the partner was a twenty-two-year-old youth named Takashi who rented a room on the second floor, worked at a transport company during the day, and attended night high school. For a twenty-two-year-old to be attending night high school must mean he had an exceptionally strong passion for learning. He was gentle, so much so that even exchanging weather-related greetings would make his face turn red.

“Yes, it’s absolutely true,” Sone Ryūsuke said. “It was around the end of last month—early morning while it was still dark—when I was shocked to see O-Koto come downstairs wearing nothing but her nightclothes tied with a thin cord.” When I asked what was wrong, O-Koto replied calmly, “Oh, you’re awake,” adding, “Takashi wasn’t getting up, so I just went up to wake him.” “At the time, I thought maybe that was the case—that guy has to leave for work at six, or rather, he leaves the house every morning at six sharp for his job. So I figured it must’ve been something like that.”

After such incidents had occurred several times—perhaps believing she had her husband completely wrapped around her fingers—O-Koto quietly rose and went upstairs in the dead of night the day before last.

“When I saw that,” he said, “I thought, ‘She’s going to wake him up again. Having a tenant sure keeps a wife busy,’ and started dozing off.” Ryūsuke narrowed his eyes, mimicking the act of drifting into sleep, then suddenly widened them. “I was half-asleep when it hit me—this wasn’t morning but dead of night. I’d worked late the previous day and collapsed into bed at eight, exhausted. That’s why I missed the kids’ bedtime ruckus. Must’ve woken when O-Koto slipped out. Then I remembered—the clock had just struck one.”

He got up and looked at the clock. The hands of the old hexagonal clock pointed to 1:15. When he looked at the bed and saw O-Koto wasn’t there, he realized it hadn’t been a dream after all. “After that, my eyes stayed wide awake—couldn’t sleep a wink,” Sone Ryūsuke said. “My whole being felt awful—something kept surging up my throat nonstop, like fire scorching the backs of my ribs.”

After the clock struck three, O-Koto came downstairs. When descending, she cautiously muffled her footsteps; then, making her footsteps louder, she went to the washroom. Upon returning and slipping into bed, she let out a big yawn and fell asleep.

“I didn’t sleep a wink until morning—it may sound strange, but I felt so utterly pitiful for O-Koto that, as odd as this sounds, I was in such a bizarre state of mind that if I could have, I would’ve held her and cried together with her. This is the truth.” After the world outside began to pale with dawn, he drifted into a fitful doze. He had likely just begun to drift off when O-Koto’s piercing voice roused him as though striking the bridge of his nose. It was as if he’d been struck on the bridge of his nose by a palm—no exaggeration. “How long are you going to keep sleeping? You’ll be late, you good-for-nothing!” she’d shouted.

“It was only when I heard that voice that my guts churned like boiling water and I flared up,” Sone Ryūsuke said. “I thought about exposing last night’s affair and beating her senseless—but with five children, you see. Beating her would’ve been one thing, but if I’d told them about last night, imagine how shocked they’d be! My words caught in my throat and wouldn’t come out. Pathetic as it is, I got up without saying a word.”

He took the day off yesterday and took the day off again today. Every bone in his body had scattered apart, his innards all melted away—he couldn’t muster the will to move. “So, well—at my wit’s end—that’s why I came here.”

“Your wife mentioned her stomach being big, didn’t she?”

Sone Ryūsuke said “Hee,” shrinking his neck and scratching his head as though he were the one who was pregnant. “Whether rich or poor, educated or not,” Old Man Tanba said, “all people have a time when they make such mistakes—men and women alike. This living flesh of ours sometimes becomes something even we can’t control. Don’t you agree, Ryūsuke? Well—let’s consider things from that perspective.”

Old Man Tanba stretched out his hand, poured tea into two teacups, handed one to Sone Ryūsuke, and slowly sipped his own. That midnight, it happened on the second floor of Sone Ryūsuke’s house. A little before 2 a.m., the second-floor light suddenly came on, startling O-Koto and Takashi-san. When the two turned to look, Ryūsuke—his hand still on the light switch—was gazing down at them from above. “No need to be startled, Takashi-san,” Sone Ryūsuke said. “It’s better with the lights on—makes the passion show clearer. Take your time. After all, you must be head over heels for O-Koto to go this far. I’ll hand her over to you clean and proper.”

Neither O-Koto nor Takashi-san could move. Under the bright electric light, they might have been in a state where movement was impossible. The trembling of Takashi-san was clearly visible to Ryūsuke's eyes. "I'll hand O-Koto over to you," Sone Ryūsuke continued. "And I'll throw in the five kids and the one still in her belly too. Got it? This is the last thing I'll say. Now, take your time and have at it again."

And he left the light on and went downstairs to sleep. A twenty-one or twenty-two-year-old youth would hardly be pleased to take in a woman who not only lived up to her "Demon Hag" nickname in both name and reality but also came with five children and another still in her womb. No, even a man in his forties or fifties—it was doubtful that anyone with that much courage existed. Thus, Takashi-san fled, O-Koto tearfully apologized to her husband, and this less-than-romantic romance came to an end.

“Yes, it worked out perfectly,” Sone Ryūsuke told Old Man Tanba after the matter had settled. “Telling him I’d throw in the five kids and the one in her belly hit the mark. He ran off leaving all his belongings behind. O-Koto was crying and begging for forgiveness for the children’s sake—ah, coming to consult you was the right move. That line worked like a charm.”

As for how O-Koto processed this incident internally, she continued acting nonchalantly afterward, confronting the wives in the tenement without hesitation, yelling at them and scolding them as usual. While nearly everyone knew about her affair with Takashi-san, O-Koto alone behaved as if it had never even crossed her mind, leaving even the usually sharp-tongued wives in the tenement with nowhere to direct their cutting remarks.

Now, our “town” was asleep.

Kumanbachi no Yoshi had moved away somewhere, but many of those who had been helped by Old Man Tanba were sleeping in their respective homes within the tenement. While some may have recalled being helped by Old Man Tanba and sighed in gratitude, most had long forgotten—yet even so, they sighed now, comforted by the reassurance that he remained in this tenement, ready to lend an ear when trouble arose.

The high cliff of Saiganji Temple encircling this town from behind, and the thickly growing trees atop it, now felt not oppressive but as if cradling the entire cluster of tenements and watching over their tranquil slumber. When one raised their eyes from the blackened trees, the sky was filled with shining stars, but their twinkling seemed cold and pitiless—less a whisper of love than the mockery of bystanders.

“There, there—sleep while you can sleep,” they seemed to be saying. “Tomorrow you’ll be kicked around again and made to cry in bitter frustration.”

Afterword

Last year (1961), I compiled a book titled Aobeka Monogatari. It is a story about the people of a certain fishing town and the events that occurred there, but this "Seasonless Town" shares so many common points in content with what could be called the urban counterpart of Aobeka Monogatari that one might say they are nearly comparable.

In Japan, of course, and indeed anywhere in the world, the destitute seem to create their own towns. It is not through deliberate planning but rather a genesis as natural as dust gathering in windblown hollows—so organic that no one can pinpoint when it began—where, both economically and emotionally, they generally avoid engaging with those outside their own "town."

While the residents here united under the concept of a "town" to confront outsiders, they remained individually lonely and seemed perpetually to cling to quibbling self-respect. The term “quibbling” appears in this work—take, for instance, the act of borrowing a pinch of salt. While such an act was often genuinely necessary, there were just as many instances where it served no real need but was done to foster familiarity, to grant the other party a sense of superiority, or out of sheer stinginess.

What makes me feel that these people possess the most genuine humanity lies in this: because they are perpetually driven to the edge by their daily scramble for survival, they lack both the time and means to blind others with pretense or deceive themselves—they expose their raw selves without disguise. Of course, like those living in affluence, they too harbor vanity, pride, jealousy, slander, and greed. Yet these traits prove so shallow and artless that they’re swiftly seen through, often rebounding against their bearers—and it’s precisely here that human fragility and sorrow stand starkly revealed.

Residents of such a "town" could be broadly divided into two categories: temporary and permanent. Even among temporary residents, there were those inherently predisposed to remain and those there due to circumstantial misfortune; the former often became permanent dwellers, while the latter retained the potential to eventually escape. These groups—through both practical clashes and psychological friction with long-term residents—bred myriad conflicts, generating tragedies and comedies that, while seemingly trivial to outsiders, cut profoundly deep for those involved.

In Seasonless Town, I re-encountered these people. The characters, events, and scenes that appear here were all things I saw with my own eyes, heard with my own ears, and directly encountered—much like in Aobeka Monogatari, one might say it amounts to a complete sweep of my material notebooks.

―While reproducing this notebook as a novel, I felt limitless affection and nostalgia for each and every one of the characters in this work. These people once lived close to me, and now their laughter, their sighs, their anger, and their sobs have returned to me once more. Without distorting it, I transcribed it as faithfully as possible, just as it was. And yet, while these people belong to the past, I wish to convey that even now, there are those close at hand to the reader who spend their days in similar disappointment, despair, sorrow, and resignation.

Therefore, I wish to record here that "this place knows neither temporal bounds nor geographical limits." It is neither fixed in time nor place.

So why did I choose to set this as a "town"? It was because, despite differing eras, locations, and social conditions, there existed an utterly universal similarity among both the people who appeared here and the tragicomedies they experienced.