Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter One

Part One: The Women of the Den of Iniquity He stopped the flat-rate taxi before a dark railroad crossing. "Master, having some fun tonight?" said the young driver with a sly grin as he held out the change. "What's that supposed to mean?" Sunauma Kouichi snatched the coins. Across the road stretched train tracks. An antiquated locomotive blocked the center of the roadway, wheezing white steam like a senile asthmatic. In the suburbs—here at the absolute ass-end of the shabby outskirts.

Street stalls lined the edge of the sidewalk. They looked like lice clinging in a row along a seam. The street stalls were enclosed with patchwork cloth. Perhaps the drying winds were strong on this street, for beneath the cloth—like rags meant to conceal tatters—weights had been fastened. The stones were bound with hemp rope like that used to restrain prisoners. Smoke from burning pork belly fat billowed thickly up from between the cloths. Sunauma and I entered the alley on the right. Sunauma said this area was the prime location. That’s why they had a full lineup of premium women. The left side of the road was cheap, but women could be had there. We had money that day. It was money we’d expropriated.

The women of the prime location don’t come out into the alley to solicit customers. In this den of iniquity, stories like men coming wearing soft hats that women could easily snatch, or someone weeping as they left after having their fountain pen taken from their pocket by a woman—these things happened in different parts of the same district. “Refined” (as Sunauma would say), they stay demurely in their houses,

“Hey there, hey there.” From small windows where only their faces were visible, they called out to passing men.

“Hey there, Big brother.” “Hey there, hey there, Glasses-wearing Master!” Voices of solicitation came from both sides. A call that they would sell themselves for even one yen and fifty sen if just for a short while. “Hey there, Mr. Suit.” It meant “Mr. Suit.” “Hey there, that gentleman in Western clothes”—this being the call made. This was an era when, unlike today, men still commonly wore kimono in casual drape. “Hey, step right in.” “Hey hey! Come on—take a peek right here.”

It was the season when daylight faded early. Though considerable time had passed since sunset, in terms of actual hours, it was still early evening. Yet despite this, the narrow alley was already teeming with people.

Men walking through the alley were subjected to a simultaneous barrage of eyes and voices from these small windows on both sides, requiring considerable nerve. The man walking down the center of the alley with a gait as if he were on some other business was one unaccustomed to such places. From time to time, he would steal sidelong glances into the small windows. When called out to, he would startle and jump back exaggeratedly. Seasoned men moved like those darting under eaves during rainfall, peering into each small window as they went. They searched for women they wanted to buy. "Oh, that's a good-looking woman," they would say. This was, conversely, their carefree pretense of having no intention to approach. The seasoned women would retort with things like, "How rude!" or "Quit blocking the way!"

I was, well, something like the midpoint between those stealing sidelong glances and those skulking under eaves. Maybe it was my imagination, but the stench of semen and disinfectant seemed to hang thick in that alley. The breath of women-starved men must have been emitting that foul, feverish stench of human congestion. The alley continued like a labyrinth, and on the narrow paths between houses—barely wide enough for one person to pass—were scrawled the words: "Passage through possible." Thereby showing that women waiting for buyers lurked in the path's depths too.

At the edge of the eaves stood a figure like an ogre hag. Behind it stood a girl in a sailor uniform with her head bowed dejectedly. It was her debut. Or perhaps they were trying to sell her under the pretense of it being her debut. The girl wore geta with red straps on her blackish bare feet.

“How about it?” I said. “No good.” Sunauma said. “If it’s not an older woman, it’s no good,” he said.

The girl in the sailor uniform—when you got close enough to see her face—had features too aged to be called a girl’s. The patchy face, where the white powder wouldn’t settle properly, made her seem like someone who until just recently had been working in the fields. But Sunauma said it was no good unless it was a woman over thirty. When Sunauma said “older woman,” he meant precisely that age. And by “older woman,” he also meant “hussy.”

Every type of woman was present here. You could buy a woman of your choosing. If you searched thoroughly enough, you could surely find a woman resembling your favorite movie actress—it was that kind of place. Looking back, it was when the den of iniquity was in its heyday. The older woman that Sunauma spoke of called out from the small window: “Step right in.” It was a rough voice. Young girls often wore Western-style clothes, but this unlicensed prostitute was dressed in a kimono. She had pulled back the collar of her cheap kimono—made of flimsy fabric—to its limit, slathering white powder thickly from her nape down to her shoulders, but her face bore no heavy makeup meant to conceal her age.

“Want some ob (tea)?” The fact that she wasn’t trying to hide her age seemed to appeal to Sunauma. “How many girls you got here?” “Are you with a group, sirs?” The woman laughed, crinkling small ripples of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, “We have four.”

Beside the small window stood an entrance like an apartment door. Sunauma said to me, "Hey, let's go in," and kicked it open. I followed him inside. The woman didn't rise eagerly, just rested her cigarette-holding hand listlessly on a raised knee. "Gentlemen?" She radiated brazen hussydom. Her eyes held guarded wariness rather than client appraisal. Customers asking about girl counts naturally seemed suspicious. They acted like greenhorn detectives, though no self-respecting vice squad would spout such lines.

“Staying the night?” Angling her gaunt frame—which clearly announced to any eye her long years in the demimonde— “Short time?” Her hands—as pallid as a leek left too long in the store—had blue veins showing. With just that woman alone there, the ceiling of the cramped, stage-set-like small room had theatrical lighting fixtures installed. “Who’d come for an overnight stay this early?”

Sunauma said mockingly. “Well, they do come.” “Oh really? My bad then.” “Sorry about that.”

We were standing on the earthen entryway. At the rear of the earthen entryway sat a narrow raised step, with no paper sliding doors installed. In those days, scraps of *Kanakin* futon covers were cut into thin strips, bundled together, and used as cleaning brushes; here, similar colorful cloth strips had been cut into narrow lengths and hung over the raised step in the style of rope curtains. The small bell hanging beyond that—was it serving as a substitute for a bell to signal customers coming and going? "You should enjoy yourself properly when paying for fun," he said. "I don't mind paying the all-night rate."

Sunauma spat the Shikishima cigarette directly from his mouth onto the earthen entryway and crushed it under his boot tip. “You folks... gamblers?” “We were seen as ‘Fukatsushi’ gamblers.” “Unlike before, these days you all come dressed in three-piece suits, hmm?” It meant they were wearing suits rather than kimonos. “How kind of you to think so. Is that how we look to you?” And Sunauma laughed. Sunauma was smirking to himself, thinking that with this kind of brazen hussy, he could likely incite her into providing exactly the amusing play he desired.

At that moment, I saw something unsavory. No—it wasn’t that I saw the inner part of the woman’s raised knee. At my feet on the earthen floor, two ramen bowls were stacked and placed directly. That came into view. That alone would have been tolerable, but cigarette butts were discarded in the leftover broth there. The belly of the paper had split open, their soggy innards spilling out like putrid offal, and even clumps of shed hair rolled into balls were smeared flat against them. Had they blown in with the wind? Or was this also discarded on purpose? I grimaced at their filthy act, but immediately—

"No—this is how it should be. This is better." I told myself. I, drenched in filth, had no right to call anything dirty. I myself was far filthier. But here, it wasn't about such logic. Filthy as I was, I was about to do something so vile that even I hesitated slightly—and this wasn't just about buying a whore. That's why I hated having filth thrust before my eyes beforehand like this.

We ended up going upstairs. Once that was settled, the woman suddenly sprang into brisk motion, taking Sunauma’s hand as if to pull him up. The bell rang. “This place is like a damn horse stampede.” With that, Sunauma went up the stairs alone.

As I was taking off my shoes, “You’re so inexperienced.”

And the woman tapped my shoulder. I was wounded. I wanted to snap back that she didn't know a damn thing. Was it my being twenty-two that made me look inexperienced?

“You’re lucky.” Saying this in a mock-sisterly tone, the woman reached out with her thin, withered hand and took our shoes. “There’s an inexperienced cutie who arrived today. “And she’s the one for you…” Dangling the shoes with both hands, she stowed them away in the household shoe cupboard.

“A newcomer, huh?” “Miss Clara.”

And the woman called. “Comin’!”

The response from the back came in an unexpectedly hoarse voice. When I glared at the woman—thinking she was mocking someone—the sliding door of the back room opened and a young woman in a dress emerged. At a glance, I—

“This ain’t good,” I muttered, ducking my head. From beyond the long brazier peered the face of an old woman with a headache plaster stuck to her temple—the same voice that had called out “Comin’!” earlier, I realized—just as the sliding door snapped shut. “Make sure to become a regular patron from now on,” the woman said. “Please.” Clara spoke shyly, her eyes downcast. That mouth of hers—the slight receding chin—was exactly my type. This was getting dangerous, I thought, growing flustered. Even telling myself she was just a prostitute did nothing—there was something about this Clara that suddenly stirred up the purity still left in me. So this was what they called love at first sight?

“Mari-chan’s regular took one look at this girl and got completely smitten.” Speaking as though I knew who Mari-chan was, when she said this, the woman lowered her voice— “Because he said he wanted to switch over to her, it caused a huge commotion." “Well, it’s finally settled down now anyway...”

She pointed upstairs. From that second floor, “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Sunauma barked.

“I’m coming now.” I felt a pang of guilt, as though I’d already betrayed Sunauma. Sunauma was six years older than I.

The small second-floor room had only a large bed. Because the room was small, the bed only appeared large; it was a single bed. It was pressed flush against the wall, but on its wallpaper, water stains traced shapes like hanging icicles. They also looked like swords.

At the bedside was a small table that evoked a charity ward. The ill-advised presence of a flowerless vase only made the room feel lonelier. From the window fitted with garish red and green colored glass, the clamor from below could be heard. Because it was a barracks-like structure, drafts blew in along with the noise. When I say this, it might seem as if I lived in some high-class room, but that's not the case. My boarding house wasn’t much better. However, my boarding house was a place where I merely slept alone.

The room for sleeping with women—couldn't it at least be a bit more... sensual, alluring—or if not that extreme, couldn't it at least be somewhat decent? Wouldn't that be better? Did it really have to be such a bleak, vulgar room? That was what I had wanted to say.

But for the men who came there, the room didn't matter at all. All they needed were women. Women were all they were after. Clara too was a woman bought by such men. "Round 'em all up!"

On the bed, Sunauma sat imposingly, sprawled in a wide cross-legged stance.

“Call all those skanks (women) here now!” Deliberately using yakuza jargon, “Don’t raise your voice like that.” The woman reprimanded him with an air of matriarchal authority. “There’s a customer here. “We’re in business, you know.” “So I’m supposed to sit here like an idiot until it’s free?” Sunauma loosened his necktie, “How ’bout we get some Osato?” “Osato?”

The woman didn’t know “Osato.” It was slang from the sushi shop scene in Yoshitsune Senbonzakura. “It ain’t roasted sweet potatoes.” “It’s sushi.” “How ’bout we get some sushi?” “I’ll go ask Auntie then.” “How many portions?” “Just order whatever.” he said airily, “We’ll have beer too!”

“You got it.”

The woman left. Clara drew close to me. The smell of cheap perfume stung my nose. It told me that this woman was a cheap prostitute. I was desperately trying to convince myself that this woman was a cheap prostitute. “Clara’s quite the fancy name.” Sunauma’s face looked as though he wanted to curse—uncharacteristically so. “Did you take it from Clara Bow? But you don’t have that ‘it’ (sexual appeal) like Clara Bow.”

He fixed his gaze—like a tongue licking over every contour—on Clara’s body, “Where’re you from?”

“In Tokyo.” “Liar!” “It’s true.” “Your speech doesn’t have an accent. Where in Tokyo?” “Enough, Mr. Sunauma.” I said. Sunauma snorted loudly through his large nose,

“Why would you come to a place like this if you were born in Tokyo?” Clara kept silent. She didn’t even appear angered by the humiliation. That Clara—with her slender, delicate frame—seemed truthful about her Tokyo origins. “Did some man deceive you?”

“I don’t know…” “How old are you?” “Nineteen.” “You’ve got nice skin.”

The woman returned from below. I stood up from the chair. “Where are you going?”

“Just a sec.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” “The shit house.” This meant prison toilets—mushinin (prisoner) jargon—but we who had deep ties to mushi (prison) used this term far more than words like subachō (washroom).

“Sixteen…?” the woman said. Shishi (44) meant sixteen—prison slang for urination. “Is Kashiwai already worked up?” “Can’t help it—he’s young.”

Sunauma laughed. “Shut it,” I said. The stairs creaked as I went down—each groan echoing the ache in my chest.

As I approached the toilet at the back downstairs,

“Wait up!” came a woman’s voice from inside. I pressed my face close to the narrow mirror in the washroom. “I want to sleep with that Clara,” I told my reflection. “Only with Clara.” The toilet door burst open violently, revealing a woman in flannel nightclothes thrown over her naked body—a fact immediately apparent. “Move,” she said. I wordlessly shifted away from the mirror. “It’s free now,” she added, urging me toward the toilet. Her accent defied geographical placement, but its presence was unmistakable.

“Mari-chan?”

I said.

The woman—long-torsoed with an elongated face—let out a yelp and looked at me. I jumped into the toilet. And straddling the toilet bowl, I slowly dragged my pants down, "The woman’s got some damn huge tits." Muttering this, I squatted down, and right before my nose hung a black rubber tube, swaying back and forth, threatening to hit my face. I let my gaze follow that black rubber tube upward along its length, and there I found a glass vessel containing purple-colored liquid. I nodded emphatically. Then, as I traced my eyes along the black tube downward, the end of the rubber tube was clamped with a clothespin. It was that wooden clothespin with a spring—the kind used for drying laundry.

Only a little urine came out. The rubber tube's vibration had already stopped. I touched the rubber. With the tips of my thumb and index finger, I tried pinching it like a clothespin. It felt flabby and unreliable, yet offered a certain resistance to my fingertips.

I stood up. And I confirmed that I hadn't come there because I wanted to urinate at all. Of course I hadn't come here to use the rubber tube bidet. What had I come here for? Had I come here just because I wanted to touch the rubber with my hands? It seemed I had come here to kill this thing called pure sentiment that had begun stirring within me. I left the toilet. While washing my hands, I tried looking at my face in the mirror again. When viewed from afar, the face in the mirror was horribly distorted. What a piece of junk mirror. You could say it was exactly the sort of mirror befitting a cheap brothel.

“There’s no need to get hung up on a cheap whore.”

I was on the verge of falling in love. I glared at my own ugly, distorted face in the mirror. I had agreed with Sunauma—who wanted to do something utterly shameless—and that was why I’d come here: to do shameless things. “As if I’d fall for a cheap whore like that!” At that moment, the distorted face in the mirror suddenly revived an unpleasant memory. When that Bolshevik dropout student had berated me, I must have worn this same pathetic expression. Against those logic-chopping bastards, I couldn’t hold my ground. Cornered in argument, I’d been left speechless. That humiliation came surging back.

“We are men of action!”

And so, I had let out a reckless shout.

“Action without theory is meaningless.” And that bastard had spouted. These so-called Bol faction (short for Bolsheviks; meaning Communists) we had opposed them as anarchists. That bastard went on,

“Not just meaningless—it’s a major detriment to the class struggle itself.” He’d even condemned us like that. To begin with, I couldn’t stomach how the Bol faction kept recruiting those raw students into their ranks. What good did it do for parasites living off their parents’ money to just mouth off smooth talk?

I spat at the mirror. The spit caught on my forehead in the mirror and oozed down the middle of my face.

I returned to the second floor. Mari-chan, whom I had met in the toilet, had been called into the room. “Go get another one, and hurry it up!”

Sunauma said to the woman. “This doesn’t work without all four.” “Are you saying we should pick from the four of us?” “You want us to pick again?” “That’s not what I meant.” “Isn’t it supposed to be me and Clara-san who get assigned?” “Then you—” “It’s not like that.”

Sunauma cut in. "So it's not like that?" "If I put up the cash, that settles it." "The cash—" "Quit harping on money, money." "How much you planning to give?"

“That’ll depend on what kinda service you give.” “What kinda service?”

“All four of you are sleeping here.” “Here?”

“It’s cramped, though.” “All four of us?” “You’ll sleep naked.” “You line us up naked—then what?”

“Don’t you get it, dammit?”

Sunauma said impatiently,

“There’s gotta be customers like that.” Mari-chan gaped vacantly like an imbecile. And Clara was biting her lower lip.

“We’ll do rock-paper-scissors to decide the order…” “You can’t just joke about this.” The woman stared fixedly at Sunauma. “You can’t be serious.” “I’m serious.” “You’re the one acting all serious, so I’m telling you straight—this is disgusting.” “You’re disgusting.” “Don’t get so worked up now.” “It’s hilarious.” “It might be amusing for customers, but it’s not the least bit amusing for us.” He clicked his teeth sharply and drew in a breath, “I’m not being unreasonable here.”

“I won’t be made a fool of. We mean to enjoy ourselves properly.” “We’re human too. We’re not dogs or beasts.”

I saw that the description of bulging veins was indeed true. "Why don't you all say something instead of staying quiet?"

The woman flared up. “Hey, Mari-kun!”

A man shouted from the opposite room.

“Let’s get out of here.” “Coming!”

Mari-chan rushed out. Clara also left the room as if clinging after her. “Even though we’re bodies that can be bought with money…no matter how much you pile up, I won’t let myself be made into such a pitiful plaything. Get out of here already.”

The woman declared flatly. There was an imperious dignity that defied challenge. “Since you’ve already ordered the sushi, you’ll need to pay…” “I’ll have it wrapped up for you to take away.” “Don’t want it.”

Sunauma was bitterly frustrated, but spoke gently, “My apologies for making you waste your precious time.” “I’ll leave the damn fee too.” “We’ll take what you’re offering.”

The woman said with a pale face. She was mocking him. "Damn whore, acting all high and mighty with that mouth of hers," Sunauma fumed after stepping outside. In front of the woman, he had indeed been suppressing his anger. Sunauma said they should go to Naka (Yoshiwara).

“Prostitutes don’t complain.” —We were failed terrorists who had outlived our time. If we called ourselves that, Sunauma would glare at me for being presumptuous. Sunauma thinks of me as his underling. As a racketeer, that might hold true—but during our terrorist days, we had been comrades. I joined the terrorist group through knowing Sunauma, but that didn’t make me his subordinate. Young as I was, I too had been a proper terrorist.

It was three years ago that we had ended up dead as terrorists. A faction of terrorists (I will have to elaborate on this matter later) attempted to assassinate General Fukui with pistols. That faction was caught and executed. This was how we had ended up dead. We had made plans to take them out with bombs. To test their power, we blew up public toilets ("paint"—communal latrines). That bombing incident too came to be attributed to the sniper faction—or rather, they took responsibility for all those additional crimes themselves, then ordered us to remain silent as they went to their deaths. The fact that we had been making dynamite fortunately remained undetected. If it had been discovered, we too would have been executed at that time.

We had joined General Fukui’s assassination plot prepared to face execution, but in truth, midway through, it was decided that it would be disastrous for all of us to be wiped out there, “You all must survive.” And being told to carry on our comrades’ will, we were forcibly excluded from the faction. So while you could say our lives were saved because of that, the overwhelming sense remained that we were failed deaths. We had effectively been left behind. Sunauma, who had become one of these failed deaths, seemed to have lost his spirit because of that; in fact, he remained in a state of prostration for some time. It was after that that Sunauma became an expropriation racketeer. I worked at an anarchist labor union. Because that wasn’t enough to live on, I became Sunauma’s racketeering underling and survived on that money.—

We got out of the car on the street behind the brothel district where they had filled in the teeth-blackening ditch. This brothel district, completely burned down in the earthquake disaster, had been splendidly rebuilt. "Here should be fine, and I won't let them complain," Sunauma declared forcefully. If that were the case, he should have come here from the start—but Sunauma claimed that unlicensed prostitutes had more of an amateurish feel, and that forcing indecent acts upon them was more amusing. That licensed prostitutes being too professional made things less interesting—I couldn't say I didn't understand that.

“Master, Master, there’s a good girl here.” Ushitarō was calling out to customers. “Big brother, how about a modern girl?”

he called out to me.

When we came here from the gloomy den of iniquity, this place gave the impression of towering buildings lining the streets. In a polished wooden floor reminiscent of a daimyo mansion's formal entryway, gorgeously attired courtesans stood like merchandise samples. Apparently they all used to stand out front like this in what were called display brothels - letting customers peek through latticework and choose their selection directly - but when that was banned, they started lining up photographs as substitutes for the actual women. And though they would station the most beautiful courtesan conspicuously to catch passing eyes, even those who climbed the stairs seeking her would inevitably be assigned lesser girls instead.

“Anywhere’s fine. Let’s just get in there.”

With that," Sunauma said, and entered a lower-tier second-rate Western-style establishment. Even Sunauma avoided first-class establishments after all.

When we climbed the bridge-like staircase with red-lacquered handrails adorned with giboshi ornaments, we saw the figure of a respectable-looking prostitute hurriedly heading toward a regular customer’s room, her felt sandals clattering against the floor as she walked. I felt disillusioned. Perhaps because Clara’s face remained burned into my mind and wouldn’t fade away. The skilled madam guided us to the hiki-tsuke reception room. To these walk-in clients who hadn’t made prior arrangements, the madam inquired what sort of girl suited their tastes. "Please state your preferences," she said.

“One older woman. And for this friend here, one young girl. Then call two more.” “Four?” “Five is fine too.” “Right now, everyone’s busy—please make it two. If you don’t like them, just say so and we’ll send others your way.” “I’m taking four. In someone’s crib—we’ll all sleep together there.” Sunauma declared domineeringly. When he said he wanted an interesting game,

“That won’t do, Master.”

“There’s no reason it can’t be done.” “I’ll damn well see to it.”

With that, Sunauma tapped his inner pocket demonstratively. Inside was an unexpectedly large sum of money obtained through shameless expropriation. Was Sunauma planning to squander that on shameless games?

“This is rather difficult, Master.”

The skilled madam put her hand to her chest, adjusted her collar as if straightening it, and said in a worldly tone, "That would be rather difficult, Master." "You say it's difficult? Who's having trouble?" "Is it you who's having trouble?" "If it's me who's troubled—if it's just me being troubled—then I don't mind." The woman—whose powder-caked face suggested she would eventually rise from amateur to professional—frowned and said. "If you're saying you can't negotiate after spouting that nonsense, I'll go talk to them myself." "If you won't negotiate, I'll say it myself."

“Go ahead and say it yourself. You’ll simply have salt thrown at you.” To Sunauma, who scoffed “You wanna throw salt on me?” the skilled madam fixed her bleary, sleep-deprived eyes firmly and said: “Here, we have our own customs.” “Is that sort of play prohibited by law?” “That’s not the case, but... Here, quickie sessions are strictly forbidden.” “If courtesans start sleeping with some regular’s friend, wouldn’t that cause issues?” “That’s why we ask our customers too—we decline any partner-switching requests within the same house. Even that causes enough trouble, let alone...”

“Who’s making trouble?”

Sunauma knew full well and was messing with her. He was persistently pressing forward, trying to break her down.

“The courtesans would never consent. “Kuruwa has its own code, you know.” “Let alone something like that…” She refused not in a rough tone, but gently yet clearly. “Even we who are engaged in such a lowly trade wouldn’t stoop to something so disgraceful…” “You don’t like that, huh? “Oh, is that so?”

Sunauma said mockingly. “In this area, such play simply isn’t feasible, you see.”

"In an unlicensed brothel, such things might be possible," the skilled madam said. "You call this having standards?"

As proof of his flaring anger, Sunauma’s large nostrils dilated, “What’s the difference between prostitutes and courtesans?” “Courtesans aren’t engaging in prostitution?” “Or what—are you saying you don’t even make them do prostitution?” “I never said that.” “You think your brothel’s some high-class joint, huh?” “What unbelievable arrogance.” “I don’t know how much more approachable prostitutes are.” “If you dare look down on whores, you’ll regret it!” “In that case, why don’t you go over there where you prefer and have yourself a grand old time.”

We were driven out of here too. Sunauma wouldn't give up though. With things having come to this, he now vigorously declared we'd target shadare—geisha. I felt completely worn out already. We'd been snapped at by women from the lowest unlicensed brothels—Burumaru whores—then flatly rejected even at proper brothels. Geisha of higher standing than those would undoubtedly turn us down too, no matter how mizuten we acted. Going would be pointless. Thinking this way, I'd grown thoroughly sick of it—partly because I still couldn't forget that Clara. That the woman I'd fallen for at first sight was a common whore filled me with grief. Sadness wears humans down.

“If it were Maruman, he’d be negotiating smoothly instead of me—but Kashiwai’s useless.”

Sunauma said. The name "Maruman" might sound like a shop’s trade name, but it was neither an alias nor anything of the sort—it was a proper family name. He was an anarchist close to Sunauma and older than him, but held the position of subordinate—a junior member—as an expropriation racketeer. Sunauma still treated Maruman, who had once been like a loyal servant, as a junior.

“Let’s grab a car and hurry there.” “Let’s just give up already.” “What are you saying?! Hey! Kashiwai, follow me.”

—To me, this feels like it happened just the other day, yet many long years have passed. This occurred in the early years of the Showa era. Yet it feels as though it were just yesterday.

Speaking of which, I suddenly remembered something I had heard long ago.

From what others have told me—so I’ve heard there’s this kind of mathematics, but it’s nothing like the math I learned in middle school. They say it’s not even considered rare these days, so going on about it like it’s something special would be laughable—but since I did graduate middle school, even I should be able to explain it.

For example, here there are two straight lines AB and A’B’. AB is short, and A’B’ is long. AB is small, and A’B’ is large. AB can also be seen as part of A’B’. AB can be said to be part of A’B’. But whether that AB is indeed smaller than A’B’ is the question. To the naked eye, it certainly appears small, but.

Let O be the intersection point of AA' and BB'. Drawing a straight line OM' from this O intersects AB at M. If M' is moved left or right along A’B’, then M will inevitably move correspondingly. When M’ moves from A’ toward B’, M similarly moves from A toward B.

Let us consider all points on AB and all points on A’B’ here. If all points on A’B’ are connected to O, there will invariably exist corresponding points on AB as well. If that is the case, then the points on A’B’ and the points on AB become equivalent, and AB and A’B’ themselves become equivalent. AB cannot be said to be smaller than A’B’.

In truth, this was connected to the concept of infinity, and through this, they say the previously vague notion of infinity had been clarified. If I were to bring that up here, it would complicate things, so I'll stop—but the reason I'm recalling all this now is none other than...

If this had been my life—how fascinating it would have been—Sunauma had truly claimed such an existence, one that others might deem remarkable, as his own. He lived the life I could not live. And Sunauma was pursuing something beyond even that. As for those shameless acts—it wasn't merely because Sunauma had drawn me in; initially, I myself had wanted to participate too...

Sunauma told Kaina the attendant to call four geisha. “Four?” At those words from the woman with a brown wart at her eye’s corner— (Here it comes...) I recognized this as the first refusal. “You’ll send two back, won’t you? It’s cruel to return them so late.” “I’ll keep all four overnight.” “Even so—” “No—I’ll handle all four myself.”

“My, my—what remarkable stamina you have…” Making a beckoning cat-like gesture, “You taking two at a time by yourself—what peculiar tastes you have.”

The plump attendant laughed. It was not a laugh condemning our shamelessness. Rather than condemning us, it was a provocative laugh, so Sunauma felt pleased,

“So you’ve already seen through me.” “If that’s the case, then four should be fine.” “Shouldn’t be a problem.” “We don’t mind, but—” “How will the geisha respond?”

“How will the geisha respond?” I said. The attendant turned to me, (He looks about the age of a student, but could he be a laborer?)

She cast such a fleeting glance, “Well, Master...” With eyes that regarded Sunauma as if he were some thriving factory owner, “Why don’t you try approaching the geisha yourself, Master?” “Even if we’re turned down, that’s just how it goes.” But Sunauma said that if we approached an unlicensed prostitute who had time to kill at this hour with the right proposal, she’d likely go along with it, “Even geisha would surely find it amusing depending on how you approach them, Master...” “You think they’ll find it amusing?”

“That depends on your skill, Master.” “Don’t say that—just help me out. That’s an attendant’s duty, isn’t it?” The attendant nodded obediently, her chin resembling the Kao Soap logo pulled back, “That depends on your skill and money…” “Alright, let’s dive in.” With this, it seemed the matter was already settled. It was almost disappointingly simple. I took another look around the stylish parlor. It was a stylish construction that naturally brought to mind the term “sophisticated quarters.” It was as if it declared that the women who came and went here were not common prostitutes or streetwalkers, but stylish geisha.

“In that case, we’ll need someone interesting, won’t we?”

The attendant muttered geisha names under her breath and made a gesture as if counting. "That girl's game enough, but I wonder if she'll go along smoothly…" Sunauma sent me a knowing smile and said to the attendant.

“Everyone’s sleeping in one room. All of you together.”

“Huh?” The attendant rounded her eyes. “There really are some curious souls out there, aren’t there? Having two customers together—that’s quite rare, isn’t it?” “A single customer with multiple geisha—isn’t that unusual?” “That’s unusual too, though.” The attendant said this, but it served as confirmation that such play was indeed conducted here. “Since it’s even more unusual, the geisha should find it all the more entertaining.” “Come to think of it, that might be true.”

I saw the attendant nod in agreement. That they’d been refused even by cheap prostitutes and turned away at brothels, yet geisha would instead “find it amusing”… No doubt they were destined to become full-time snowmen in the pillow trade, but even so—

"How fascinating."

“It’s quite amusing,” I muttered,

“But I’m getting out of here. “I’m going home.” I said to Sunauma, who reached out saying, “Wait, wait.”

"I've lost interest." "That's exactly Kashiwai's flaw." "Even if I can't go through with it, forgive me."

I rushed off to Clara’s place.

Part Two: Chinese Ronin I had become utterly infatuated with Clara. I had fallen head over heels for such a lowly unlicensed prostitute in this district—then called a den of iniquity—that was considered the absolute worst. Though I wasn’t as much of a playboy as Sunauma, I wasn’t exactly naive either—no, I’d had considerable experience visiting brothels and hunting streetwalkers. That I’d come to obsess over Clara to this degree was also because this woman was what you’d call a rare “hidden gem” among the shabby outskirts’ cheap prostitutes—as Maruman, one of Sunauma’s underlings, had told me. To say this might make me seem blinded by a lover’s partiality, but in those days, such “hidden gems” did occasionally exist—yes, exist—within this den of iniquity.

In other words—how should I put it—even the first-rate geisha of Shinbashi and Akasaka and the cheap prostitutes of Noi (Tamanoi) and Meido (Kameido) were fundamentally the same when you got down to it. If a girl met a decent broker, she might be taken in as an apprentice geisha at a first-class geisha house—but through some twist of fate, that very same girl could end up being indentured at Yoshiwara’s licensed quarter (brothel). Of course there was such a thing as differences in quality among these jewels—a girl who looked like some gaudy leftover Tori festival rake obviously couldn’t become a first-class geisha—but even those with good looks might end up failing to become geisha and instead turn into prostitutes, all due to slight differences in their starting points.

If a woman was slightly past the prime age for being an apprentice geisha, “How about signing up for indentured service at a famous sake house?” When told this by the broker, the rural woman—unfamiliar with Tokyo—would assume she’d be serving drinks and eagerly seize what seemed a better opportunity than indentured prostitution. Then they would be made to serve unimaginable clientele, sold off to places even worse than brothels. These brothels were what they called famous sake houses.

In this den of iniquity, many were daughters of impoverished Tohoku farmers who had been bought and brought here, deceived by vicious brokers' sweet talk into coming unaware they would be forced into prostitution. There were hussies too—pillow-trade geisha who had drifted through various lands before finally washing up here—but most were women bought cheaply from rural areas. A Tokyo-born woman like Clara was a rarity. Why on earth had this woman been sold into such a den of iniquity? I couldn't believe she had come there without knowing what kind of place it was. She must have come here knowing full well—but under what circumstances? I wanted to ask her that, but precisely because I wanted to, I couldn't bring myself to. Then Clara—

“Big brother, what do you do for a living?” Clara said to me. She wore a puzzled expression, as if wondering who on earth this customer was—one who came to buy unlicensed prostitutes in broad daylight with such nonchalance. Yet interpreting this—that just as I wanted to know about Clara, she too might want to know about me—I felt somewhat pleased, but “My occupation, huh? Hmm, how should I put this?” I was at a loss for a reply. I wanted to proudly declare that I was an anarchist, but

“Does ‘anarchist’ mean a socialist?” I feared Clara might see me as dangerous and grow guarded—me, already utterly smitten by her. “The older sister here thought you might be yakuza, but you’re not.” Most would’ve said “I suppose not” tentatively, but Clara declared with conviction. “You know a word like ‘yakuza’?”

It referred to tekiya. Had we been initially seen as gamblers only to degrade into tekiya? To me—wearing this bitter smile—

“Of course I know that.” Clara floated a shaded smile, “Big brother, you’re not yakuza—but you’re no civilian either.” “Who knows?” I took a sip of the cheap tea Clara had brought from the old woman’s room downstairs and, “I’ll tell you once I’ve mustered some confidence.” “What do you mean by ‘confidence’?”

“Once I have the money…” I flushed terribly and, as if to hide my embarrassment, put my arm around Clara’s shoulder. Roughly pulling her close, I pressed my lips beneath Clara’s ear.

“How rough of you.” I sealed Clara’s speaking mouth with my own lips. I voraciously sucked Clara’s soft mouth. Clara was not, to me at this time, a common prostitute bought with money. It was there that I found Clara—different from those common prostitutes who would let any man have them for money. The women in such places usually said they hated only kisses. Because it’s dirty, they say they don’t want to. No matter what other mischief they were made to do, they would never permit their mouths. Clara had been like that too. At our first meeting, she had firmly refused. Even when I returned the very next day (what they called a reunion after the first meeting) and bought Clara again, she said she didn't want to. She tightly shut her mouth and said, "Stop it, stop it."

"How many times had I visited before Clara permitted a kiss?" "I don’t know," Clara said, glaring at me after our first kiss. "I’m sorry," I said.

I was happy. The woman who would sell her body but not her heart had permitted me to kiss her—which meant she had permitted her heart, her chastity. Letting someone have the body was nothing more than business.

Now I had to feel that the kiss with Clara—the very thing that had brought me such joy—was giving me an indescribably poignant ache. To such an extent had I fallen for Clara. The poignancy born of that finally compelled me to ask—

“Do you let other clients kiss you too, Clara?” I pressed. “How silly.” Clara said and, this time, brought her lips closer of her own accord.

“Clara.” “Call me Teruko.” “Teruko’s my real name…”

“Huh?” I was startled even by this woman’s use of “atashi”—huh? she had been saying.

“Teruko.”

“Shiro-san.”

Clara said. I once again,

“Huh?” I said. Why does she know my name? “You gave me a business card the other day, didn’t you?” “A business card?”

I'd never even had a business card. I'd never made one in the first place. But without saying that, I told her I didn't recall ever giving her one though,

“Then did you see the postcard that came for you, Big brother?” Her voice made me feel our carefully nurtured mood had shattered. “When you took it out from your pocket earlier—did I catch a glimpse?” Reverting again, “Well then, shall we put on a condom?” Teruko—casually deploying this place’s clinical terminology—seemed in that instant to transform back into Clara the cheap whore.

“Clara’s grown accustomed to this place too.”

"I said. Inside me, sadness was rushing noisily."

“Big brother, that…? You don’t have one, do you?” Clara adjusted the front of the pajamas while saying, “I’ll go get one downstairs.”

“I don’t need it.”

“I said.” “You do need it.”

“Clara said.”

“I said I don’t need a damn condom!” “You can’t.” Clara stood up and looked down at me, “Big brother, you’re surely not a literary man, are you?” “Surely not?” “You’re not a literary man, are you?” “What do you mean by ‘surely not’?” Clara remained silent, changed the direction of her foot, and attempted to descend. I grabbed that bare foot, “I said I don’t need it. I’m not disease-ridden!” Clara’s foot was astonishingly cold. Is my hand too hot?

“I’m the same way.”

Clara grabbed my hair and shook my head, “It’d be trouble if I got pregnant…” —I wanted to make this Clara my wife. I thought I wanted to redeem this Clara. The notion that a twenty-two-year-old youth would even consider redeeming a prostitute was so presumptuous that Clara herself would likely have called it out as such—and moreover, given my penniless state, people might well laugh it off as absurd—but this wasn’t merely about how deeply I’d fallen for Clara; it was because I believed that even a broke youth like me could manage something as simple as redeeming her if I set my mind to it.

Clara's debt—the exact details weren't clear—was around five hundred yen. When it came to redeeming her, the old madam here—what Clara called "Mama"—would likely come up with all sorts of excuses, but since Clara hadn't been sold here for very long yet, arguments about clothing expenses or such things shouldn't hold water—and I didn't intend to let her make them anyway. Even so, five hundred yen for the debt alone might not be enough,

"If I carry out an expropriation, that much money..."

"It’s not impossible," I muttered aloud. I said to myself.

"Maybe I should take the plunge and pull off a major expropriation." In truth, I myself had never regarded expropriation as particularly desirable. My distaste for being treated as Sunauma’s underling stemmed from that very fact. This expropriation—akin to what street punks call a shakedown (petty stuff done by small-timers)—though similar on the surface, was closer in scale to what yakuza circles term a “protection racket.” Yet we insisted ours differed fundamentally—that our spirit set us apart. The term “expropriation” we’d adopted came from Kropotkin’s *The Conquest of Bread*. “Expropriation” meant plunder—abbreviated as *ryaku*—and this *ryaku* became our chosen praxis.

Kropotkin’s *The Conquest of Bread*—which could be called our bible—had already been translated by Kōtoku Shūsui, but the one I read was a newly retranslated book by anarchist comrades later on, and I still keep that book carefully preserved. In *The Conquest of Bread*, there is such a passage: “To preach patience would be futile. The people will no longer endure. And if food does not appear, they will loot the bakeries.”

A partial quote might fail to convey the full meaning, but this act of the people who could no longer endure—this act that we carried out on behalf of those who endured despite being unable to endure any longer—that was our form of action. We called that direct action.

Within that direct action lay expropriation. Yet we did not consider this plunder. We had taken such actions based on the fundamental principle of denying private property. According to that principle, taking money from those who unjustly hoarded private property—this was expropriation—was nothing but a natural course of action. It was not plunder, robbery, or extortion—it was an entirely natural act. This expropriation sprang from that very ideology.

However, the reason I disliked such expropriation was that while I understood its ideological basis, I found myself increasingly dissatisfied with how its form had come to resemble yakuza protection rackets and punk shakedowns. "But maybe I should do an expropriation after all." The plan was to raise money through expropriation and redeem Clara. Or should I just abduct Clara instead? That seemed more straightforward. The so-called "brothel escape." It would be simpler to have Clara do it, but...

I went to consult Maruman. The reason I visited Maruman instead of Sunauma was that I disliked the prospect of essentially becoming Sunauma’s “errand boy” depending on how things unfolded. Maruman, whose given name was Tomekichi, had originally been a skilled lathe worker. During his time working at a large factory in Koto, he had made a name for himself as a fighter for the anarchist-aligned machinists' union. After being driven out from that factory, he drifted between small workshops, briefly worked as an expropriator under Sunauma’s wing, and eventually became a street vendor. Some might have viewed Maruman as having sunk to being a Yayako—a street vendor—but he himself remained spirited and declared that soon this Maruman Tomekichi would gather comrades among the street vendors and hoist a new union flag come May Day. Pushed by the red flags, they would erect new black flags that had dwindled in number,

"Let cowards flee if they must!" "We shall defend the black flag!" he declared with fervor, determined to make his street vendor comrades bellow these words. The "cowards" in this song—a parody of the red-flaggers' May Day anthem—were, in our view, none other than the Bolsheviks themselves. Though Maruman had become Sunauma's subordinate, he hadn't abandoned his anarchist convictions. I'd gone to consult Maruman about Clara, but he spoke first—

“There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

he said. Maruman had met an interesting person at the house of the street-stall tekiya boss.

“They call him Kōdō-sensei, see. "He writes it with the same character as the 'Kō' in Mr. Sunauma's name." “And ‘dō’.” “That’s an interesting surname.”

“It’s not a name but a pseudonym.” “Somehow, he seems to be quite a respected teacher.”

“What’s his business?” “Hmm… how should I put it?”

Maruman made me recall the time when Clara had asked me about my line of work,

“He’s a Chinese ronin.” “Right-wing?”

I scowled.

“That can’t be stated so categorically,” he said. “He was a republican back in the day, I hear. Insisted Japan adopt a republican government, got thrown in the clink a few times, then crossed over to China.” “I take it most tekiya are right-wing?” “That’s true for tekiya.” “So at that tekiya big boss’s place—you met someone like Kōdō-sensei there?”

“That’s right.” I was about to say that if that were the case, then this Kōdō-sensei must also be right-wing, but the way we were talking made it seem as though Maruman himself had become a right-wing tekiya. It seemed a brief explanation of this matter was required here. Street stalls were originally only for festival days (these festival-targeted stalls were called *Hōhē* in tekiya jargon), and business couldn’t be conducted unless one joined a such-and-such family under a tekiya boss. Amateurs couldn’t become licensed vendors. Those street stalls eventually became able to operate not just on festival days but on regular days as well. As an unemployment measure, weekday street stalls came to be permitted, and this became something even amateurs could do.

If you went to the jurisdictional police traffic department and submitted what was called a temporary street stall permit application, they would issue you a permit. With that in hand, going to a designated street stall area meant you could set up shop. Unlike with *Hōhē*, there was no tekiya-style spot allocation—determining locations based on seniority—and instead the street vendors’ organizer would assign the spots. You no longer needed to become a tekiya subordinate to operate street stalls.

In contrast to Hōhē, this was referred to as Hirabi. Originally meaning ordinary days as opposed to festival days, Hirabi came to be used for regular weekday street stalls. Maruman was the linchpin of this Hirabi operation. Not that he'd joined any particular family. But when actually running the business, they found trouble inevitably arose unless you paid respects to the tekiya oyaji-san. His being marked as a Gishu—a socialist—also proved an obstacle. So Maruman went alone to forge ties with the tekiya bosses. He dove straight into their inner circles—this Maruman had a strange knack for being liked—and quickly charmed his way into their confidence. Working his way up from boss to bigger boss, he eventually met Kōdō-sensei at the home of the top oyaji he'd cultivated.

“I’m thinking of introducing this Kōdō-sensei to Mr. Sunauma. What do you think? The fact they share the same ‘kō’ character—seems like some karmic thread binding them.”

I crossed my arms in silence.

“If things continue like this, Mr. Sunauma might end up just another racketeer.” “The reason I want to introduce Kōdō-sensei to Mr. Sunauma is none other than this.” “Mr. Sunauma has been saying that Japan’s revolution must ultimately be linked with force.” I didn’t agree with that theory at all. “We’ll manage things our way, but I think it’s fine to let Mr. Sunauma walk the revolutionary path he envisions.” “So for that purpose—you’re trying to bring Mr. Sunauma closer to this Kōdō-sensei?”

“Kōdō-sensei wields covert influence among the Army’s young officers.” “So what’s your point?”

I shouted before I could stop myself. It was military men who killed Ōsugi Sakae. In retaliation, my comrades assassinated General Fukui and were executed. Military men are our sworn enemies. Are you trying to link Sunauma with them?

That day, I was invited by Maruman—

“How about we dig into some beef hot pot?” I was invited and went to Enko (Asakusa Park). Whenever money came my way, I’d immediately rush off to Clara and blow it all on her, but thanks to Maruman treating me, I got to eat beef—real momiji-grade meat—for the first time in ages. In that state, I half-listened as Maruman kept droning on about this Kōdō-sensei character—truth was, I knew I’d blow my top if I actually paid attention—so I let him yammer away unchecked while I shoveled beef into my mouth solo.

It seemed Maruman himself was somewhat enamored with Kōdō-sensei. I felt that way, but if I were to get angry about it here, this rare feast would go to waste. Moreover, unlike the Bolsheviks, we detested their beloved 'theoretical struggles,' and our stance was to respect our comrades' 'free initiative.' So as I kept my mouth working on eating rather than speaking, Maruman’s words reached my ears.

“Sun Yat-sen had absolutely no connection to the Wuchang Revolution in that case, so it seems he never even dreamed he would be recommended as President." “He was supporting Li Yuanhong.” “It was Zhang Ji, who had been acting as a mediator behind the scenes, that got Sun Yat-sen elected as President—and this Zhang Ji was an anarchist who had been exiled to Paris.” At the word "anarchist," I jolted upright. "So this Zhang Ji—" While flipping over the beef in the hot pot,

“Is he like a senior to that Chen Chunpei from Kōsha or something?” I said this, though I had no personal connection to Chen—this Chinese anarchist who’d already been expelled from Japan before the earthquake. I’d only ever heard his name in passing. There was an anarchist group among the Chinese international students, and through them I’d learned of Chen Chunpei as a pioneer. He’d formed an anarchist society called Kōsha here in Japan, which led the authorities to order his deportation.

“Far from being some junior associate, Zhang Ji’s a heavyweight.” Maruman said,

“Miss.” “Gimme the chunks.” “I wanna eat a bit more meat than green onions.”

I just said. This is the place that the poet Takamura Kōtarō sang of in his poem as follows.

In front of tightly packed stoves, making their haven—the coziest refuge in this world— the crowd now indulged in honest feasting and chatter for revelry, like a communal bathhouse for the soul, the crowd that calmly stripped their hearts completely bare, exposing all strange shadows lurking in every hidden corner, the crowd that drank, devoured, shouted, laughed, and occasionally raged, making flowers bloom in humanity’s inner walls’ infinite shadows, at least tonight, the crowd caroused in good spirits,

Forgetting tomorrow where they must work until blackened, the crowd that showed generosity to elders and young wives by emptying their bowl-shaped wallets,

Not being among the elders or young wives, I stuffed my stomach full of beef and then—

“Let’s go buy some women,” I said to Maruman. I couldn’t find a smooth way to bring up the matter of Clara’s redemption. I thought I might as well show her to him before bringing up that matter.

“Lately, you’ve been going around as Shiro-san the lecher, you know.”

Maruman laughed, showing his black gums. “What’s this ‘lecher’ business?” “It means you’re a total letch.” “A total letch?” Wahahaha! I laughed cheerfully, as though Maruman had paid me a compliment. Though I laughed and didn’t particularly mind being called a lecher, I just wanted Maruman to understand that I wasn’t some lecher chasing after every woman—that I was truly fixated on just one.

Just because I said that didn’t mean I was trying to boast about my pure-heartedness. My rebellion against society had been a rebellion against established morality too, so I’d dismissed so-called “pure-heartedness” with a laugh—but I wanted Maruman to know about this passion I was now devoting to one woman. When I tried to say that, Maruman—

“Aren’t you ratsu—smitten—with that dame across the river?” “That’s right.” I slapped my corduroy-clad knee, “I wanna show you her. “Just take a look.” “Tch.” “Let you keep yappin’... Christ, you’re one hell of a filthy pervert.”

Maruman glared at me, but in his eyes— “She’s got her good points.” If I were to put it into words, I saw that his eyes held that very light. I filled my eyes with affection and trust,

“I really want you to see my woman.”

I said.

Among us, buying prostitutes was not considered anything to be ashamed of. We rather despised the smugly serious air of those dropout university students turned Bolshevik youths—their affected pretensions of asceticism as they viewed such things as abhorrent decadence. We loathed their hypocrisy—sneaking around sweet-talking Marx-obsessed college girls in private while posturing as martyrs in public. Whether you call it lechery or whatever else (though lechery here means not just being a letch but actual licentiousness), passionate lechery—to borrow the title of Osugi Sakae’s essay—is “the expansion of the Self.” Even if the woman is some whore or whatever, passionately purchasing prostitutes is an expansion of the self. I did not consider it in the least to be a shameful vice.

Even Sunauma's debauched games might be utterly disgraceful through old morality's lens, but I couldn't side with that morality to condemn them. In Sunauma's case especially, I understood well that urge to vent the pent-up emotions in his heart through such acts. Though I understood this—not that it's some line from a hanafuda card—the path I took was ultimately my youth's doing. Of course there was my love-at-first-sight with Clara, but that too sprang from youth itself.

Even without Maruman pointing it out—as was clear to everyone’s eyes—Sunauma must have keenly felt it himself: continuing like this would reduce him to a mere expropriator. He must have been utterly frustrated with himself. Thus, the dirty money he had obtained through expropriation from major corporations—he couldn’t help but squander it on dirty games. But the turmoil in Sunauma’s heart was not limited to that alone. To use the terminology of the time, Sunauma had styled himself a "pure anarchist."

Unlike me, who had been involved with anarchist-affiliated unions, this 'pure anarchist' persistently championed pure free associationism, dismissing Bolshevik-like organizational activities and union movements as impure—but in reality, this very stance led him into isolation. The free dispersal-ism that Sunauma had been advocating gave rise to a tendency of "one person, one faction"—each individual becoming the lord of their own little hill—and this turned Sunauma into an isolated existence left straining alone.

The anarchists of the "realist faction"—who adopted practical class struggle as their tactic while adhering to free associationism—referred to those like Sunauma as the "idealist faction." As someone belonging to the "realist faction," I should have broken off relations with Sunauma of the "idealist faction." Yet as fellow terrorists who had botched our deaths, we still maintained an unbreakable bond between us. But I wanted no part of becoming Sunauma the expropriator's underling. Sunauma could no longer even be called an idealistic anarchist—in reality, he was nothing but an expropriator now.

Maruman and I took the city tram to Asakusa, then transferred to the Tobu Railway. As we went along, Maruman mentioned to his street vendor comrades that he had been gradually gaining fellow allies. "One of them's a guy who used to be in the Pioneers Alliance." He said this as if I knew all about that alliance. I knew nothing of this National Street Vendors Pioneers Alliance. From what I later heard through Maruman, socialists had formed such an organization among street vendors before the Great Kanto Earthquake, but it had fizzled out without success.

“How about you?” “The labor union?” “Is it going well?” This Maruman was an anarchist who stood midway between the “realist faction” and the “idealist faction.” That he had become Sunauma’s subordinate was because he had been captivated by the man’s character. Maruman had always been prone to becoming infatuated with men, but Sunauma too possessed an undeniable charisma that drew people in. “The Bolsheviks’ night crawling is so relentless it’s unbearable.” I said to Maruman. I had been doing work for a union affiliated with the Kanto Regional Labor Union Free Federation. It wasn’t that I was idly spending my days frequenting the den of iniquity.

“Whenever I find those night-crawling bastards, I beat them to a pulp, but new ones just keep coming,” I said. This term “night crawling” came from Osugi Sakae having dubbed a certain Bolshevik fighter “the master of night crawling.” This “master” would sneak into places like the Tsukishima Labor Hall at night, badmouth the anarchists, and pull workers over to the Bolshevik side. We had mocked it as “night crawling,” but now all those Bolshevik bastards were using this method—going to “night crawl” at workers’ homes in anarchist-affiliated unions and sweet-talking them away.

“To counter their ‘night crawling,’ I’m planning to organize study groups with the factory workers.” “Study groups? You’re teaching workers?”

Maruman twisted his mouth beneath the stubble of his unshaven beard. Though he wasn’t thick-bearded by nature, that very lack made his patchy stubble stand out all the more oddly. The prominent stubble rendered the mockery all the more conspicuous. "A guy as uneducated as you—" It was with this thought that Maruman despised me. At the same time, Maruman—being a worker himself—found the very notion of trying to enlighten people through something like study groups utterly insolent, and despised the idea in its entirety. “I’m just imitating the Bols, but I hate it.”

Being the younger one, I defended myself. "Well, since those night-crawling bastards keep spouting off that anarchists have no theory, I thought I should re-study the principles of anarchist free associationism myself—together with them." "Studying?" Maruman sneered,

“You think you can make revolution through studying?” “Well, that’s true...” “You were born... since you went to middle school and all, you’ve got a real case of intere pretension.” When Maruman said “intere” instead of “intellectual,” it wasn’t dialect—people commonly said “intere” back then. “Are you calling this compromise? Saying my revolutionary soul’s gone soft?” I turned defiant. “I’m someone who once threw away his life. Even now, if it came down to it...”

“Alright, I get it. Don’t go ranting so loud.” “Even with union work, I’m putting my body on the line. If terrorists call this petty… if they say I’m wasting time on unions, maybe that’s fine by me.” “My bad. I just—it’s ’cause you went talking about ‘study groups’ or whatever. It’s just ridiculous.” “Are study groups no good?” “I ain’t sayin’ they’re no good, but…” “As long as I’m putting my body on the line in this work, I don’t want to lose to those Bol bastards.”

“Don’t wanna lose in arguments?” “That’s not it. If we just keep shouting ‘Action! Action!’ that alone won’t make the factory workers follow us.” “They won’t follow?” Maruman seemed to take offense again at what he perceived as a disparaging way of referring to workers. This was simply me carelessly bringing there the very words the factory workers themselves used—but there was indeed something about this phrasing that made it feel dismissive of workers as a class.

“We’ll get infiltrated by the Bolsheviks.” I rephrased. And I realized my previous wording had carried the unmistakable stench of Bolshevik terminology. The Bolsheviks would use this kind of phrasing. Authoritarian communism was exposing through its own words how it viewed workers—how it looked down upon them. We opposed the Bolsheviks because we detested the authoritarianism laid bare in such phrasing.

But the workers of the anarchist union were using that Bolshevik terminology. When awakened workers used such expressions toward what they called unawakened workers, it demonstrated how Bolshevik influence had unknowingly permeated our ranks. It was an infuriating reality, but that very fact showed just how thoroughly the Bolsheviks had infiltrated us. That very fact meant we had to fight the Bolsheviks all the more actively—but Maruman,

“So what if we get infiltrated?” “Numbers ain’t the problem.” “Even if there’s tens of thousands of enemies, a rabble ain’t worth fearin’.” Maruman declared defiantly.

“Quality over quantity?”

I was no longer backing down.

“For that quality, I believe studying anarchist theory is essential too.” “So you’re gonna play professor now…?” “I’m just tending to the study group. I’ll be studying alongside them—I’m thinking of bringing Tamatsuka Hidenobu in.”

“Tamatsuka?” “Ah, that third-rate poet.”

“As a poet, he might be third-rate,”

While defending Tamatsuka, I said in a manner that superficially echoed Maruman’s vitriol.

“As an anarchist, he’s the type to spin logic. He’s a skilled writer and an eloquent speaker.”

“Well, no shit. He’s a college man through and through.” In a tone dripping with anti-intellectual contempt, “Why the hell’s someone who made it all the way through university wanna run with the likes of us?”

“In Bol’s infiltration tactics, it’s the college-educated who dominate.” “We gotta make damn sure we don’t breed silver-tongued bastards like Bol.” The Bolsheviks’ slick anti-anarchist polemics—if you actually read something like Plekhanov’s *Anarchism and Socialism*, this very translation being one of their sourcebooks for attacking us—you’d find their usual spiel outclassed by the sophisticated arguments laid out there.

The term "Purekāanofu" referred to Plekhanov; however, since French translations and others spelled it "Plekhanov," some hack who retranslated it into Japanese from those versions rendered his name as "Purekāanofu." Because of this, Plekhanov ended up being called "Purekāanofu," but even Bukharin had once been referred to as "Bukarin" for a time. What actually infuriated us most about the Bols' attacks on anarchists wasn't their logical arguments—not even those directly inherited from Plekhanov—but rather their mindless abuse hurled straight from the gut. They would claim their insults were merely retaliatory measures against our own theory-less denunciations of Bolsheviks—but in truth, it was we who had been hurling violent abuse devoid of any logic at them first, leading to this cycle of mutual antagonism.

This devolved into a pointless back-and-forth, but to clarify what exactly these Bolshevik denunciations entailed—if I were to present one example here documentarily—the manifesto I will next cite, as evident from its archaic style, had been distributed during the National Labor Union Federation Conference held the year before the Great Kantō Earthquake. Though this represented the Bolsheviks’ rhetoric from several years prior, the essence of their vilification had remained unchanged throughout. Given that their proclaimed slogans stayed identical both years later and at that time, I shall present here a manifesto written by those Bolshevik bastards.

“Anarchism is utopian; it is destructive; it is a heretical sect obstructing social movements.” ...When we attempt to unite, they immediately obstruct it; they destroy it. The sluggish progress of our country's social movements—this is due to the existence of the anarchist party. Truly, they are the enemies of socialism; they are the enemies of humanity. ...We declare this with certainty. The Anarchist Party is a den of ruffians. Moreover, these ruffians are more to be feared and hated than ultranationalist labor bandits. Alas, the Anarchist Party is the enemy of socialism; it is the enemy of humanity. O comrades, brothers and sisters faithful to the cause! May we expel the Anarchist Party from all of Japan; may we banish them from the entire world. And thus charge forth into the holy war of social reconstruction.

September 26, 1922 – Japan Labor Association

We anarchists were reviled, ridiculed, scorned, and cursed by the Bolsheviks in this manner; then torn away from the workers, driven off, and hounded like "enemies of humanity." Thus, it cannot be denied that we anarchists—at a loss over how to channel our revolutionary energy—transformed into a "den of ruffians," though this was not solely our own doing; being hounded by the Bolsheviks too drove us to that state.

Even now, as I write this, a fresh surge of anger wells up in my chest—one I can scarcely contain. As the Bolsheviks’ victory in the labor movement became decisive, anarchists came to be viewed as if they had been ‘ruffians’ from the very beginning. In this present where only Bolshevik propaganda thrives unopposed, how fiercely we once ignited revolutionary energy in workers’ hearts has been utterly erased—now when people speak of anarchists, it’s as if we had always been “enemies of socialism.”

I, this half-dead failure—we who revered Russia’s terrorists as our ideological forebears—those very terrorists who became the driving force of the Russian Revolution, those Nihilist Party comrades who died clutching bombs, those countless nameless souls—were they too equally “enemies of socialism”? “Were they ‘enemies of humanity’ too?” While their bodies vanished like dew beneath the guillotine, were those terrorists who ignited revolutionary spirit in the hearts of the oppressed masses truly “enemies of the people”?

Were our comrades who sniped at General Fukui and were executed also "enemies of revolutionary spirit"? That was not merely retaliation—it was the terrorists’ direct action, seeking to awaken the slumbering hearts of the people through such deeds. Driven into desperation by the Bolsheviks’ relentless pursuit, our somewhat reckless radical acts—viewed from the present, there may indeed be aspects of that—but I cannot tolerate those Bolshevik bastards making such claims. Unlike impulsive acts of suicide, they had been methodically devising assassination plans—so to speak, to send themselves to the gallows. I absolutely cannot forgive those Bolshevik bastards—cozily entrenched atop their so-called organization—for wielding such blasphemous rhetoric against that desperate resolve.

It was a direct rebellion against authority. At the same time, it was about stripping away from the hearts of the people—those who obeyed authority like slaves—their fear of that very authority. The fear of and obedience to authority were imposed by authority itself, but through direct rebellion against it, we sought to awaken the people's hearts. In the hearts of those forced into slave-like obedience, we sought to awaken human self-awareness.

Since Osugi Sakae had been referenced repeatedly earlier, if I were to quote his words here as well, the labor movement we envisioned was "a workers' self-empowerment movement, a struggle to gain autonomous self-governance in daily life. It is a human movement. “a movement for human dignity.” Workers forced into a slave-like existence for the sake of the ruling class had been stripped of autonomous living and robbed of their awareness as free human beings. The acquisition of selfhood and the attainment of autonomous living were our struggle.

To possess self-awareness as a free human being—that was precisely the first step toward awakening as a revolutionary. The very act of striving to gain autonomous living constituted nothing less than the revolutionary movement seeking to liberate oneself from authoritarian power. From our perspective, the Bolshevik movement amounted to this: merely mobilizing workers into class struggle, conscripting them for power seizure, and demanding absolute obedience as foot soldiers in class warfare under communism’s authoritarian yoke.

The reason the Bolshevik manifesto states, “When we attempt to unite, they immediately obstruct it; they destroy it,” is that we could not bear to see workers become slaves to a new authoritarian power. That is why we opposed authoritarian communism.

We valued workers' freedom above all else. We desired above all else the freedom not to be forced into obedience by any authority. We affirmed the following words of Bakunin as truth. “Marx may theoretically stand upon a more rational organization concerning freedom than Proudhon.” But he lacks the instinct for freedom. “He is an authoritarian through and through.”

Part Three: Yellow Blood

We got off at Hikifune Station. This continued our story from earlier. The cluttered, dirty shabby outskirts town was enveloped in pale twilight. And so it seemed to be extending some kind of friendly greeting toward me. A bittersweet feeling welled up in my chest. The twilight was not concealing the filth of the cluttered town from my eyes; rather, it was intensifying the sorrow of that cluttered town all the more. And so I wanted to spread my arms wide toward that town and call out something to it. No—words were not enough; I wanted to embrace it directly, to hold it close.

The narrow path had grown dimly lit, yet a blue brightness still lingered in the sky overhead, and between the darkened earth and undimmed heavens, black bats were wheeling. The sinister flight of bats too made this place feel unmistakably like the shabby outskirts. This had to be the shabby outskirts. And no matter how filthy this town might be, people were living within its cluttered squalor. Even dwelling in such filth, they were no less human. The fact that people—no different as human beings—were living in these cluttered, squalid alleyways pressed in on me with overwhelming force.

Clara too was living amidst the filth. Even if that Clara was a prostitute, she remained no less human. I felt my heart race like a boy's. It wasn't just that I was happy to see Clara—this felt more like the very joy of being alive. I, this half-dead failure, never imagined such joy could be granted to me. That was the nature of this joy. I tore the misshapen soft cap from my head, gripped its brim in my left hand, and yanked it forcefully with my right. There was no purpose behind this action, nor any particular meaning in having done so. Something—well—impulsively compelled me to do such things. I switched the cap to my right hand and slapped it hard against my left palm—once, twice.

I was still not satisfied with just that. This hat, which had become like a closed umbrella, I suddenly hurled toward the sky. Midair, the hat billowed open, then came slanting downward. I reached out but missed, and the hat fell to the ground. "What’re you doing?" Maruman said. To Maruman, who wore a hunting cap, I "I was messing with the bats." I said, evading the question.

“The bats?” To a dumbfounded Maruman, “The bats—if you do this, they’ll come down with the hat.”

"I said with a straight face. ‘They’re not coming down.’ Maruman retorted. ‘Because there are no bats.’ I insisted. ‘Then why’d you…’ ‘They were here before. They were here, weren’t they?’ ‘You thought tossing your hat would summon bats again?’ ‘Not exactly.’ ‘What nonsense are you spouting?’ ‘Never tried catching bats?’ ‘Nope.’ Maruman’s face darkened."

“That’s how you catch bats.” “Hmm.” He wore the expression of someone reluctantly convinced. “That’s how we used to catch them.” I said this, but truthfully, I had never actually caught any. Though I’d never caught them, as a boy I would often pick up discarded straw sandals—both human and oxen ones—from the road and throw them into dusk skies where bats fluttered. When I did this, the bats would descend alongside the sandals. This wasn’t some rural tale. Even in Tokyo back then, you could constantly see farmers from the outskirts making their oxen pull vegetable-laden carts through the streets, and those oxen’s straw sandals were frequently tossed aside on roads.

Bats couldn't be caught unless two people worked together. One would throw something into the air to lure them down while the other waited with a cicada-catching pole - a bamboo stick fitted with a cloth bag - ready to swiftly cover any bat that descended to the ground. They proved difficult to catch, but catchable nonetheless. Yet catching them meant nothing. You couldn't keep them caged like birds. Even when confined, the bats would shrink to an improbable smallness before inevitably dying where they lay.

I felt sorry for them—it wasn't that I didn't catch bats; rather, I was always just teasing them alone. I played alone with the bats. As a boy, I played with bats instead of friends.

When I went to the unlicensed brothel where Clara was, Mari-chan was peering out from the small glass window. The breasts couldn’t be seen through this narrow solicitation window—what they called the “peephole window.” Mari-chan’s thick greasepaint makeup made her already large face appear even larger, nearly like someone else’s—but then Mari-chan herself had momentarily mistaken me for another client, “Wanna have some fun? Open up.”

After saying that, she seemed to realize I was Clara’s regular customer, “Oh my, how careless of me,” she muttered to herself. Hearing this behind me, I dashed past the hidden wall and peered through the opposite window. I’d thought Clara might be there, but instead found that middle-aged woman who’d once snapped at Sunauma. Careful not to disrupt business, I pushed open the side door and slipped inside,

“Where’s Clara?” I asked the middle-aged Tomie. It was plain, but this was her professional name. Tomie remained silent and jerked her chin toward the back. “Is there a customer?”

“She’s in the back.” Tomie told me to go up to the second floor. “It’s the room on the left side,” she added.

I called Maruman. Maruman entered through Mari-chan's door. Between me—who had entered through Tomie's door—and him stood a plank partition door on the packed-earth floor, so we couldn't see each other. This way, customers coming and going couldn't make out each other's faces.

Right, the entrance area of this "meishuya" back then defied verbal description - I'll commit it to diagram instead.

It was as shown in the diagram on the following page. Not all of these famed 'sake houses' here followed this layout—they varied between establishments—but since such unlicensed brothel quarters have now vanished and these peculiar structures can no longer be seen, I shall at least preserve a diagram here. Maruman circled around the back of the plank door and came over. Tomie—her eyes shadowed purple beneath—maintained her usual languid demeanor as she sharply scrutinized Maruman's disheveled appearance. He wore Senbei (setta sandals) beneath his Yōran trousers rather than Yōgeso shoes.

When I, wearing shoes, moved my foot onto the threshold,

“Wait...”

Tomie lowered her voice and stopped me. With a face that seemed to want to say something, she made the papery hōzuki pod in her mouth squeak repeatedly. “What is it?” “Well...” She seemed to want to say something but found it difficult to put into words, “What happened to that person from before?”

I sensed she was saying something entirely different from what she'd meant to voice aloud. Wondering if she'd actually meant to ask about Maruman—whose street-hawker appearance practically screamed his profession—I offered, “Should I fetch him?” When I said this,

“Cut it out. That kind of… disgusting.” Tomie scratched her scalp with a hairpin, “I was just asking.” We went upstairs. “A stranger’s house I know like the back of my hand...”

“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” Maruman said as I climbed the stairs without a woman’s guidance, my tone deliberately playful. He smirked and scanned the room while I flipped over the cushion and sat down. “I want to make Clara here my wife.” “Bashita?” He used the underworld term for wife. “I mean to redeem her.” “What’s the ransom?”

While looking away, Maruman said. “Five hundred yen.” I answered. “A hundred times the base rate? That’s some nerve you’ve got.” “Fine balls on you.” “Take a look and find out.”

I said bluntly, “Will you hear me out?” Maruman remained silent. “Look, I’m begging you.” “How do you plan to get that kind of money?” “So I want to borrow your wisdom about what I should do.” Maruman was scrubbing his unshaven beard with his short, stubby fingers. “I’m madly in love with her.” I said. I wanted to say that this was the first love of my life. Just then, there came the clattering sound of footsteps racing up the stairs,

“Welcome.” Clara appeared in a dress, looking as though she had just returned from going out. Oh? As I thought this, I was glad Clara wasn’t in her usual work attire but looked like an ordinary woman, and that I could show her like this to Maruman, who was meeting her for the first time. And also, as for me, envisioning Clara as my wife there, I blinked rapidly, “I’m head over heels for this girl. Isn’t she a good girl?”

I said to Maruman. “Oh, stop it.” Clara mimicked me, “I’m not a good girl at all.” That way of speaking seemed utterly innocent and cute through my besotted eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you, Teru-chan.” I told Clara, “See? She’s a good girl, right?” I said to Maruman again.

“Yeah. She’s a good kid.” “A real dazzler (face that blinds).”

Maruman gave an honest nod of agreement—what tekiya slang would call an oitaku, that backing grunt of acknowledgment. I thought it was neither coerced nor empty flattery. As I smirked smugly like some street-corner braggart— “And this gentleman here…” Clara asked me about Maruman in that professionally disenchanted voice of hers.

“Mari-chan? “Or Miss Tomie?” “It’s fine. “There’s no need to call anyone.”

Maruman said in an extremely serious tone,

“Let’s have some ob to drink, then I’m leaving.” “Okay.” Clara said plainly. Because she had been far too straightforward, “Why don’t we call Miss Tomie and have some ob together?” When I said this,

“Fine.” Whether Tomie, the senior prostitute, was being troublesome, Clara made a restraining gesture and— “I’ll bring the ob.” She stood up. I fixed my devouring eyes on her retreating figure—no need for pretense—staring intently at Clara’s cute buttocks. Merely gazing made the sensations press upon me—the smoothness of that skin, the taut flesh there neither too firm nor too soft, an indescribable—no, unbearable texture—with the raw immediacy of actually reaching around from the front to embrace her. Through her skirt, I was already leering at those buttocks with a lustful gaze that saw right through.

When those buttocks were about to disappear from the room, Maruman whispered to me in tekiya argot: “For a gasebiri—a counterfeit whore—she’s hakui nago—a decent woman.” Though his voice was low, it must have reached Clara’s ears—she spun around sharply and fixed us with a glare that screamed I heard you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I shrugged.

Clara descended the stairs with light, tapping footsteps. Never before had I heard Clara make such footsteps. Wondering what it meant, I listened intently to those footsteps, “She’s a good girl, right?” I said to Maruman again. “Why would such a decent girl end up a counterfeit whore?” Having said that, Maruman slickly wiped down his greasy face with his hand,

“Maybe she’s got a pimp.” “A pimp? Even if she did, I wouldn’t care,” I said, straining my voice. “She’s a good-natured girl, I tell ya. Doesn’t seem like the type to have a pimp.” “That’s what stinks. It’s always those ‘good girls’ who end up as some man’s meal.” “You trying to pick a fight over my woman?” “Have your eyes gone rotten too?” “I’ll make that woman mine—no matter what it takes.” I clenched my fist and pounded the chabudai.

After drinking tea, Maruman said he needed to open his stall, paid the one-yen ob charge with a flourish, and left alone. Clara and I went into the bedroom.

I gazed out through the colored glass of the room's window. Though I'd wanted to take Clara the moment Maruman left, here I was instead acting like someone avoiding approaching the bed. To put it plainly—I'd grown terribly sentimental. Through the window, I could see men coming for yachibarashi—to buy women—shuffling along with lecherous expressions smeared across their faces. Was I making that same lustful face too? My own might be even worse—lower face stretched long in vulgar anticipation.

Yachibarashi meant buying women. But this tekiya slang had been used specifically when ascending to brothels to purchase licensed prostitutes. While its original meaning was simply buying women, customarily it had come to refer exclusively to patronizing licensed pleasure quarters. Thus, using yachibarashi for acquiring unlicensed prostitutes in this private brothel district would be somewhat improper—or to personify the term, yachibarashi itself might file a formal complaint against you.

The reason I say this is that Maruman had called Clara a gasebiri—a counterfeit prostitute—in tekiya jargon. The "biri" refers to prostitutes, and "gase" means counterfeit. Speaking of gasena, it means a pseudonym; speaking of gaseneta, it refers to sham goods that were all show. The act of selling shunga was called gasemitsu, but in the old days, gasemitsu didn’t mean selling real shunga—it referred to peddling innocuous photos disguised as shunga.

Following that logic, gasebiri would mean a counterfeit licensed prostitute—a prostitute who was all show. It might have also carried the meaning of an amateur contrasted with a professional, but it had been a derogatory term used for unlicensed prostitutes in opposition to licensed ones. I had fallen completely for that contemptible counterfeit prostitute. I think this was my first love since being born. The object of that first love was none other than a counterfeit prostitute. Even a half-dead failure like me couldn't help getting sentimental, you know? But this wasn't because I felt sad that my first love had to be with some lowly counterfeit prostitute. I didn't see Clara that way. However, the fact that Clara was a counterfeit prostitute—even if I didn't see her as some lowly gasebiri—contained all manner of things that made me sentimental. For example,

“You’ve gotten a bit thinner, Teru.” I slipped my arm around Clara’s shoulders as she drew near and said this. What could have made Clara-Teruko lose weight? It was precisely such things that made me sentimental. “Do you think so?”

Clara drew close to me. This Clara had slender bones and a supple body—which was exactly why I'd fallen for her—but despite being supple, when you tried to pinch her arms or thighs, the flesh stayed firmly taut and wouldn't yield. There had been such a sense of fullness about her, and that had made me like her even more. That sense of fullness—which I'd come to like all the more because of that—had recently started diminishing somewhat. When I said you'd gotten thinner, that was what I'd meant.

“What’s wrong? What are you doing?” Clara found it strange that I wasn’t rushing to “get down to business” as usual. Clara seemed to be in a hurry today.

“What’s this—you’re wearing drawers?”

From outside her one-piece dress, I fumbled around for that telltale elastic band, tugged it slightly from the exterior, then snapped it sharply— “Did you go somewhere?”

“I just... went home for a bit...” Clara muddled her words— “Home? Where exactly is Teru-chan’s home?” “I don’t have a home.”

Clara looked at my face. Instead of turning her face away as one might when saying such things, she spoke while looking directly at me. "I ran away from home, you know." "Did you go back there today? To the home you ran away from?" "I haven't gone back." Clara glared at me in that cute way of hers. Since I didn't understand why she was glaring, I just stared back blankly, "Where's your place, Mr. Shiro?" "Hongō." "Where's Hongō?"

She kept pressing me for details about myself. "I'm at a boarding house in Sendagimachi." "At a boarding house? How nice." Clara said in that way, "Can I come visit?" "Of course." As I thought about how if I were to set up a household with this Clara, I'd have to leave that boarding house behind and rent some small place of our own— "It's a dirty place, but come on over." "I'll bring sushi and come over." Clara said cheerfully,

“Well then, let’s get down to business.” “Don’t put it like that.” “You don’t like it?” “It’s the way you say it.” “Then—take me.”

Clara pulled my hand, made me sit on the bed, and started undoing my tie with hurried fingers— "Today... Big brother... we don't need that."

“Huh?” After she said that, I realized it was that thing Clara always went downstairs to retrieve at times like this. “I don’t need that today.” Clara said something unusual. Normally, even if I said I didn’t need it, Clara—fearing pregnancy—wouldn’t listen, but “Stop that.” she said. Was today a day when precautions weren’t necessary? Apparently, that showed on my face, and she seemed about to say it wasn’t like that,

“That thing—I hate it.” peering into my eyes, “It seems I’ve fallen for you, Big brother.”

“What do you mean ‘seems like’?” When I got carried away, Clara allowed it, “I do.”

She rephrased it earnestly, as if to offer proof, “This time, Big brother… you take off my kimono…” “You got it.” I was overjoyed,

“I’m madly in love with Teru-chan.” His voice also quavered.

“I know.”

Clara said, “That tickles. I hate it when you do unnecessary things.” Writhing her body with deliberate coquetry, “I like you too, Big brother. I shouldn’t have fallen for you, but...” “I shouldn’t?” “Being in this business...” “What are you talking about? I want to marry Teru-chan.” “I can’t get married.” “Teru-chan’s debt, I’ll—” She cut me off, “We’ll talk about that later...”

Clara threw herself at me and sought my lips. I wrapped my arm around Clara's back and sucked her lips. Clara had cold skin. Since this always happened, whenever I held her, her skin would quickly warm up and grow moist with sweat. It wasn't because my body was hot—Clara's body was truly warm at its core. And yet, before being held, her skin felt chilly. It was even these aspects of Clara that made me so obsessed.

That day, Clara—especially that day—only served to plunge me deeper into obsession. The kiss ("sashi-komi"—though prostitutes use the coarser slang "sashi-mi") that working girls never permit their clients— I'd mentioned before that Clara had allowed me this sashi-komi, but there remained one thing she still withheld. She pretended to allow it, but I knew the truth—it was all a lie, a fake. She'd let out these awkward cries—I knew her techniques were clumsy—but considering how many clients she took daily, I stayed silent, thinking it cruel to criticize her.

Today, she truly allowed it. That Clara said she loved me was the truth—I was overwhelmed with emotion. “Teru-chan, let’s get married.”

Clara, who had swiftly covered her naked body with the blanket, silently hid her face under it as well. I brought my face close to it,

“Marry me.”

The blanket only squirmed restlessly, faltering. I tore off the blanket, “Won’t you say something?”

“I’m happy.” Though Clara had said this, her eyes were fixed on some distant point. I was about to say that this was my first love when suddenly Maruman’s words about the string came into my head. I wanted to ask, but telling myself that such a question was not something a man should voice, I held myself back, “At Mr. Shiro’s home… would they allow it?” “Our marriage? It’ll be fine.” “It’ll be fine.”

As I started to say—"There’s nothing to allow or not allow"— “Is Mr. Shiro’s real home in the countryside?”

“The countryside? Why?” “You said you’re lodging in Hongō…” “Do I look like a student?” Wasn’t she seeing me as a country bumpkin? I grinned slyly,

“It’s Tokyo.” “You’re from Tokyo?” “Azabu’s Yon no Hashi.” As I thought of my father and mother, “My old man runs a small foundry.” “That’s nice.” Clara said, “My old man’s a ronin...” “Ronin?” “That person from earlier—he’s a comrade, right?” “A comrade.” “Comrade?” Clara repeated, “My old man’s a Chinese ronin...”

“Huh?” When I involuntarily exclaimed “Huh?” in a loud voice,

“Claraaa—”

The old woman called from below the stairs. Though she had always been a hateful old woman, never had I hated her more than at this moment. Clara hurriedly dressed in Western clothes while, “Big brother, are you leaving?” Treating Mr. Shiro once more as Big brother, “What will you do?”

She said this, but her manner suggested she wanted me gone. To me—determined to stay—Clara voiced it outright. "It's too painful... go home." The pain came from me being made so acutely aware she took other clients. Clara rolled her bloomers into a tight bundle and shoved them beneath the bed, "There—like this." With that, she pressed a farewell kiss to my lips, "I won't forget what you said, Big brother. That you'd care so much..."

“I’ll get the money right away and come back for you, Teru-chan.” The hateful old woman below urged once again.

“Claraaa—” “Coming!” To secure the money for Clara’s redemption, I had gone to see Sunauma—indeed, when it came to money matters, there’d been no choice but to meet with Sunauma—but now, more than that, there was something I needed to state here without delay. It was precisely three days after that morning. This was exactly when a trick should be used. They call a woman’s parts yachi and a man’s parts yoshiko—awakening in my boarding house’s wafer-thin futon, I found the tip of my yoshiko glued fast to my monkey parts (ete meaning monkey), somehow immobilized, and thought—huh? With that thought, I rubbed my sleep-crusted eyes repeatedly, sat up, and peered down—

“That’s it!” I shouted. My eyes snapped open. The yellow stain on my groin told me I’d contracted Rin disease. While I slept unaware, pus had started oozing from my member’s tip. It dried with body heat, sticking the tip to my groin like glue—impossible to separate. There’s no call to dwell on such filth, but for me this shock didn’t just wake my bleary eyes—it plunged my world into darkness.

It was an era without convenient medicines like penicillin. Once you caught it, curing it required tremendous effort, so contracting Rin disease alone was shocking enough—but the fact that I had contracted it from none other than Clara struck me with such force that it wasn't just my vision going dark—the entire world seemed to plunge into darkness. From the woman with whom I'd fallen in love for the first time in my life—from her, I'd been skillfully infected with Rin disease. I ground my teeth with a grating rasp.

That Clara—the one I’d obsessively resolved to make my wife—knew full well what I was, knew my feelings, yet deliberately infected me with her diseased Yachi-Yak anyway? Now that I think of it—when we fucked, she always made me use a rubber. Was it because she knew full well she had Yachi-Yak disease? Why the hell did she choose that day of all days to try giving me Rin disease? Why the hell did she go out of her way to infect me with Rin disease?

I rushed to Clara’s place. The morning unlicensed brothel district wore a bleached-out expression. I kicked the door open and stepped inside— “Hey, Clara!” I shouted. Instead of Clara, Tomie appeared, “She’s not here.” Her face, devoid of makeup, had a ghostly pallor. “Where did she go?” “She’s quit already.” Ungh! I gasped. “That poor girl got herself a bad man and moved her somewhere else.”

Tomie clicked her teeth with a tsk, “The other day, that man was just here. “I did consider whispering that to you, you know.” “Where did Clara go?” “How should I know?”

I felt everything go pitch black before my eyes once more.

“Goddamn it!” The door had colored glass fitted above it. I clenched my fist and smashed the glass. Tomie screamed. The old hag came rushing out from the back and hurled abuse at me, but her curses didn’t reach my ears. Seeing my blood-dripping fist, I snapped back to my senses and lumbered outside, where the old hag followed me out and began haranguing me to pay for the broken glass. “Shut the hell up!” With that, I brushed aside the clinging old hag. The old hag staggered,

“Hey, everyone—young men, come here!”

she shrieked. And then, in an instant—even though it was morning—young men began gathering haphazardly from somewhere,

“You bastard!” Then one of them grabbed me by the chest. I drove my bloody fist into the bastard’s face. At the same instant, another young man slammed a punch into my solar plexus. My breath choked off—doubled over, I took a pummeling rain of iron fists. “Pull any shit in our turf again, we’ll end you!”

While being showered with such abuse, I was swarmed—punched, kicked, stomped on—and left half-dead.

I’ll never forget—right around that time, the poet Tamatsuka Hidenobu—that same Tamatsuka I’d been thinking of asking to lecture at an anarchist union’s study group—published the following bizarre poem in some magazine. Bizarre as it was, it was a poem I couldn’t forget. I thought that Tamatsuka must have contracted Rin disease too, and I resolved to "wash a pus-filled society with blood" as in this poem. That’s why I resolved to throw myself into the work of the anarchist unions—but…

To me, who had just lost my first love, a second blow was waiting. Just as I resolved to devote myself to union work, every last one of the factory hands who'd belonged to those very anarchist unions betrayed us en masse and joined the Bolshevik factions' unions instead.

Part Four: The Liquid in the Cup

“I thought about faking it with some quack medicine,” Maruman said, glaring, “but if you pull that kinda cheap trick and end up with epididymitis—listen—in that flophouse room of yours, anyone walking down the corridor passes right by your pillow while you’re sleeping. Their footsteps’ll vibrate straight to your damn balls—” He scrunched his face into a grimace “—and not just the corridor! That second floor—hell, your room’s in the north corner where sunlight never hits, right? Noise from upstairs comes right through the ceiling. Let those college brats upstairs start stomping around? Even their creaky footsteps’ll zing down to your nuts—‘Fuck! Fuck!’—make you bawl like a baby. Epididymitis’s no joke.” Having sufficiently terrified me, Maruman offered to introduce me to the Honjo Settlement clinic he’d relied on back when he was a lathe worker. “Town doctors’ll rip you off, so obviously no good—even cheap hospitals, Rin disease takes time and eats up your cash—so I’m tellin’ ya, I’ll show you a decent place.”

“What the hell’s ‘Setturu’ supposed to be?” I asked. I later learned that “Setturu” was short for “settlement,” but back then, Maruman had explained it as a place where Tokyo Imperial University bigwigs brought students into Yojishi slums to offer legal consultations and medical diagnoses for Hikawa—the poor who couldn’t afford lawyers or doctors. It was part of the settlement movement, but at the time, thinking how unlike Maruman—who hated intellectuals—it was to spout such things, I sneered, “Charity work, huh?” I refused, saying I wanted nothing to do with their hypocritical do-gooder schemes. There were other reasons too.

The truth was, I hadn't yet told Maruman—it felt like baring my shame—that every last factory worker from the anarchist unions had been snatched away from me. The humiliation burned so fierce I resolved to storm the Bolsheviks' Koto branch union office and teach them a lesson. But going alone meant risking a repeat of that brothel district gang beating—while I wouldn't mind getting pulverized solo, it'd disgrace all anarchists. I wanted our Realist Faction comrades' backup to avoid defeat, but phrasing it wrong might backfire—"This happened because you were mooning over fake whores, Yachimoro's Shiro." So I decided—ambush and beat the Bolshevik organizers behind this affair. Let me be clear: though the factory rats betrayed me, I never touched them. I only pummeled the union organizers who made them betray me.

Among them was a young man who looked like a college dropout. That bastard's university was Imperial University. I wanted no part of getting help from some "Setturu"—a place tied to that fucking Imperial University.

I couldn't tell Maruman that. Before long, Maruman too found out I'd lost the union, but since I didn't want him hearing it from me directly, I kept silent about my reasons for avoiding the Setturu. So Maruman dragged me there regardless. The place everyone called "Setturu" turned out to be a grubby house behind Seikosha. This settlement movement business meant social workers embedding themselves in slums to uplift workers—their base here handled legal advice, daycare, and medical consultations.

When we went to that clinic, they said they didn't have a dermatology department. I jeered at Maruman—"See? Told you so"—but it was then I first learned that what town quacks advertised as "venereology departments" was just layman's talk; academically, it fell under dermatology. So Rin disease was a skin condition? How enlightening, I thought with mock awe. They said they treated childhood ringworm and Taiwanese monk baldness—those kinds of skin ailments—but Rin disease and bai poison? Not at this clinic. They might as well have said they wouldn't stoop to handling such immoral sicknesses.

"Isn't there a Dr. So-and-so here?" Maruman persisted, humiliation written all over his face. Children with trachoma, women who looked consumptive, old men with bloated faces—they overflowed from the cramped examination room into the hallway. The doctor whom Maruman had apparently previously relied on had been transferred to a provincial hospital, said a young physician in a white coat—a staff member who seemed somewhat old for a student (I later learned this was not a student but a medical graduate working in the university hospital’s department).

When I asked Maruman if Dr. So-and-so had treated his epididymitis there, he pulled a face like he'd bitten through gall and muttered, "Nah, not exactly." I'd been dead certain he'd gotten that epididymitis he'd bragged so much about cured at this very clinic—the same condition he'd lorded over me like some perverse badge of honor. I was halfway out the door, grumbling "This is bullshit," when some university-type gentleman came down the hallway and—what's this?—locked eyes with Maruman.

“If it isn’t Mr. Maruman of the Technicians’ Union!”

“Dr. Hozumi…” Maruman bowed deeply and said nostalgically, “It’s been a while,” “Doctor, are you still looking after us here?” “Still?” With a warm expression, he forced a wry smile, “Are you still adhering to anarchism?” “Of course.” “Anarchism is hardly gaining any traction these days.”

Maruman puffed out his chest defiantly, "This young man is my comrade." He introduced me. The gentleman was none other than Dr. Hozumi, the renowned professor from Imperial University's Faculty of Law.

From the daycare across the way came the clamor of scrawny kids with snot running down their noses.

Dr. Hozumi, as a sincere adherent of the settlement movement, had been carving time from his busy schedule to visit this slum. I became able to receive special treatment here. This development was welcome—but the treatments back then were utterly primitive, or rather... It wasn't that this place alone was uniquely primitive; anywhere would have been the same... They would fill a thick tube resembling a horse syringe with purple liquid and inject it into the tip of my male member. Exposing myself to others' eyes was humiliating—even for a man—and remained shameful even when facing a doctor. Having liquid forcibly injected backward into that hole meant for urination felt repulsive both psychologically and physiologically. To compound matters, this liquid perfectly matched the disinfectant solution I'd encountered in the restroom when first meeting Clara—a realization that filled me with utter fury. They poured copious amounts—though in reality probably equivalent to an intravenous dose of Salsolinol (I only knew this complicated drug name from when it treated my lung condition, but that's another story)—but subjectively speaking, when they dumped those copious amounts into my male member, the doctor

“Here—hold it,” the doctor said to me. At that point, I pressed the tip of my own member with my own fingers. The liquid injected into my member would naturally gush right out if left alone—or rather, to prevent the liquid itself, as if finding its place unbearable, from seeming to want to burst forth—I pressed down with my own fingers. Enduring the stinging pain, I kept pressing for a set amount of time until the young doctor said, “Okay, that’s enough.”

A proper venereology-specialized hospital—one that prioritized attentive service over extorting money—would have provided a private room shielded from prying eyes, but there was no such luxury here. A device to compress the tip of one’s member would surely be properly available at such hospitals, but here there was none. Though I had turned my back to the others, in the corner of the examination room where my back remained fully exposed—clutching that absurd spot with my own hand while glaring at the wall—the whole posture was utterly unsightly to behold. It was as if I were training myself to become shameless through this very act. It was as if I were cultivating shamelessness within myself, laying bare my disgrace through this very act.

Nowadays injections and pills would likely cure it completely in no time, but back then I had to keep coming every day as if solely to parade these humiliations. The discharge soon stopped, and the urine that had been cloudy during the infection gradually cleared—though they checked its clarity daily. This too proved excruciatingly awkward. Before injecting the bactericide, they made me collect urine in a cup right there in the corner of the room.

I did it as one would when urinating standing up, but there’s a natural place for such acts. I instinctively chose such places myself, but when they forced me to do it in a room full of watching eyes—even if I hid my male member from view, pressing a cup against its tip to urinate made it feel like I wasn’t constipated but suffering some urinary retention—nothing came out.

Even I, who had committed plenty of violent acts without hesitation, found this particular awkwardness of urinating obediently into a cup—devoid of any violent intent—to be in a class of its own. Though urine that refused to flow easily due to tension eventually began streaming out audibly once I grew accustomed, filling a beer-glass-identical cup with amber urine and presenting my own piss with a polite "Here you go" for others' inspection carried its own special brand of discomfort.

By the time I'd grown accustomed even to that, there came a moment when I was walking to catch the streetcar to get here and thought I needed to piss. But if I did it here, there'd be no urine stored up when I went to the clinic—that would be trouble. With that thought, I boarded the streetcar as I was. Inside that streetcar, I kept muttering to myself: "Need to piss... Ah, gotta take a leak." If I fixated on it, things would only get worse. So I tried distracting myself with other thoughts, but the more I tried, the more fixated I became.

I'll do it when I transfer. I'd resolved to relieve myself during the train transfer, yet when the moment arrived, I strangely felt I could endure a while longer. I held it in and boarded again. When I finally disembarked at the terminal, the urge to piss had become unbearable. But pissing there would've been pointless—I should've done it before boarding. Having endured this far, I rushed to the clinic instead.

This may sound like a stupid, pointless story, but it seems my particular brand of idiocy shows itself most glaringly in these situations. When I got to the clinic, I immediately borrowed a cup. The urine I'd been holding back rapidly filled the cup until it was nearly overflowing. Shit—this was bad. It was going to spill over! Part of me thought it might stop just at the brim. I'd been secretly hoping for that, but even when the cup was full, it kept coming.

“Cup, cup. Another cup!” “Another cup!” I shouted and tried desperately to stop the urine, but by then it was too late—the filthy liquid overflowed from the cup and streamed across the floor. One such day, as I pinched the tip of my male member with my fingers and glared at the wall, this thought suddenly came to me. Clara, who had transmitted this Rin disease to me, might not have known about it herself. That’s right—Clara herself must not have known that she had Rin disease. I was certain of it.

I, who had been hating Clara with every fiber of my being, upon realizing this, applied more pressure to the fingers pinching my male member—as if letting them voice the apology I couldn't utter: Sorry, Teru-chan— (Damn it)

At that moment, “Yes, that’s enough now.” From behind me—unfortunately on this day—the nurse spoke and presented a brass tray. Upon seeing my hardened male member, the nurse averted her face. Outside, dusk had darkened. I continued thinking about Clara. Why hadn’t I noticed until now? That Clara had transmitted Rin disease to me without knowing she carried it herself. Which meant she’d been infected by someone else without ever realizing it.

But then again, that would mean there had been a man who made Clara let him embrace her in the same way she had permitted me before sleeping together. Jealousy seared through my chest. The very speculation I'd conjured now tormented me with its own venom. Could that man be the "bad one" Tomie had mentioned? The man who'd had Clara transferred elsewhere... That bastard must have been diseased. Knowing himself infected, he'd taken Clara in his arms. Suddenly I pitied her anew - Clara likely never knew her customer carried sickness. She'd never have dreamed of passing this plague to me.

Clara, being made to switch brothels by a man and having to part with me, must have allowed that final embrace with me. Clara might have loved me after all. Yet when I thought how the Rin bacteria clinging to my male member were the same ones that had lurked in the male member of Clara's man, I was overwhelmed with frustration. I was overcome with the urge to drink.

The more I was forbidden to drink, the more I wanted to. Drinking had been strictly prohibited as it would nullify all the treatment I'd undergone, but I wanted alcohol so desperately it agonized me. I held back. Just as I'd restrained my urine, I restrained myself. I endured to test my capacity for endurance.

I went out to Ueno and wandered aimlessly around Shinobazu Pond. In Ueno’s forest, the full moon floated. "The moon has come out, come out—" I hummed such a nursery rhyme. Round—round—perfectly round, a tray-like moon...

I missed Clara. Rather than Clara—it was Teruko. Sera Teruko. This was Clara’s real name.

I repeated the same song several times, but eventually, "Deta deta" "Umi ga" I messed up. I corrected myself to "Deta deta tsukiga," but with an "Eh, damn it," clicked my tongue in frustration, "Kiiroi" "Kiiroi" "Makkīroi" "Umi no yō na..." "Tsukiga" I thought I absolutely had to see Clara again—Clara, that is, Sera Teruko. Driven by that thought, I went to see Sunauma. Regarding the money for Clara's buyout, I had previously gone to consult Sunauma, and—

“Alright, I’ll think about it.” From Sunauma came this gallant-sounding reply, but barely two days later, I—

“That… I’ve given up on it.” I had to say something disgraceful. That I—covered in red bruises from a mob beating—was now a me whose very face had become disgraceful.

“What’s with that mug?” “Some leeches latched onto me.” When I spoke, the muscles in my face ached.

“Did those leeches beat you?” Sunauma said. “No—it’s not like that. I made a scene—acted out in anger—but being outnumbered and overpowered, I got beaten down,” I said, trying to hide my bandaged hand. “You’re such an idiot, Kashiwai.” Sunauma laughed—not mockingly.

――To that Sunauma, I said. “Mr. Sunauma, have you met Kōdō-sensei?” My voice sounded like I’d turned back into a boy. Sunauma stayed silent. To this unprotesting Sunauma, I said:

“Mr. Sunauma.” “Won’t you ask Kōdō-sensei?” “Is there a Chinese ronin named Sera?” “If he does exist, where does that man Sera live?” “Mr. Sunauma.” “Just listen to me.”

I thought my voice sounded whiny. Sunauma, sitting cross-legged with his left foot propped on his knee, rubbed the sole with his left thumb while glaring at me. “The woman I fell in love with is the daughter of that Chinese ronin named Sera.” I’d heard that surname from Clara—that is, Teruko. “The woman said that?” Sunauma gathered the grime from his foot, rolled it into a black pellet, pinched it between his fingers, and flicked it into the garden with his thumbnail. With his free right hand smoking an Asahi while,

“Is the daughter of a Chinese ronin working at a high-class sake house?” “She said her own dad was a Chinese ronin.” “Are you taking that sake house woman’s words at face value, Kashiwai?” “At least listen—it’s not too much to ask you to listen, is it?” “Are you saying I should ask Saitō Kōdō—that Chinese ronin—if some comrade’s daughter is out there whoring?” At first, I had thought of asking Maruman about this, but after hearing from Maruman that he had introduced Sunauma to Kōdō, I reconsidered and decided to approach Sunauma instead. It was also out of a desire to see how Sunauma would react when I mentioned Kōdō’s name that I had come here.

Sunauma looked as if he might ask whether one could make such an impertinent inquiry of Kōdō, but then immediately followed up with: "That's interesting. "I'll ask."

he said to me.

At that moment, a man in a black suit peered into the tatami room from beyond the hedge. I instinctively knew he was a detective, "The damn cop's spying on us." Sunauma brushed it off, "Let's go ask him together right now."

Having said that, “The detective might as well come along too.” Then, in a loud voice meant for the detective to hear, he called out “Hey!” to his subordinate, had him call Saitō Kōdō’s house, and told him to ask if it would be convenient for us to visit now. The subordinate went out to borrow a phone at the liquor store. At Sunauma’s house—where there was no wife—young men who couldn’t be called either subordinates or comrades were always loitering around. “He’s a weird old man, I tell you.” Sunauma said that about Kōdō,

“I’d heard his name before, but I’d never met him. Apparently, he had dealings with Ōsugi-sensei back in the day.” When Ōsugi Sakae’s name came up and I raised my eyebrows in question, Sunauma said he had once been acquainted with Kōtoku Shūsui as well. “That’s why Saitō Kōdō was arrested during the High Treason Incident too.”

I let out a low hum, “He was arrested, yet managed to get out unharmed.”

“I said. In Ōsugi Sakae’s case, he’d been imprisoned in Chiba Prison due to the Red Flag Incident, so during the High Treason Incident, he was absent from the outside world.” “Probably because he was busier working for China’s revolution than Japan’s,” Sunauma said. “He must’ve had right-wing connections too—that’s how he survived.” “Is that old man playing both sides?” “It’s less about sides—the old man’s ideology’s got two faces at its core. Not someone you can pin down with a single rope.”

Sunauma said in a tone that was neither clearly contemptuous nor respectful, “He’s one of a quartet of Chinese ronin called Hidō, Kadō, Kōdō, and Gaidō.” “Lamenting and righteous indignation?” “All four were apparently liberal democratic rights advocates. “After the setback of the Liberal Democratic Rights Movement, they sought to extend their ambitions to the continent—or so he himself claimed.”

The subordinate who had gone to make the call informed us that Kōdō was at home. I was led by Sunauma and met Saitō Kōdō for the first time. The house Kōdō lived in when we first visited was not much different in shabbiness from Sunauma’s. The only difference was that the gate alone stood exceptionally grand.

We were led to the second floor. Kōdō, seated with his back to a tokonoma piled with Chinese classics, was not as elderly as I had imagined from Sunauma’s references to him as an “old geezer” or “old man,” yet his diminutive, emaciated frame reeked of senility, his appearance undeniably suggestive of eccentricity. “You resemble Zhang Ji.” Kōdō stared intently at my face and muttered as if to himself. To say he had a “piercing gaze” sounds like an antiquated description, yet it fit perfectly—this Kōdō who resembled an old samurai.

Since I had already heard Zhang Ji’s name from Maruman at the gyunabe restaurant, “He was an anarchist.” Having said that—and I mean no disrespect—this Kōdō struck me as resembling a well-dried, glossy fermented dried fish. “Indeed, he is an anarchist—no, or rather, if I don’t state that he’s an anarchist, you might take offense—but Zhang Ji was a driving force and leader of the Chinese revolution alongside Huang Xing and Song Jiaoren.” “And it was we Japanese who aided these revolutionaries both overtly and covertly.”

Kōdō said that Zhang Ji was a graduate of Nihon University, "When he was in Japan, he was deeply devoted to Kropotkin alongside Zhang Taiyan. He kept urging me to read The Conquest of Bread too."

The fact that he mentioned Kropotkin made me think this "old man" was quite the modernist, unbefitting his samurai-like appearance. “After being expelled from Japan, Zhang Ji went to France. When leaving, he told us he hoped we’d become Japan’s Lafayette.” “Ōsugi Sakae must have heard about it too.” “That Meiji incident was during the Rooftop Speech Affair—Year 41.” “Zhang Ji was banished from Japan over that affair, but Ōsugi was also arrested and indicted through it.” “At that time, Mr. Ōsugi was just about your age.”

Kōdō said to me. "That was before the Red Flag Incident, wasn't it?"

Sunauma said.

In June 1908, when comrades attempted to hold a welcome party for a released comrade at Kanda’s Kinkikan Hall but were ordered to disband, they took to the streets waving red flags in demonstration. This became known as the "Red Flag Incident," following an earlier event in January of the same year called the "Rooftop Speech Incident." When authorities ordered the disbandment of a Friday Association’s lecture meeting organized by the Kōtoku Shūsui faction, the expelled attendees gathered in the streets while chanting revolutionary songs. Sakai Karegawa, Ōsugi Sakae, and others then addressed this outdoor crowd from a second-floor window, an act which led to their prosecution under the designation "Rooftop Speech Incident."

“Zhang Ji was also caught at the scene of that Rooftop Speech Incident, but his Chinese comrades rescued him.” “So he fled to Kyoto, but there he was caught and ended up being expelled from Japan.” “When fleeing to Kyoto, he must have already resolved himself to being expelled from the country—he told us to ‘be Lafayettes.’” “Lafayette?” “A French general and revolutionary.” “He crossed from France to America and contributed greatly to their independence revolution.” “When he returned home, Lafayette guided France’s revolution using methods proven in America.” “Mr. Zhang’s talk of that Lafayette meant we should aid China’s revolution and use it as reference for Japan’s.”

“The Chinese Revolution has succeeded, but…” Sunauma, who had called him an “old geezer” behind his back, now adopted a courteous tone before Kōdō, “Japan’s revolution…” “Has it still not been accomplished?” Kōdō smiled cryptically, “The military participated in the Chinese Revolution.” “That’s how the revolution succeeded.”

"This is the crucial point," he said, fixing Sunauma with an intense stare,

"There are two types of revolutionaries." "Mr. Ōsugi also seems to have changed somewhat between the time he issued that manifesto 'To the New Soldiers' and his later years." This manifesto was a translation of On Disarmament, and for this, Ōsugi Sakae was charged with subverting constitutional order and hauled off to Sugamo Prison. He was twenty-three years old at the time. “To confront and fight against the strong power of the state, the revolutionary army must possess equivalent strength to wage battle.” “To fight power, one must wield power.”

Kōdō said this, but I remembered how Bakunin had opposed communism, condemning it as authoritarianism. "Nationalistic," he'd called it too. Bakunin had insisted: "Not through appeals to power structures, top-down. Through free association—bottom-up." Catching the stench of authoritarianism in Kōdō's words, "Do you support communism, Professor?" I asked. Sunauma glared sideways, silently ordering me not to speak out of turn.

“Communism is my enemy, you know. It may well be yours too...” The fact that Kōdō had said “I” instead of “we” made me sense something. “My apologies.” I apologized to end the theoretical dispute and asked if he knew of a Chinese rōnin named Sera. This was the true purpose of my visit. I kept it at that—no mention of the girl having worked at a fancy sake house.

"Sera? Don't know 'im," Kōdō said irritably,

“This young man is quite spirited.” “You’re just like I was in my youth.” “Let me treat you to some sake.”

――That day, I guzzled down the sake (kiss) I had been restraining myself from until then. Perhaps it was because the middle-aged maid who brought up the sake bottle from below―not only in her facial features but also in her timid demeanor―had vividly reminded me of my deceased mother.

Part Five: Sand Casting

The reason I directed my steps to my father’s house at Yon Bridge—a place I had long ceased to visit—was perhaps that the memories of my deceased mother had summoned me there. Facing the main street stood a foundry, and beyond it by the riverbank was a house; to reach the house, one could take the alley alongside the foundry piled with scrap iron (zuku) and coke, or pass through the foundry itself. When I peered into that foundry, that day happened to coincide with a casting day. A nostalgic smell of "molten metal" pierced my nose. The product of melting scrap iron is called 'molten metal'. Having grown up amidst this smell of "molten metal," it makes me feel sentimental—ah, this is the smell of home; I’ve come back. And irritatingly, that smell makes me think of my father before my mother.

Ever since I was a child, my old man had been running this foundry, working himself to the bone in sweat-drenched labor, yet he never got anywhere. The factory was just as grimy as when I was a child. Part of it was that my old man was a full-fledged hedonist with all three vices—drinking, gambling, and whoring—but you could say that’s only natural if you’re in a business like a foundry. What the hell was I doing? Damn it, I couldn’t face Mother like this.

My old man, his upper body completely bare, was working while yelling at the laborers. It was a sight I'd known since childhood, one that hadn't changed one bit from when I was a child. Unlike machine factories and such, my foundry worker old man worked at the forefront himself. He couldn't rest unless he did it himself.

A sweltering blast of heat assaulted my face as I peered into the factory. The heat was suffocating. They were melting the ingots for castings in the melting furnace that the factory called Koshiki. The ingots melted in the Koshiki—this being what we called "molten metal"—were carried with a yukumi and poured into molds. The heat trapped inside made the entire place resemble a melting furnace itself. I didn’t enter the factory and stood outside, but when my old man noticed me,

"What the hell... Coming here at a time like this..." I thought he'd yelled at me like that—but no, it was his scowling face alone that gave that impression. Still, I truly felt like I'd been shouted down. Then immediately, my old man roared: "Get me the salt!" "Salt! Now!"

And this time, he truly roared. The young laborer presented to my old man a salt container identical to the one fastened to the pillar of the sumo ring. It truly looked as though he had presented it with trembling reverence. My father, whose face—let alone his bare upper body—had turned bright red from the heat, looking just like an Asura, firmly grabbed the salt and, much like a sumo wrestler flamboyantly scattering salt in the ring, flung most of it across the factory’s bare earthen floor before tossing the meager remnants left in his hand into his mouth.

My old man, his bare upper body dripping sweat as if he'd been doused with water, kept licking salt while he worked. After licking the salt, he guzzled water from the spout of a Seto-ware kettle. On casting days, if you didn't work like this while licking salt all the while, your body would weaken. It was a body that sweated so profoundly that even when droplets of "molten metal" landed on bare skin, they'd slip right off through the sweat, strangely preventing burns. That's how tremendous the sweat was. If you didn't lick salt, you'd collapse.

However, at that moment, it seemed to me as though my father—enraged that the sacred workspace had been defiled by my presence—was trying to purify it with salt. Indeed, now that I think of it, I am a Rin disease patient with a tainted body. Exactly so—by guzzling sake at Kōdō-sensei’s house that day, I had squandered all the temperance I’d painstakingly maintained until then in one reckless moment. I considered this utterly inexcusable toward the young doctor at the Settlement clinic who was treating me out of special kindness. My urine had finally begun clearing up, but now it was growing cloudy again—I couldn’t face the Settlement doctor like this. At this critical juncture, I thought I must devise some way to deceive him.

To be honest, if they told me they'd stop treatment, my resolve was that I wouldn't particularly care—but I hated how this meant trampling on the doctor's goodwill. Thinking myself cornered, I hatched a brilliant scheme. A brilliant scheme? No—a stupid idea, but I've got this stupid streak. I'm an idiot. Like my old man on casting days—though I didn't lick salt—I guzzled water instead. From morning on I drank nonstop until I was pissing every hour or so. Perfect, I smirked to myself. This was my brilliant scheme.

By the way, I should note that even if you guzzle water with salt on casting days, once you urinate in the morning, you won't go again until night. That they shed such tremendous sweat—this too served as proof. When I went to the clinic, right before urinating into that cup used to test for cloudiness, I'd already emptied my bladder beforehand. Having thus flushed my urethra clean, so to speak, I collected fresh urine into the cup. Though constant urination had rinsed my urethra thoroughly, even so it remained slightly cloudy,

"Oh…" The young doctor said this, looked at my face, and grinned. I too remained silent and grinned. The doctor didn’t say anything, but I didn’t say anything either. My name is Shiro, so people tend to think I’m the fourth son, but I’m actually the second. The third son, who has a different mother, is named Saburo—a fitting name for a third son. Now, if you ask what name my older brother’s eldest son has—it’s Gorō.

My old man was named Rokurō. That old man named his eldest son Gorō and his second son—me—Shiro. My old man had been named Rokurō because he was the sixth child. That he gave his children these retrospective names—Gorō, Shiro, Saburō—might be seen as clever or contrived with a sort of twisted ingenuity, but no—my old man once confessed he’d simply found it too bothersome to think up proper names.

Now that I’m older, I might call it perverse ingenuity, but as a child I absolutely detested my own name. “Hey, Shiro!” Whenever I heard a dog being scolded like that, I’d duck my head as if the reprimand were meant for me. “What an idiot Shiro is.” Even when convincing myself this referred to a dog, the nausea lingered. My old man always called me “Shiro” instead of the proper “Shirō.” “Shiro win! Aka win!”—those sports day tug-of-war cheers would’ve been tolerable if Shiro won, but when Shiro lost! Then my classmates would—

“Shiro lost!” “Shiro, Shiro, weakling Shiro!”

they looked at my face and jeered. "I hate Shiro! “I hate Shirō!” And so I threw a tantrum at home. My mother sympathized and suggested to my father that perhaps we could add something to "Shirō," but— “Shiro is fine.” My old man flatly rejected this with a single word. If a girl had been born after me, would my old man have named her something like Sanko? No girl was born.

If I had a sister, she would surely have grieved upon reaching marriageable age, unable to wed anywhere because of me—a Person Under Surveillance. My old man’s business took a severe hit at first, and he went around to wholesalers and business partners, apologizing and saying he’d disowned a son like that. Among them, “That’s what they call a demon child, isn’t it? Mr. Kashiwai, what an unexpected misfortune for you.”

On the contrary, there were apparently even people who comforted my old man. It was considered such an abnormal crime. I was sent to middle school, but the eldest son Gorō only went as far as elementary school before being dragged by the hand to the foundry by my old man. To inherit my old man’s business—or rather, to be made to inherit it—he was made to work at the factory alongside him. My old man’s opinion was that unless you started training them from childhood, they couldn’t become skilled foundry workers, and he also seemed to feel that sending them to higher schools would only make them resent the trade.

My old man, who had trained in Kawaguchi—the heartland of foundry work—did not take pride in his trade as a foundryman disparagingly nicknamed "sand diver," but he had wanted to pass down his skills to his son. He took pride in his own skills. The reason my old man sent me to middle school was likely that, as the second son, if I disliked being a "sand diver," I should pursue another trade—but looking back, I am the one who callously betrayed his benevolence.

When I peered into the factory, I saw my brother Gorō working alongside Sumitaki the melter—a familiar face since my childhood—adjusting the flow of molten metal beside the furnace. The task of regulating the molten metal flowing from the melting furnace was the role of the sendome. When my brother saw my face—unlike our old man—*(Oh, you’re here)* he gave me a nostalgic smile. Let me take a moment here to explain the process of making cast metal products. In modern terms, the production process is divided into four parts.

Katagome—the making of sand molds—was the first stage of production. In this process, workers placed the casting prototype inside the kanawaku, packed sand around it, and removed the prototype to create the mold. The molten metal—formed by melting ingots—would be poured into that mold, but this followed the second stage: the melting process to produce what we called "yu." These melters were commonly known as Sumitaki, and our factory had long employed specialists dedicated solely to this work. This role was considered distinct enough from regular foundry workers to warrant its own title—"melter"—as Sumitaki's work demanded specialized technical skills.

The katagome for foundry workers was also difficult work, and this was something my old man handled himself. Namagata—meaning molds made using sand mixed with moisture. Because they worked covered in sand, the term "sand diver" originated from there. The making of these molds required subtle tricks in how water was added and how the sand was packed (my old man wore split-toe work boots and pressed down with his feet), demanding years of training. It was even said that the quality of castings hinged on how well this mold was crafted.

Following the third stage of pouring the molten metal into the mold came the fourth stage—the finishing work. The removal of sand from cast products, polishing, their assembly, and painting were all included in this stage, but these tasks weren't performed on casting days. The days when we did katagome work—the mold-making process—the melting work to create "molten metal," and the pouring work of filling molds with "molten metal"—these were what we called Fuki days. Since we didn't do this daily, we specifically referred to them as Fuki days, but—

“Well, tomorrow’s Fuki.” When that happened, the entire household would grow tense. Creating the prototypes was not the foundry’s work—they were outsourced to specialized wood pattern makers—but once those were completed, “Well, Fuki.”

Thus it began. Where did the term _Fuki_ originate? The act of blowing wind with bellows—that's where the "Fuki" came from, I once heard from my old man. In the furnace when melting ingots, I distinctly remember that during my childhood we used something called charcoal katazumi, though eventually that changed to coke. They burned this and sent wind through bellows to generate enough heat to melt the ingots. Even after switching to coke, they kept using the same tatara foot bellows as in the days of hardwood charcoal.

Speaking of which, the *koshiki* was also terribly outdated. When you mention a melting furnace, people tend to picture something like a miniature blast furnace, but ours was shaped more like an oversized stove—so crude in appearance that you’d marvel iron could melt in such a contraption at all. It could be disassembled into three parts—they said this was for easier maintenance later—but even back then, that *koshiki* with its head, torso, and waist sections stacked like building blocks felt hopelessly outdated, though I hear they still use them today.

I had heard that _Fuki_ began with sending wind into this *koshiki* furnace—blowing air through bellows—and then... Strictly speaking, only the melting process should have been called _Fuki_, but they used to call the entire operation—from pouring molten metal into molds to creating cast products—_Fuki_. They still seem to use the term that way even now. This _Fuki_ required considerable funds for materials and fuel costs first and foremost. My old man was a spendthrift with an artisan's temperament of never keeping money overnight—he'd blow through whatever came in and was always broke. For _Fuki_ expenses, he routinely borrowed advances from the wholesalers who took delivery of finished castings. It became a cycle of borrowing against future loans until finally the wholesalers could slash prices at will—even our sweat-drenched labor only brought in wages barely worth calling earnings.

And yet he loved to take the factory workers out on lavish drinking sprees, and on his morning returns home, women would often trail after him all the way to our house. I lost count of how many times I saw my dead mother sweeping back stray hairs from her bun with her hand as she slipped off to the pawnshop.

Drenched in household struggles and a woman’s burdens—every hardship imaginable—my mother died. And at her deathbed, my mother— “Dad… I’m sorry.” —apologized to my father as if she herself had been lacking. How utterly detestable! My father wept with heaving sobs, but “Why?” I thought. I had loved my mother. My mother died when I was in third grade. Less than a year later came the stepmother who would become Saburō’s mother. It was after this that I became a boy flitting through twilight streets like a bat. As for my older brother Gorō, Father made him learn foundry techniques and forced him to labor in the factory like any common worker.

Even though I was the one who got to go to middle school unlike my older brother, the reason that path twisted so strangely stemmed from being parted from Mother by death too. But my becoming a terrorist wasn’t born of sentimentality like that—not really.

I read a book by Osugi Sakae in my fourth year of middle school. Osugi Sakae’s book—which people spoke of him as a terrifying man and his work as a terrifying tome—was something I read precisely because those very rumors of terror drew me in. To flatly claim I didn’t find it terrifying would be a lie—but it’s also true that the awe of being confronted with a terrifying truth struck me more profoundly.

As a fourth-year middle school student, there were many parts I couldn’t fully grasp even after reading, but those I could comprehend ignited my young blood. When I next read Osugi Sakae’s translation of Kropotkin’s *Appeal to the Young*, the fervor I felt remains vividly etched in my memory to this day. In that text riddled with censored passages, the following was written.

“Ah. Must you continue living the same wretched existence as your parents—thirty or forty more years piled atop this misery? Must you spend your entire life laboring so that others may obtain every pleasure of happiness, knowledge, and art, all while living in perpetual anxiety over whether you yourself can secure even a single piece of bread? Must we forever abandon all that could beautify our own lives merely to indulge a handful of idle parasites in every luxury? And worn down by toil, when a depression—that sorrowful depression—comes, you starve as retribution. Is this truly what all of you aspire to as your life’s fulfillment?”

I didn’t consider my old man’s life particularly miserable, and even if it was miserable, I thought he’d brought it upon himself—but my surroundings were steeped in what Kropotkin called "miserable life." Compared to that, I didn’t consider my old man’s life miserable—but precisely because of that, you could say I came to know much misery. But had I not read such books, I would’ve remained ignorant that the misery I knew stemmed from this society’s irrational structure—I would’ve surely believed those people were simply "lazy." I would’ve surely kept believing that.

"The 'lazy' are, conversely, the minority who can lounge about comfortably by keeping trapped in miserable lives those poor souls who work and work yet cannot feed themselves." This terrifying truth was something I came to understand through reading books. My old man used to say attending school would lead to no good—now that things had come to this, it seemed he'd been somewhat right. At that time, I nurtured a flicker of romantic feelings toward a poor but beautiful girl in my neighborhood. Of course, it was merely my own unrequited affection.

Her father—his face pale like a consumptive’s—would clutch his newspaper-wrapped lunchbox and commute every morning on discounted trains to some factory, but according to the girl’s mother, he was a “good-for-nothing,” and she herself went off to work at a tobacco factory in Akabane Bridge. The girl who had been caring for her younger brothers in place of their mother was eventually sent off to serve as a maid in some wealthy household to reduce household expenses. There was a term called *komatsukai*—and she became one. Perhaps because of her good looks, the girl became a parlor maid rather than a kitchen maid. When she returned home on her days off, she had developed such startling beauty that it set my heart racing—but before long, the Young Master took a liking to her, and she was sent back home. The Young Master who had seduced the girl went unpunished; rather, it was she who faced condemnation. It was because of poverty.

She went to an employment agency herself this time, searched for a place to work, and left home. Though her new workplace didn’t seem particularly favorable, she vanished from my sight all the same. The following passage from *Appeal to the Young* was exactly Japan’s reality. Though I hesitate to dredge up Osugi Sakae’s antiquated translation here once more, I nevertheless wish to reprint it—this thing that connects to my memories, this thing that was such a profound shock to me.

“One day again, you will hear about that lovely girl—the one with that nimble walk of hers, that unassuming manner, that cheerful way of speaking—whom you so loved and praised.” For years and years battling poverty, she left her hometown for the capital. She was well aware that the struggle for survival there was fierce. Even so, she had thought she could at least live an honest life. And yet what became of that fate? You now know all too well. Approached by a capitalist’s son, she was deceived by his smooth words and succumbed. With all the burning passion of her youth, she devoted herself to the man. And as her sole reward for that, she was abandoned while still holding her infant. She had always fought bravely. However, she lost the unequal struggle against cold and hunger. “And she ended her life in a certain hospital.”

Rather than saying the translation was antiquated, it would be truer to say the content itself—this very manner of explication—was what felt outdated. One might argue less that such ideas had become common knowledge than that viewing capitalists as mere human villains was a flawed perspective. Yet for me then, this was what first made me feel my eyes had been opened to seeing society.

What should I do? Kropotkin had shown me the answer. "There are two paths before you." There are two paths before you: either you bend your conscience and declare that humanity be damned so long as you can secure your own comfort and ease while people allow it, or you cast yourself among the socialists and devote yourself to the reform of all society. "This is the logical conclusion that must inevitably be reached."

I thought I wanted to cast myself among the socialists. How should I go about that? It was at this time that I met Sunauma Kouichi.—

My older brother Gorō, sneaking past the old man’s notice, came to my side. He pulled me into the alley and, “Need something?” “Nah, just came to visit.” “Wait inside.”

“Hmm,” I responded vaguely. Meeting my father's second wife felt oppressive. “Shiro, you still haven’t gone straight?” “Straight?” “How about taking a wife and settling down proper?” Even this brother saying so didn’t have a wife himself—still living as the heir apparent. So I—though there’d been a woman I wanted to marry—hesitated to voice it aloud, thinking this when, “Had a woman come ’round lookin’ for Shiro t’other day.”

"Brother said she was a modern girl," "She kept saying, 'Tell me where you are...'"

It must be Teruko, I thought. Had Teruko come all the way here because she wanted to see me? Since I had only mentioned that Senju was where my boarding house was—making it impossible to locate—had she searched for the foundry at Yotsu no Hashi and made a special trip here? “And then…?” “I didn’t know if it was okay to tell you, so I put her off.” “If it’s okay to tell you, I’ll let her know next time she comes around.” Brother had kindly said this, but I thought it was hopeless—she probably wouldn’t come again. Now that I knew her heart—that Teruko had wanted to see me—I felt with inexplicable certainty that I would never see her again.

—

From Kōdō through Sunauma,

They had found out about a man named Sera.

The words were conveyed to me when my Rin disease had entered the final stage of treatment and I was undergoing bougie therapy. To speak of final stages might make it sound straightforward, but this bougie therapy was in fact the most unpleasant part of the treatment process—and at its end lay waiting its most unpleasant phase. It was like a form of malicious torture. Having to pinch the tip of my own member with my fingers while staring off into space was psychologically unpleasant enough, but compared to the physical agony of this bougie therapy, it paled utterly. The torment lay in its nature: had it been sharp pain—clearly defined—that would have been manageable. But this dull agony manifested as an unspeakably repulsive sensation—creeping in relentlessly—and because I had to endure it motionless for fixed intervals of time, I could only deem it malicious.

Bougie was translated into Japanese as "shōsokushi". What was this "shōsokushi" in medical terminology? I looked it up in the dictionary; it said: "a rod used for dilating the urethra and bladder, and for exploration." The rods came in several types ranging from thin to thick. They started with the thin ones first—bougies like those skewers used for grilled meat were inserted into the urethra. The purpose was urethral dilation—after forcibly expanding it, they would inject antiseptic fluid in what was called bougie therapy. Antiquated, utterly antiquated—not that one could laugh at foundries for being old-fashioned—but to take such an absurd rod, skewer it into a person’s member like grilled meat, and leave it there for several minutes... Unbearable for the one left in such a state. Antiquated—the very reason it was antiquated. Perhaps because the tip of the bougie was stimulating my bladder—even though I had just urinated moments before—I was overcome by an intense urge to urinate, but with the rod jammed into my urethra, I couldn’t pass a drop. Like a goldfish in filthy water gaping its mouth wide, gasping for breath through my mouth, a greasy sweat began seeping onto my forehead.

If it were just once or twice, that would have been manageable, but starting with thin ones, they gradually progressed to thicker rods. Every day this torture was relentlessly repeated. They claimed this eradicated Rin bacteria lurking in urethral ducts, but it felt like divine punishment for my womanizing—no, worse—like deliberate torment for it. It was during this bougie therapy that I received word from Kōdō—exactly one day before visiting his house. I'd previously written about ambushing Bolshevik union organizers on streets and beating them individually, but there in the clinic corridor I unexpectedly encountered one of those dropout university students.

“Hey,” I called out like a hoodlum. “Oh...” He replied too, forcing a bitter smile. (What the hell is this bastard! Should I beat him up again?) I glared at the scum. Now, while I was slumped on the bed with a rod shoved into my member, to my astonishment, that bastard came in and addressed my attending young doctor—

“Hey,” he said. “Oh,” the doctor said. The two were friends.

Part Six: Ideological Regression

From that day on, I never went back to the Settlement clinic. Even if I wanted to, there was no way I could go. What face could I possibly show to go there? My Rin disease—after finally reaching this crucial climax—was it going to revert all at once? Was all my long-endured patience going to come to nothing in one go? The hell I cared. Might as well go back to square one and have that nasty pus gush out again. It might as well gush out spectacularly. That's what I thought. "Serves you right," they'd say. I wanted to laugh at myself like that. The thought of shamelessly getting my Rin disease treated by those Bolshevik comrades made my stomach churn—I ground my teeth.

At that moment, I was utterly crushed by an indescribable humiliation. That friend of the Bolshevik organizer—that university dropout who'd wholesale stolen our anarchist union members—being here left me stunned. If that doctor was friends with the bastard who made my whole union betray me at once, then he too was my enemy. I'd fallen under the enemy's care. Right then, if I hadn't had that bougie jammed into my member, I would've leapt from the bed that instant, slapped that dropout's face with all my might, then turned to his doctor accomplice—though of course you can't slap a doctor—so to him I'd—

“Screw you!” I wanted to snarl with every ounce of hatred—spit on the floor with a wet “ptui!”—then just shout “to hell with this!” and storm out right then. But trapped in that condition, “Goddamn it!” merely thinking it sent a razor-sharp pang shooting through my bladder, “Agh...!” forcing an involuntary groan from my throat. Slumped over on the bed, I felt physically flattened by humiliation. I should’ve been more wary when Maruman recommended this place—that bastard Maruman really outdid himself this time—but what’s done was done. Clenching my jaw only made their conversation stab deeper into my ears—those low voices somehow sharper, needling at my brain like syringe tips probing raw nerves.

“This recent panic must’ve hit hard.” the doctor said. “It’s terrible,” “Layoffs and wage cuts are causing chaos.” “Production cuts aren’t enough to weather this—factory closures are popping up everywhere.” said the dropout-turned-organizer. “The organization must have grown too.”

the doctor said. For a doctor to say such things—it told me he was denmates with that Bolshevik dropout, creatures from the same burrow. "Public sentiment has grown quite hostile, hasn't it?" the doctor added. "To divert that unrest outward, the current cabinet will likely intervene in China." said the dropout-turned-organizer. "What the hell—" I cursed under my breath when the doctor,

“Under the slogan of non-intervention in China, the proletarian parties have launched a joint struggle—but slogans and declarations alone won’t cut it.” “We’ve got to elevate this into a mass struggle…”

“That’s right. We’re working hard on our Agitprop activities too, though. Given how things are going now, I wonder... When the cabinet’s armed with military swords, we probably won’t be able to contain them.”

“Under the pretext of protecting expatriates—a military dispatch?” “If they stick to that pretext...” “Not a chance.”

said the nurse—even her now speaking with that Bolshevik cadence—

“So they’re trying to solve the recession through foreign invasion, huh?” “The natural method of imperialism, huh?” As he said this, the doctor came to remove the bougie from me. They kept blathering on—these damn chatterboxes—and I couldn’t help but seethe with fury. They’re all talk, spouting grandiose nonsense. If they’re going to blather like that, why don’t they just assassinate the Prime Minister? It was precisely those who achieved nothing who kept spouting their nonsense, and I was thoroughly disgusted—but all of this stemmed from the humiliation of someone like me ending up indebted to these blathering factions.

Finally freed from the bougie, I got down from the bed, turned toward the wall, hocked a loogie, pulled on my pants, fastened my belt, then turned around lightly— “Hey.”

“Oh,” I said, then realized—damn it, this was flipped from before. Earlier I’d been the one to throw out a challenging “Hey,” while he’d answered with that dismissive “Oh.” The roles had reversed. By now, the stench of defeat hung thick in the air. “Do you know each other?”

“Do you know each other?” the doctor said. The dropout-turned-organizer silently nodded, his face serious, “In age, we’re a bit older, but in terms of struggle experience, he’s far more senior.” Exactly—he had to blurt that out. The fact that he wasn’t using a mocking tone only made it worse. This had me licked. If I’d been that dropout-turned-organizer, I would’ve surely turned to the doctor and said, “No need to cure this bastard’s Rin disease.” That’s what he must’ve been thinking.

Now, the doctor, for his part,

“Do you know each other?” he said once more, “From Dr. Hozumi came a special request—‘This Mr. Kashiwai is a man prepared for the gallows.’” “He told me to take special care of him.”

This doctor had been looking after me fully aware that I was an enemy of the Bolsheviks. I was completely crushed and left that place.

They say misery loves company—this humiliation kept summoning another, different humiliation into my heart one after another. That was about Teruko. When my brother informed me that Teruko had come to visit the factory at Yon Bridge, I felt a flicker of suspicion—maybe that woman had actually fallen for me after all. But if she'd truly been in love, she would have left that man standing between us and come running to me much sooner. Back when I was visiting Teruko, such a thing could have happened. But I couldn’t separate Teruko from that man. Teruko also did not run away from the man. He might have been "a bad man" of the sort she couldn't escape—this "bad man" being Tomie's turn of phrase—but even if that were true, even accepting that premise, if Teruko had truly loved me, she should have said something to me about that inescapable situation. Rather than blaming Teruko for not saying anything, it was I who failed to draw it out of her—who didn’t push far enough to make her speak. Not a single word of such things did Teruko ever confide in me. It never happened—and now, as if just realizing it, this struck me as a fresh humiliation. Does this mean I’m still in love with Teruko after all?

What kind of bastard was this man clinging to Teruko? That bastard who gave her Rin disease—who thanks to him I caught it too—what kind of man was he that even being such a bastard, Teruko still couldn't break free? There was a time when Teruko said: "Big brother, you're not actually a man of letters, are you?" Teruko said. "What do you mean 'actually'?" I said. Was the man who turned Sera Teruko into Clara a man of letters?

The next day, I went alone to Saitanda Kōdō’s house. When I was shown upstairs, there was already a guest present—a young army officer, a baby-faced man with red cheeks. “Lieutenant Kitatsuki…” Kōdō introduced me, but I—detesting military men—deliberately turned my sullen face away. “Hah.” What kind of greenhorn lieutenant was this? I thought. Though the two stars on his epaulets had marked him as a lieutenant from the start, my contempt for him now burned fresh.

“This is Kashiwai Shiro-kun—a rowdy fellow.” Having introduced me that way, Kōdō seemed amused by my irritation—as if trying to provoke me further, knowing I despised both military men and Bolsheviks, into even greater irritation— “This Lieutenant Kitatsuki is a Lenin scholar.” “Sensei.” the lieutenant said in a low but forceful voice, (It’s troubling that you’d say such things to a man of unknown background like this, sir.) he seemed about to say. “I only said I study it—I didn’t say I put it into practice.”

Already thoroughly drunk and in high spirits, Kōdō now seemed to mock the lieutenant as he declared, "This Kashiwai-kun here is a comrade of the nihilists who tried to assassinate General Fukui." "Hmm." The lieutenant—who had undoubtedly glared at me—looked ready to grab the saber he'd removed from his sword belt and placed on the tatami. "Oh, this is rich! Go ahead, try cutting me down!" I squared my shoulders and glared back. Kōdō continued in a tone that egged on a dogfight,

“This hot-blooded ruffian—there’s no telling what he might do next,” Kōdō said about me. “Lieutenant Kitatsuki here is quite the firebrand himself.” “But Sensei—” “I too am a man who associated with Ōsugi Sakae.” “You, Sensei?” To the lieutenant whose boyish face had twisted grotesquely: “Even Lieutenant Kitatsuki here keeps company with Lenin.” “Wahahaha!” Kōdō roared with laughter. “I’ll make sworn enemies like you two get along soon enough. You’re alike in fretting over this country.”

“The country…?”

“The country…?” I said. No—I was about to object when a question struck me: What exactly was I concerned about? “Even Mr. Sunauma ultimately shares this,” Kōdō said, piercing me with his sharp gaze. “How old were you during that assassination attempt?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen?” That youngster would dare such audacious... Kōdō was dumbfounded, but— “Though mind you, even I was already raising plenty of hell at that age.” At this moment, seeing Lieutenant Kitatsuki acting all stiff in front of Kōdō like a student being lectured by a teacher, I—with a what-the-hell kind of feeling—deliberately acted overly familiar toward Kōdō, “Sensei, I hear you were involved in the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement.” Before I could finish speaking,

"After all, you're still young." Kōdō once again laughed with a "Wahahah,"

“That was when I was still a child. In my country too, civil rights activists staged riots—I remember it from my childhood—but that would’ve been Meiji... seventeen, perhaps?” “But Mr. Sunauma said you were a Freedom and People’s Rights theorist…” “That refers to my senior Hido-sensei and others.” Though he himself had learned Freedom and People’s Rights ideology from that Hido, he added: “How old do you think I am? Three years ago, when your comrades attacked General Fukui, I had just turned fifty.”

“Well now, you’re younger than I thought. Though lookin’ at you, you’re pretty damn wrinkled for your age...” I said with forced levity. Given how ancient he looked, it made sense why Sunauma called him “old man” – no wonder people mistook him for some relic from the Freedom and People’s Rights era. Lieutenant Kitatsuki interjected in that obsequious tone of his, clearly meant to chastise my impudence: “Considering Sensei’s hardships in China, he naturally appears more seasoned than—” “Cut the flattery,” I snapped. I’d meant to keep it under my breath, but the words slipped out loud.

“What did you say?” At this, the lieutenant flared up. “This is troublesome.” “We can’t have you drinking like this,” Kōdō said,

“Alright, let’s talk about China.” “This rowdy one here looks just like Mr. Zhang Ji did in his youth when we were speaking of him earlier.” Kōdō said this to the lieutenant in a placating tone, “Mr. Zhang Ji may well have been killed.”

Hearing about this old anarchist's tragic fate—the one I supposedly resembled—I involuntarily asked, "Why is that, sensei?"

Abruptly, I too had become polite. "I was just now speaking with Lieutenant Kitatsuki about China." "Sun Yat-sen died in March of the fourteenth year of the Republic, but at the end of that year, Mr. Zhang Ji and his group presented a resolution to the Kuomintang urging them to sever ties completely with the Communist Party and the Third International." "From the perspective of Mr. Zhang Ji's old Kuomintang faction, they could foresee that if the Kuomintang kept doing this, they'd soon be devoured by the Communist Party."

Sun Yat-sen had long since adopted a policy of cooperation toward the Communist Party. "The idea was that communism constituted a part of the Three Principles of the People," Kōdō explained, "and that implementing communism would directly realize those principles." “That was where the fundamental error lay from the very beginning,” he continued. “Since Chiang Kai-shek—having succeeded him and perhaps feeling obligated from receiving Whampoa Military Academy funds through the Third International—staged a coup that summer to purge anti-communists, he naturally wouldn’t heed a word from that Western Hills faction—Zhang Ji and his comrades.” "He didn’t give even a passing glance to resolutions demanding they sever ties with the Communist Party." "As for Chiang Kai-shek, he probably intended to manipulate the Communist Party." "In fact, he manipulated both the Kuomintang and the Communist Party and seized power." "But what was the result?" "The worms within the lion’s body turned to bite the Kuomintang instead." “In Wuhan, a communist government had been established.” "A panicked Chiang Kai-shek has now resorted to clamoring for communist purges." "They intended to use the Communist Party, but instead ended up being used by them." “What a farce.”

“What do you think? The Communist Party’s influence seems to be quite strong.” The lieutenant furrowed his brow with vertical wrinkles. “Bah, even if they run rampant for a time, there’s no way the Communist Party could take over the country.” “But since Sun Yat-sen adopted the policy of communist collaboration—though only a few years have passed—even the countryside has rapidly become communized...” “Well, the countryside would quickly become communized. Land reform is manna from heaven for them.” “So even if the Kuomintang now cries out about expelling the communists...”

I interjected disruptively,

“Given your connections with Lenin, you must feel considerable sympathy for communism.” I said to the lieutenant. There was a sense I meant to settle yesterday’s humiliation.

“Cut it out!”

After letting out a thunderous rebuke, Kōdō,

“I support land reform.” “I endorse revolution.” “Japan requires land reform.” “In this current state, the peasants endure too much misery.” “You being from the countryside yourself, Lieutenant—you’d grasp this.”

"I understand perfectly." "Japan too must absolutely have a revolution. However, the revolution I envision is not a Red Revolution."

Kōdō abruptly relaxed his stern expression, “Shall I tell you an amusing story about China’s Communist Party? Not just land reform—they’re liberating everything these days. In Wuhan they’ve popularized this revolutionary slogan called Su-shan-lao-ho. Written in Chinese characters, it means ‘ideological backwardness.’ When a man gets rejected by a woman, he just needs to accuse her of ideological backwardness. For those modern women priding themselves on progressivism, there’s no greater insult. Being labeled ideologically backward brands you a counterrevolutionary on the spot. So the women surrender their virtue immediately… What do you think? Far more effective than your anarchist methods, no?”

I was at a loss for words and grew flustered. Kōdō continued cheerfully, "The Communists are up to some truly laughable antics." "In Wuhan, they apparently staged a spectacular show called the Naked Women's Parade." "A women's liberation demonstration, they claimed." "The plan was to march completely nude through the streets—conducting their so-called demonstration." "Though in the end, only eight truly bold women actually stripped bare for this farce—what utter madness! A party that enforces terror politics while indulging in such idiocy can't possibly last."

“What about naked men parades? Don’t they do those?” When I interjected sarcastically,

“You’d asked me about that Sera what’s-her-name girl.”

I had previously asked this Kōdō if he knew of a Chinese rōnin named Sera. Sunauma must have told him about Sera Teruko. Sunauma had told me that inquiring about some Chinese rōnin's daughter working at a high-class sake merchant was something you could never bring up with a comrade like Kōdō—but seeing this, had he and Kōdō become that close after all? "No—it's about the Chinese rōnin called Sera."

When I said this, "That's why I didn't understand—you kept saying 'Sera' and such." "That's a man named Inosawa."

Kōdō said.

“Inosawa…?” “That’s the surname of the father of the girl you’re looking for.” “So Sera is the mother’s surname?” With a look that said not to ask such obvious questions, Kōdō continued: “Inosawa Ichitarō was our old comrade.” “He went to Wuhan with me during the first Xinhai Revolution.” “That was the year after the High Treason Incident. When police came to my house during that affair, Inosawa happened to be there—we were just discussing news of a girl’s birth.” “That must be the daughter born to him and this Sera woman.”

I bit my finger and nodded in confirmation that this was indeed Sera Teruko. "After that, during the Third Revolution, we worked together again with Inosawa to support the Northeast Revolutionary Army."

Lieutenant Kitatsuki said to Kōdō.

“That was when you raised an army to overthrow Yuan Shikai, correct?” “That’s correct. The Xinhai Revolution, which we Japanese comrades risked our lives to support, achieved its long-standing objective of overthrowing the Qing Dynasty, but the result ended up lending strength to Yuan Shikai’s ambitions.” “Realizing this wouldn’t do, in the second year of Taisho, Li Liejun ignited the fuse of the Second Revolution, and anti-Yuan armies rose up across the land—but these too were crushed by Yuan Shikai’s suppression.” “As a result, Sun Yat-sen, Huang Xing, and others were compelled to flee into exile in Japan for a time.”

Kōdō dispassionately narrated the turbulent history—the past history in which he himself had participated.

“The triumphant Yuan Shikai sought to ascend the imperial throne himself.” “Had that imperial system been realized here, the Republic of China would have vanished like mist. Determined to prevent this, we crossed into China and joined the anti-Yuan revolutionary army.” “I went to Qingdao with Kajikawa Hido, whom I mentioned earlier.” “Was that the Northeast Revolutionary Army?” Lieutenant Kitatsuki’s apple-red cheeks deepened their flush. “What a revolutionary army cannot lack is weapons and ammunition.” “We in Japan undertook their procurement.” “Having secured them in Japan, we attempted to send these supplies to the Chinese.” “This feels like yesterday’s work—though in truth, I had just turned forty at the time.”

“As for procuring weapons, sensei—if it weren’t for them being disposed of by the military, it would have been impossible, wouldn’t it?”

Lieutenant Kitatsuki said in a hushed voice.

“I can’t give names, but within the military, there was indeed someone in a pivotal position who shared our cause.” “Even so, obtaining them required considerable effort.” “Just as we were about to finally load the weapons onto the ship and send them off, they were discovered by the Moji Water Police and seized.” “This was a real problem.” “The removal of firearms and ammunition is strictly prohibited.” “Since this is a top-secret matter, even the military cannot officially interfere.” “Well, this was a real problem.” When they sent a telegram to Qingdao about their predicament, Senior Hido promptly came to Japan and went to consult with Itagaki Taisuke—the former Jiyūtō fighter and Count Itagaki. They went to ask if they could somehow get a high-ranking official to put in a word. Count Itagaki said, “In that case, it would be best if I meet directly with the Prime Minister and settle the matter.”

The Prime Minister at the time was Ōkuma Shigenobu. With a letter of introduction from Count Itagaki, Kajikawa Hido and Kōdō met with Prime Minister Ōkuma Shigenobu and requested the release of the seized weapons. Naturally, they explained the circumstances in detail and asked for special consideration. In response, the Prime Minister answered: “Since Qingdao is an international port under the watchful eyes of foreign nations, if it becomes known that Japan is mediating weapons for the Chinese Revolution, it will instantly become an international issue. There will undoubtedly be some official inquiry from Britain, America, and France directed at Japan.”

“In that case, it will become an issue in the Diet as well, and the Prime Minister’s responsibility will be called into question.” “If that happens, what will become of it?” “Even meeting with you like this is nothing but an extreme nuisance.” He dismissed them curtly, leaving them no room to maneuver. But if they were to withdraw like this—

“Then allow us to inquire about the next matter,” they said. “We understand Your Excellency’s policy prohibits Japan from assisting the Chinese Revolution—but what if China were to approach Japan simply to purchase weapons?” Hido and Kōdō pressed the Prime Minister relentlessly from both sides. “Your Excellency, we appreciate how problematic it would be for Japan to appear actively supportive of their revolution. But does this mean your government would absolutely refuse permission even if China came merely to buy goods—without explicitly requesting revolutionary aid—on grounds that such transactions might indirectly assist their cause?”

“Whatever China itself may do remains its internal affair—the Japanese government has no business interfering.” “Therefore, you individuals may freely exert yourselves for China, but it would prove troublesome should the Japanese government be seen as playing any role in this.” “In any case, I shall consider today’s conversation never to have occurred.” Thus dismissed, they had no choice but to withdraw without securing approval for the weapons shipment. As they departed,

“When will you return to Qingdao?” When asked by the Prime Minister, “In about a week…”

Hido answered.

With no other recourse left, Kajikawa Hido and Kōdō decided they had no choice but to have people sent from the Chinese side—and thus crossed over to Qingdao to arrange this operation. Yuan Shikai had already proclaimed himself emperor and ascended the throne; the Chinese Revolution teetered on collapse. Moreover, the weapons that were the lifeline of the Northeast Revolutionary Army remained confiscated in Moji. Upon crossing to Qingdao, they received an immediate summons from the local Japanese military commander. Japan, having entered World War I, had seized Qingdao from Germany and stationed an occupation force there. It was a summons from that very military commander. Assuming it must be an expulsion order, they went steeled for confrontation—only to hear the commander's words: "Rest assured—there's a confidential order from the Prime Minister to provide assistance."

“This is what they call a sudden turn of events. The weapons came from Moji to Qingdao too—with everything proceeding smoothly like this, the Northeast Revolutionary Army advanced its anti-Yuan forces.”

"Hmm," I groaned under my breath. Kōdō-sensei's tale truly lived up to that "blood-pumping, flesh-leaping" description—but that wasn't why I'd made that sound. This was the same Kōdō who'd once gone toe-to-toe with Prime Minister Ōkuma himself, yet here he sat casually entertaining a greenhorn like me. Watching him hold court like this, I finally understood why Lieutenant Kitatsuki maintained that stiff-backed reverence. "Japanese soldiers—active-duty officers no less—back in those days didn't flinch from aiding our revolutionary forces." "The regimental commander stationed at Fangzi staked his entire career supporting us." "They shared our conviction—that China's true independence from these Great Powers vultures wasn't just our cause, but essential for all Asia's peace." "A revolution was necessary for that independence." "The birth of a new nation—the Republic of China—demanded nothing less." "And military men—men sworn to serve governments—still fought alongside us." "But Japan today?" His voice turned venomous. "You'll find rats scurrying after colonial scraps behind the Great Powers' coattails." "Yet even now, some officers refuse to become China's executioners."

“Hah.” Lieutenant Kitatsuki let out a guttural sound—like a man who’d been reprimanded. “Even among trading firms back then, there were men of true conviction,” Kōdō-sensei continued. “The Qingdao branch manager of one particular company extended military funds to the revolutionary army on his own authority. Yet despite this, the Northeast Revolutionary Army ultimately met defeat—the times simply weren’t in their favor. A grand revolutionary undertaking isn’t accomplished overnight.”

For my part, I was directing my thoughts to the revolution I envisioned.

“Inosawa Ichitarō was in Qingdao overseeing soldiers recruited from Manchuria.” “The Northeast Revolutionary Army was recruiting troops from Manchuria.” “He handled provisions for those roughnecks, managing things skillfully back then.” “Until that time, Inosawa had been my comrade too, but he gradually warped into what Mr. Kashiwai here calls a China ronin.” “He’d degraded into someone preying on China.”

Even this Kōdō—I, who had been calling him a China ronin, cringed and thought, Oh shit. Then Kōdō,

“What about your military service?” “I dodged the draft.” I said, but he clearly avoided it. I had draft-dodging intentions myself, but he had dodged me from his side as well.

“What has become of Hido-sensei now?”

“What has become of Hido-sensei now?” said Lieutenant Kitatsuki. “He’s running a Chinese restaurant.” “Huh?” “Well, it’s quite a splendid Chinese restaurant.” “Even so…” “Indeed. Hido-senpai dedicated himself by sacrificing his very being—no, his entire life—for China. Today, that China is anti-Japanese, trying to overthrow Japanese imperialism and... no—it’s not that China alone is at fault. Even so, this must be unbearable for Kajikawa Hido, who dedicated his entire life to China.”

Kōdō clapped his hands sharply. He called over a maid who closely resembled my deceased mother and ordered sake, “Kajikawa Hido was a radical stalwart of the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement, so he had been contemplating revolution in Japan." “Your…”

[He] glared at Lieutenant Kitatsuki as though piercing through him, “Your envisioned direct imperial rule revolution differs considerably from ours, but since Japan’s revolution proved exceedingly difficult, we first considered China’s revolution instead.” "You might call it a dress rehearsal." “That’s why I too joined the Chinese Revolutionary Party and threw myself into the Chinese Revolution.” “The intention was to continue with Japan’s revolution next, but with our ambitions shattered, he ended up becoming the proprietor of a Chinese restaurant.”

For some reason, he let out a booming laugh. “How’s that street vendor Maruman doing these days?” Suddenly glaring at me this time, “That one wasn’t just some street vendor either—seems he was a revolutionary.” “He is a comrade.” I glared back at Kōdō. It felt like even I was being told I’d retired from being a revolutionary now,

“Even now, he is a revolutionary.”

“I haven’t seen him in a while—is he doing well?”

I hadn't met Maruman in a long time either. It had been Maruman who introduced Sunauma to Kōdō, but from Kōdō's tone, while Sunauma was rapidly drawing closer to Kōdō, Maruman himself seemed to be keeping his own distance from him. The day when this speculation would be confirmed as fact—May 1st—soon arrived.

Part Seven: Young Impotence Maruman had long been boasting about making his street vendor comrades plant black flags to demonstrate at May Day. Was he trying to prove his boast true? Maruman told me to come to May Day. But I didn't go. Having had my union completely stolen by the Bolshevik faction, I couldn't bear facing my anarchist comrades in shame. In such cases—though Bolshevik unions never get snatched by Anarchists—an organizer like me would be reassigned elsewhere. That's how their system works, but we who value freedom don't engage in such bureaucratic organization. A union I'd built myself had to be managed to the bitter end—no lenient transfers if it collapsed. I needed to start fresh on my own. I hadn't done that. Had Yachimoro's Shiro turned gutless after being ditched by some spaced-out counterfeit whore?

I was watching the May Day demonstration in the street. Amid the sea of red flags, when I saw the black flags held aloft by a small group of printers, my chest tightened. Damn it! I screamed inside my heart. That's right—damn it! But then it occurred to me—my Rin disease, though I'd long since stopped clinic visits, had been in its final treatment phase meaning it was cured now. Even leaving it untreated brought none of that worsening I'd both feared and morbidly hoped for. So I thought—even if that damned dropout student grated on my nerves—I really should go thank that doctor who'd cured my Rin disease like this. I thought about it, but didn't go.—

"Hah!" I shouted. Maruman had come swaggering up, planting his newly made enormous black flag and leading his comrades with an air of triumph. Though their numbers were only five or six—something almost shameful compared to the red flag demonstration forming a serpentine procession—that very fact made them appear all the more spirited before my eyes. I raised my hands to face height, intending to applaud them. But immediately, those hands went limp and dropped. I was ashamed to show Maruman myself as a bystander.

In this state,I had completely retired from being a revolutionary. "Damnation!" I ground my teeth tightly.

Maruman’s figure vanished from before my eyes. My field of vision was filled with red flags. Maruman had once sneered when I tried inviting Tamatsuka Hidenobu, a university graduate, to organize study sessions—"This reeks of imitating the Bolshies" (though those were my own words, it was Maruman's contemptuous expression that made me voice them aloud). That very Maruman wedged a black flag among the red flags—wasn’t he imitating the Bolshies now?

Maruman looked tragically heroic yet utterly ridiculous. It felt like a farce, yet utterly pathetic. Like some goddamn clown. We were completely divorced from the masses. I don't buy into the Bolsheviks' methods—I don't see the masses through their lens. But even so, this... this is no way to bring about the revolution we imagined. Maybe I should just set off another bomb—make a real bang somewhere. All their talk of organization this and organization that—it stifles revolutionary energy.

What should I do—I thought I'd meet Tamatsuka Hidenobu and try talking things through. While at it, I thought I'd ask about the writer who'd made Teruko change classes.

I went off to the publishing company where Tamatsuka worked. When we met, Tamatsuka was acting strangely nervous—I’d sensed something was off from the start—but he was in the process of defecting to the Bolshevik faction. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have taken this attitude—I would’ve started by punching him right away—but knowing nothing of such matters, I... “I didn’t come here to borrow money,” I clarified, “He must be some young literary type—you wouldn’t happen to know this sort of bastard?”

I ended up blurting this out first after all. (Was Teruko, after all, the real pressing issue for me?)

And while consumed with self-loathing, “He’s bound to be some no-name hack writer—someone like Tamatsuka-san wouldn’t know him. He’s been keeping a woman from Tamanoi as his mistress—lately made her transfer elsewhere—but you haven’t heard any rumors about a literary man like that, have you?”

“Who knows?” Pressing his hand against the thick frames of his glasses as if hiding his entire face from my gaze, he said: “So about that matter—just that matter alone—you came to see me merely to ask about that?” Tamatsuka did translations besides writing poetry, but even so, they reeked of translationese. First of all, that churned my stomach—and with self-loathing compounding it, my fury only grew—

“What’s it to you?” “Don’t go saying you’ve retired from being a revolutionary.” Though that had been his meaning, Tamatsuka flinched at my angry shout and knocked over an empty chair beside him. “Stop this violence!” “What the hell are you saying?” “I’ve been wanting to meet you properly too, Shiro—to have a real talk.” Whether from solemnity or genuine intent—compelled by his tone— “What’s this about?” Even as I spoke,

“You still haven’t answered about the crucial matter.” “The literary man?” Tamatsuka shook his head as if annoyed. “If you don’t know, then fine.” “I had heard rumors that Shiro was infatuated with a woman across the river and had been visiting her, but...” “Is that so? After all, the only women I’d ever fall for are whores.” “You haven’t heard any rumors about the literary man, have you?” he said, and changing his tone, “Haven’t you heard any rumors about me, Shiro?”

“Did Tama-san also fall for a woman?” “If that were all it was, that would be fine, but...”

He peered at my expression from behind his glasses while, “There’s a rumor going around that I’ve defected to the Bolshevik faction.” This was news to me. That alone proved how far I’d drifted from my comrades. It could also be said I’d been cast aside. The thought of letting him know I hadn’t heard the rumors about Tamatsuka grated on me, so without confirming or denying anything, I kept silent, “I’m studying dialectics right now.” “Materialist dialectics…?”

“Just because of that doesn’t mean I’ve quit being an anarchist.” “Don’t use words like ‘quit’.” “I’m not quitting anything.” “I’m telling you not to use that word.” “I’m studying dialectics as an anarchist.” “You graduated from university and you’re still hitting the books?”

What mattered was action. That's what I'd wanted to say. Action was everything. This was our creed. "I want to conceptualize something called dialectical anarchism." "Think...? Think about action!"

“I think we need a more robust theoretical foundation for our actions.” “That’s why I’m studying dialectical materialism.” “Do you really believe you can spark a revolution through studying?”

I yelled. There's no use talking to scum like this! I went to see Sunauma.

“How ’bout some catfish hot pot and a drink?”

I was invited and went to a loach restaurant in Asakusa. Zū-nabe refers to catfish hot pot, though there are no dedicated catfish restaurants—they serve it at loach places instead. Pushing through the navy-blue noren curtain stenciled with white hiragana reading "dozeu," we found the packed-earth floor crowded with customers owing to the dinner hour. They all had the look of rickshaw pullers and cart drivers—the usual clientele for such establishments. This was where craftsmen fresh off work would share a hot pot with comrades over drinks, though nowadays loach dishes had somehow become exotic fare. Young company men swaggered in with girls they'd lured under pretense of sampling rare Edo-style delicacies. One such girl peered at the whole loaches arranged in the pot and shrank back in disgust.

“Oh—disgusting!”

She let out something between a scream and a gasp. It felt strange seeing these customers from Yamanote areas putting on airs like they were sampling some exotic local specialty—strange when I remembered how things used to be. Right—Yamanote itself had become an antiquated term by then, one that no longer held meaning. Though technically speaking, Yamanote meant the uplands opposite Shitamachi's low city—like that grimy riverside around Yotsu no Hashi where my father's factory stood—the word still conjured images of mansion-lined avenues and affluent neighborhoods. Yet factories had begun sprouting in those very Yamanote districts during my elementary school years, transforming that whole riverside stretch into a cluttered landscape indistinguishable from Honjo-Fukagawa's maze of tenements.

World War I—what we then called the European War—saw Japan join the conflict, successfully seize Qingdao and occupy the South Sea Islands, during which time it rapidly swelled its industrial might and became a modern industrial nation. Factories sprouted throughout Japan, throughout Tokyo. Around Yotsu no Hashi too, countless subcontractor factories serving Shibaura's major plants had mushroomed. Along the riverbanks, filthy small workshops had spread like scabies. This was the reality imprinted on my eyes. The concrete form that Japan's transformation into a modern industrial nation took within my vision was precisely this.

A tenement row house went up on the vacant lot. No sooner had they been built than residents gathered from out of nowhere. They were factory workers. A workers' residential area completely divorced from the image of Yamanote had emerged.

In one of the tenement row houses within that residential quarter built on Furukawa Bridge between Yotsu no Hashi and San no Hashi, Sunauma had lived with young factory workers during his laborer days. Though when I first met him, he'd already quit factory work - grown his hair long like some painter's, glaring around the tenement despite his youth like a prison gang boss. Perhaps more accurately, he was feared. I first met Sunauma when I was in my fifth year of middle school. From that moment, my fate began its derailment. Though already a socialism-obsessed youth reading Osugi Sakae and others, had I not met Sunauma, another life might have been mine.

Passing through the earthen floor of the loach restaurant, we went up to the tatami room. I took off my shoes, Sunauma took off his sandals—that day Sunauma was wearing traditional Japanese attire. Sunauma, who claimed he'd come straight from an 'expropriation' run at the department store, was dressed like some right-wing figure in a haori overcoat and hakama trousers. In a corner of a sunken kotatsu tatami room like those found in beef hot pot restaurants, we settled into position.

“Catfish hot pot and sake.” Sunauma ordered. Next to us sat an old man straight out of a rakugo tale—the quintessential neighborhood retire—alone before his loach hot pot, sipping sake in measured draughts. He glanced our way once then ignored everyone in the tatami room, wholly absorbed in solitary enjoyment. Like performing ritual libations, he held his cup at arm’s length with right hand pouring sake, slowly set down the flask, then brought the cup to his lips from both hands with a soft chu sound. After carefully placing the cup down, he took up chopsticks to flip simmering loaches, grabbed fistfuls of green onions from a brazier-like container to toss into the pot—keeping himself thoroughly occupied. Then he’d sit upright again, hands folded on formally positioned knees, hunched over to gaze at the bubbling pot—a figure appearing lonesome yet radiating profound contentment.

Facing Sunauma across the table, I seated him at the wall-side position out of respect for his seniority. Behind me—though outside my field of vision—sat a young couple with two children who appeared thoroughly occupied with containing their rambunctious offspring. "You made quite an impression at Saita's place." "That soldier—Taihei—objected." "Soldier...?" "Kitatsuki or whatever his name was..."

“That’s not a soldier—he’s an officer.” “Ah, right.”

I gave a wry smile, “Either way, I hate it.” “What the hell did you go there for?” “Whenever I go to that house, there’s always a kiss.” “Must be doing pretty good business, huh?”

“You go there that often?”

“Still just twice.” “One time was with Mr. Sunauma.” “Let’s go together again next time.” “She always sits in front of the alcove like some decorative object—how does she even make any money?” “Rather than worrying about others, what about your own living situation?” Lately, I hadn’t been serving as Sunauma’s partner in expropriation. “If I stay at a boarding house, I can at least get meals.” “What about the doya-hin?” “I haven’t paid.” “Then I suppose the boarding house must be at their wit’s end.”

With a muffled laugh, I swung my clenched fist—making it trace a small circle through the air—in a tight yet ferocious arc. Some violent thing rampaging through my veins had compelled me to act this way. A meaningless gesture, yet...

“I see. When Mr. Kashiwai Shiro starts rampaging like that, they can’t possibly keep up, can they?” “No, I don’t go around causing trouble. I’m perfectly docile.”

That was no lie. When the boarding house landlord declared he wouldn't serve meals unless I paid my rent, I simply said, "Ah, fine." I'd been perfectly compliant. Then instead of choking down that cheap boarding house gruel, I started ordering tempura bowls and cutlet rice—one cheap restaurant dish after another—instructing the delivery boys to charge it all to the landlord's tab as part of my rent payment.

The old man was shocked and strictly ordered the regular soba shops (nagashari) and nearby Western-style restaurants (yōshari) not to accept any more orders from me. I calmly ordered the finest Nagatan (grilled eel) from a distant eel restaurant and told them to include kimosui (innards soup) as well. Ordering such extravagant fare in that manner would have them deliver it even from afar. Because he had to pay cash, it was an even bigger blow to the old man. Finally, the old man bowed his head and begged me for mercy. More than not collecting boarding fees, being made to pay cash was unbearable.

I said to the old man. “I’m not saying I won’t pay the boarding fees. Once I get money coming in, I’ll pay you back with interest.” “I’ve got no intention of messing with some cheap boarding house. When there’s no money, there’s no money—nothing to be done about it.”

When I don't want money, I've got no money. What I want now isn't money. So I've got no money—

A maid brought in a small lit brazier. Next, she brought a zu-nabe pot and placed it on the brazier. "Hurry up with the sake," Sunauma said. "Yes, yes." The childlike, country-bred maid worked diligently. The catfish in the pot still twitched. The fish that had been alive in the tank until moments before now lay chopped on the cutting board—minced into pieces and placed over the flames.

That bloodstained piece of catfish—I picked it up with my chopsticks and brought it to my nose. "What're you doing?" Sunauma stared in disgust, "This joint don't serve no expired catfish." I wordlessly dropped the fish back into the pot, then smirked and muttered low—

“You’re hungry for the smell of blood.” Sunauma furrowed his brow and made a displeased face, but— “I know,” he said. What the hell are you talking about? I thought. If that’s how I felt, I shouldn’t have met with Sunauma—but I was lonely. Even though my heart was turning violent—or maybe because of it—the loneliness became unbearable. That’s what drove me to meet him. “What does she want to do now?” To that Sunauma, I—

"It's not like that." I said, but Sunauma brushed it off, "Wasn't it to ask about that girl that you went to Mr. Saida's place?" It was Sunauma who had earlier asked what I'd gone to Saida Kōdō's place to do. "That's true, but—" "If that's not why—" I found my current self—like some retired revolutionary—utterly unbearable. But I couldn't bring myself to say that to Sunauma the racketeer. Then Sunauma himself, "I get it, I get it."

He said it again.

To me—wanting to scream at him to quit this eggshell-walking tone—he said: "It's not about women for either of us. You know I used to trawl through those unlicensed brothel dens and teahouses with you too. Back then I didn't know what to ram myself against—just thrashed about wild. You're me from those days now. Right—that's when I first met her."

The sake arrived. Sunauma promptly reached for the sake flask— “Ugh—hot!”

He pressed his fingers to his ear, “This is some scalding hot sake.” I grabbed the flask with both hands, gritting my teeth against the searing heat that threatened to burn me as I poured Sunauma’s drink. “So unlike back then—you’ve found something to throw yourself into now, Mr. Sunauma?” “Can’t exactly say I’ve found it—or grasped it—properly yet.” I raised my cup and finally addressed him with formal courtesy, “Are you close with that Lieutenant Kitatsuki?”

“Why?”

“Mr. Saida said he’d make that lieutenant and me get along eventually.” “He said that even if we’re enemies now, we’re the same in our concern for the country.” “And how did Kashiwai respond to that?” “Nothing really…” I kept drinking the hot sake continuously, “That military man seems a bit too Bolshevik-leaning, don’t you think?” “That’s not how it is. No—that’s not it.” “But he’s studying Lenin and all…”

“He’s probably using it as reference.” “That Lieutenant Kitatsuki told me this.” “It’s acceptable to dedicate one’s life for the nation as a military man, but I can’t stomach throwing it away for Japan’s capitalist class nowadays—those who see nothing but profit.” “Being forced to act as their errand boys is intolerable.” “He says all this, but he too comes from landless peasants like me.” “In times like these, peasants are pitiable creatures.” “If peasants exploited by landlords are wretched, then workers exploited by capitalists are equally wretched.” “To sever the chains binding them, he insists society must be rebuilt from the ground up.” “We military men must create a country where we can gladly offer our lives.” “The way things are now, it’s agony ordering soldiers to sacrifice themselves for the nation.” “Under these conditions... I can’t abide leading men to battle just to watch them get slaughtered for nothing...”

“I see. That makes sense.” “Though not in your exact words, Mr. Sunauma.” “What’s with that sarcastic tone?” Sunauma took the box of green onions, tilted it whole, and dumped them over the pot like he was sprinkling pepper. “What Lieutenant Kitatsuki says aligns with us up to a point, but…”

“So Lieutenant Kitatsuki says he’s going to hoist the imperial banner and launch a revolution, huh?” “Not the black flag or red flag, but...” We could discuss such dangerous matters with ease—our company being what it was.

“There’s a subtle difference there.” Saying this in a measured tone, Sunauma gestured toward the pot with his chopsticks, “We can never ally with the Bolsheviks, mind you…” His voice carried an implication that collaboration between the imperial banner and black flag might yet be feasible,

“Mr. Sunauma. That’s not just slightly different—it’s fundamentally different.” “But if you bring the military into the fold, they’re a formidable force.” “But to go so far as to enshrine the Tsar at the center… In Russia too, the terrorists’ ultimate enemy was the Tsar.” “No—it’s different from the Tsar’s country, you see. The catfish’s done boiling, I tell ya.” He took some for himself onto a small plate first, “Speaking of Russian terrorists—didn’t Mr. Saida mention Gershuni?”

“What I heard was mainly about the Chinese Revolution.” “What connection is there between Gershuni and Mr. Saida?”

Gershuni was a great leader of Russian terrorists. After being captured, sent to Siberia, and confined to prison under a life sentence, he successfully escaped by hiding inside a cabbage barrel. That boldness had been our guiding example. “Mr. Saida met Gershuni.”

When Sunauma said this so nonchalantly—"Huh?"— I nearly dropped the catfish from my chopsticks (te koboku). "When I first heard that story from Mr. Saida, I was floored."

Gershuni, who escaped from prison, fled to Vladivostok, boarded a ship there and infiltrated Japan, and then crossed over to America.

"When Gershuni came to Japan, Sun Yat-sen was also there at the time, and Kajikawa Hido secretly arranged a meeting between the two." "At that time, Kōdō-sensei was also there." Sunauma had until then been referring to him as "Mr. Saida," but now calling him "Kōdō-sensei" no longer sounded unnatural. "The reason Kōdō-sensei takes an interest in us is because he himself was once a terrorist." "Now that he's pursuing a different kind of revolution, he doesn't let on about those old days..."

"Hmm," I muttered, "That Kōdō-sensei really is a remarkable man." I too had naturally come to say "Kōdō-sensei." At this moment, Sunauma— “I’m thinking of going to China.”

It seemed like he suddenly changed the subject, but that wasn't the case—

“Kōdō-sensei said to me, ‘Go ahead and go.’”

That night, we lurched into Yoshiwara. No—or rather, flat broke as I was, I had Sunauma carry me into the brothel. That was the extent to which I had allowed myself to trust Sunauma. Or rather, I had thought Sunauma had retired from being a revolutionary, but upon learning that wasn’t the case, I found myself drawn to this version of him. In other words, this also meant that I had become completely captivated by Saida Kōdō. “Gershuni… huh?”

Drunk, I kept muttering this like a burp. "Gershuni… huh?"

I had heard his name, but of course I'd never met him in person. Precisely for that reason, he'd become something like an idol within my mind. That Kōdō had personally known this terrorist I so revered exerted such force upon me that it compelled reverence for Kōdō himself. Now he abruptly appeared as a man wielding irresistible power—one whose words I found myself unable to disobey.

The visit to the brothel with Sunauma was the first since that incident. That was the night when Sunauma tried to initiate his "amusing game" in Yoshiwara but was refused and driven out. For me, it was the night I came to know Clara—that is, Teruko Sera. Unlike last time, it was an upper-tier second-rate establishment, but Sunauma was treated as a regular. This should be fine, I thought with relief.

Sunauma’s regular young woman came out, and we settled on starting with drinks. “Take care of this brother here—get him a good girl,” Sunauma said to the madam. “Yes, yes,” she replied. “What sort of girl would you like? Since he’s young, I suppose a young one would be best.”

The madam didn't ask me—she asked Sunauma. Drunk as I was, "Since I'm young, someone not young would be better—a kind woman would suit me better." I said. What a foolish thing I had said. Perhaps they took me for someone who preferred older women—for the woman assigned to me was not just mature but exceedingly so, a matron well past her prime.

"Now, big brother." “Mm.” Clara had said, “Let’s do that thing”—but that night, I found myself utterly incapable of it. With Clara, my Yoshiko would usually spring to attention just from seeing her face, but now it lay completely useless. The courtesan stroked Yoshiko with practiced hands, but rather than having any effect, this only made matters worse. To make things worse still, the old hag had the gall to wear a bright crimson waistcloth—a yachikakushi—which only compounded the reverse effect.

“Big brother, you're so young—what’s wrong?” Hearing that only made me panic worse. Useless. The more I worried about embarrassing her, the more impossible it became. She was kind enough—this courtesan—but her professional ministrations only made things worse. My picklock wouldn’t catch at all. “What’s wrong with me? Did I drink too much?” “This is how you become a proper adult, big brother.” The woman spoke in that consoling tone.

"I'm already an adult!" "You'll become a real adult. They say every man goes through this once." "I see. So... becoming a real adult, huh?" From that night onward, my fate began to unravel once more.

Chapter Two

Part One: The Bomb Thrower

Lieutenant Kitatsuki, whom I had met at Saitō Kōdō's house, and I began a comradely association. It goes without saying that Kōdō had mediated that connection.

Kōdō had long since declared that he would "make Lieutenant Kitatsuki and me get along." It was somewhat galling that things had turned out exactly as he predicted, but I steeled myself to engage with them while clinging to my own revolutionary ideals. I, who had been scorned as an ideologue and denounced as a racketeer, now found myself hailed as a patriot and viewed as a national loyalist. As for Kōdō and Lieutenant Kitatsuki's so-called national reform plan, I hadn't swallowed it wholesale. Their refusal to enforce rigid doctrines like the Bolsheviks' made them convenient allies.

The Bolshevik faction was subjected to severe oppression. I heard through others about that former university student I'd met at Settlement House having gone underground too. What we'd once simply called Bolsheviks had since split into communists and social democrats—it was now only the communists getting crushed. The social democrats had comfortably settled into becoming proletarian party bosses. That year's May Day—following annual March 15th and April 16th mass arrests—became so pathetic people jeered it looked like a funeral procession. Twelve thousand police officers mobilized against fifteen thousand demonstrating workers. Under these conditions, organizing workers for revolution seemed like pure fantasy.

Moreover, bourgeois politics was utterly corrupt. Scandals erupted one after another; political parties busied themselves with pursuing their own interests, utterly consumed by partisan strife. When it came to elections, they openly engaged in bribery by distributing zaibatsu donations to officially endorsed candidates—8,000 yen here, 5,000 yen there—for campaign funds, and Diet members were no longer representatives of the people but mere spokesmen for the zaibatsu. Moreover, elected Diet members began scrambling for personal gain from the very day they took office, leaving the public utterly disillusioned with such parliamentary politics. Voices calling for revolution—unspoken voices—filled the streets.

In October of that year, active-duty army officers gathered and formed an organization called the Sakurakai. On the surface, it was presented as a social club for military personnel, but in reality, it was a kind of revolutionary group. I heard from Lieutenant Kitatsuki that the first meeting had been held at Fujimiken in Kudan. “The current state of affairs has become intolerable to ignore any longer...” Lieutenant Kitatsuki let the smell of pomade—peculiar to staff officers—pungently sting my nose as he... “Military men will rise up at last to rebuild the nation.”

I scowled. I hated the stink of pomade. But military men generally reeked of it. That I'd wrinkled my nose at the smell might have meant I was wrinkling my nose at military men themselves. That self-righteous notion that national rebuilding couldn't happen unless soldiers rose up - that arrogance of believing they alone shouldered the nation's burden - had indeed twisted my face into a scowl.

As for my scowl, how Lieutenant Kitatsuki interpreted it, "The military's upper echelons don't view this group favorably, but there's no need to worry about that..."

he said to me. This group was primarily composed of lieutenant colonels and majors, with young officers like Lieutenant Kitatsuki occupying the lower ranks. Lieutenant Kitatsuki, however, believed that it was the innovative drive of their young officers that had motivated the field-grade officers to act in this way. “Given that staff officers at the military’s core have rallied to this group, the upper echelons cannot possibly suppress it.” “Not only that, but we can certainly compel even the upper echelons to act, and there are already people of conscience within those upper ranks who resonate with our resolve.”

The lieutenant said and showed me the document that clearly stated their resolve. In it were written the words stating the group’s purpose: “With national reform as our ultimate objective, we shall not hesitate to use armed force if necessary.” “Using armed force?” Feeling a thrill of exhilaration, I asked the lieutenant. “I don’t know much about military affairs, but can you just use force on your own like that?” “On our own?”

“How does the chain of command work? Would using force be allowed without orders?” “The Combat Manual explicitly authorizes acting on independent judgment.” The lieutenant declared proudly. “In critical situations, you don’t wait for orders—acting on your own discretion is permitted. Ultimately, if that independent action aligns with your superiors’ intentions and serves His Majesty the Emperor’s divine will, then it’s authorized. More accurately—if we young officers don’t light the fuse, nothing will get done. Waiting for commands means nothing ever begins.”

It was around that very time that I was accused of apostasy by Maruman.

“Has money blinded you?” I was so furious I could feel fire blazing from my eyes. Even though I’d washed my hands of that despicable racketeering, I wasn’t living some money-blinded life. So overwhelmed with humiliation that, “Don’t go spouting lines like Kan’ichi from The Golden Demon.” I laughed. That only served to anger Maruman further, “You’re getting chummy with the military bastards who killed Ōsugi Sakae… What the hell is this?”

“'Rubbing tits together'? What kinda fuckin' line is that?” “You feel no shame toward Mr. Ōsugi?” “That’s my line. “Wasn’t you who introduced Mr. Sunauma to Kōdō-sensei in the first place, Maru-san? “That’s how I came to know Kōdō-sensei too.”

“Mr. Sunauma would’ve ended up a racketeer if left like that—that’s what I thought back then.” “How’s Mr. Sunauma doing?” “He went to China.” “What’s he doing in China?”

“It seems he infiltrated from China into Manchuria.” Carrying a letter of introduction from Kōdō-sensei and securing connections with Manchurian bandits, Sunauma went to Jilin Province in northern Manchuria. He made his way into the area around Dongning and Mulin—the notorious opium villages.

"It seems Mr. Sunauma has his own ideas." I didn't know why Sunauma had infiltrated those secret opium fields. "I wanted you, Mr. Shiro—just you—to stay with us guarding the black flag." "Maru-san." My hand pressed against my chest. "Even if I rub shoulders with military men, this black flag stays planted right here." "I'll keep protecting that flag—even if I'm the last one left!" Maruman ground his fist into his eye sockets, then broke into rough sobs that scattered tears across his cheeks.

“Maru-san.” “I don’t think I’ve betrayed you all—not in my own mind.” “Just keep watching a bit longer.”

When the new year began, an Army coup d'état—commonly called the "March Incident"—was plotted. It was an attempt to seize political power through military force and establish a dictatorial regime. The plan consisted of the following: 1. In February, they would hold a massive rally by the Three Proletarian Factions Alliance at Hibiya to denounce the cabinet on a grand scale, build momentum for its overthrow, stage demonstrations toward the Diet building, and conduct reconnaissance preparations for full-scale execution.

2. In March, on the day when the labor bill was submitted to the Diet, they would carry out destruction and seize political power. On this day, they were to bomb the Prime Minister’s Official Residence and the headquarters of both the Seiyūkai and Minseitō parties. However, bombs producing loud explosions but lacking lethal effectiveness would be used.

3. Conduct a mass mobilization of ten thousand people in accordance with Dr. Ogawa’s plan. From all directions, demonstrations would be conducted toward the Diet, assigning leaders who understood the plan to the front of each column to maintain control. Each column was to be equipped with a drawn-sword squad to eliminate any anticipated police interference.

4. The military conducted an emergency assembly, surrounded the Diet under the pretext of protection, and severed all internal and external traffic. Furthermore, they had preemptively stationed officers (primarily from the Sakurakai) at key intersections to demand that each column entrust all matters to the military's efforts to fulfill public demands and maintain order—the leaders assigned to each column were to enforce this. 5. Under these circumstances, a certain lieutenant general (whose identity remained concealed until the end and remains unknown today), leading either Major General K or T along with several other officers, entered the assembly hall and declared to the ministers: "The populace no longer trusts the current cabinet, placing faith solely in a cabinet led by General Ogaki as Prime Minister. The nation now faces a critical juncture. You must act appropriately." This compelled them to carry out their collective resignation.

6. They would compel Acting Prime Minister S and those below him to submit their resignations, then maneuver according to prearranged preparations so that the imperial mandate would descend upon General Ogaki.

I was added to the bomb-throwing squad. Or rather, I volunteered for it. Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his fellow young officers reeked of military bravado mixed with the grease of political machinations, carrying themselves as if looking down on us civilians. Revolution, they seemed convinced, couldn't be achieved without military hands after all. I stubbornly insisted I must take on the bomb-throwing duties - staking civilian pride and honor on it. The bomb squad was ultimately meant to be handled by civilians anyway. The plan document specified that members of Dr. Ogawa Akia's right-wing group would handle the actual throwing. I'd forced my way into their ranks through sheer persistence. My history as part of the terrorist cell that tried sniping General Fukui made those right-wing bastards eye me suspiciously. I meant to scrub that stain clean through this operation.

But volunteering to be a bomb-thrower wasn't solely for that reason. The allure of bomb-throwing set my blood boiling. The bombs were spherical, each approximately 4.5 centimeters in diameter, consisting of four linked rounds to form dummy artillery shells. When they exploded, they emitted the same acoustic effect as shells being continuously fired from four artillery guns. Though lacking killing power, their gunpowder smoke surged high into the heavens. During my terrorist days, how I'd struggled to make bombs! Infiltrating mountain construction sites disguised as laborers to steal dynamite for explosions—compared to that, this current situation where everything came readily provided by the military felt almost disappointingly simple. Kōdō-sensei had also pointed it out—I was made to keenly feel the importance of co-opting the military.

But I didn't deeply consider what would happen when this coup d'état succeeded. It could also be said I was trying not to think. The very act of bomb-throwing itself seemed to set my heart racing.

March arrived, but the cold persisted. On a cold day, I visited Kōdō's house. In this coup d'état plan, the civilian participant was Dr. Ogawa; Kōdō wasn't involved, but he seemed to know the internal circumstances, "I just hope we aren't being used to satisfy General Ogaki's lust for power."

he uttered a coldly critical remark. “General Ogaki isn’t acting on his own initiative—it’s more that everyone’s propping him up.” I said. General Ogaki was the Army Minister of the cabinet at that time. “Ogawa Akia was likely the one promoting him, but—” Kōdō added charcoal to the brazier while continuing, “He calls me a socialism-addled fool, yet he himself manipulates proletarian party members to make the masses dance to his tune. That’s precisely socialist handiwork—but we might end up whistling with no one dancing.”

The demonstrations conducted as "reconnaissance preparations" took place in late February and early March, but they managed to mobilize only three or four thousand people. Just as Kōdō had predicted, there grew an acute sense of futile effort, and Ogawa Akia's plan to mobilize ten thousand people began appearing increasingly doubtful. As the day of execution approached, Lieutenant Kitatsuki too started voicing his skepticism to me. An agreement had long been in place among field-grade officers to exclude captains and below from participating in this uprising; though Lieutenant Kitatsuki's group demanded its retraction, their appeals went ignored. The stated reason was that should things fail and punishment follow, they could scarcely ensure support for bereaved families' livelihoods - hence restricting participation to majors and above.

“The logic may hold water superficially,” he said, “but excluding us junior officers like this is preposterous.” “Ordering us to merely assist makes no sense at all.” It seemed as if the senior officers meant to deliberate exclusively among themselves, fueling suspicions that their revolutionary blueprint might diverge from what we younger men had envisioned. Some even began suspecting they found our earnestness inconvenient – that they were deliberately sidelining us.

Meanwhile, the senior officers themselves, acting as if their work was already accomplished, held an all-night banquet at a traditional restaurant with Dr. Ogawa Akia in attendance. Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his cohort were also invited to this gathering, but were only left with unpleasant feelings. "They're saying crap like 'We gotta think up a merit award system too.'" "They make us help them, then want to hand out medals for our service." "They're mocking us." "Do they actually think we're helping just to get medals?"

Lieutenant Kitatsuki had worried whether such methods could set things in motion, but sure enough, this "March Incident" ended abortively. The bombs I'd so painstakingly kept close to my chest were briskly confiscated. The bombs that had been obtained with such ease were taken away just as effortlessly. Though abortive, this coup plan should clearly have faced charges of preparatory insurrection. Yet the incident was buried from darkness into deeper darkness, producing not a single casualty.

This too was absurd. It was only natural that Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his cohort harbored suspicions that a political deal had been struck. The reason it ended in failure was said to be because the military's upper echelons had deemed the timing premature. But what was initially reported as the Army’s change of heart gradually came to be understood as General Ogaki’s own reversal.

"As Kōdō-sensei had said, General Ogaki might indeed be a man with political ambitions."

I thought. Because Kōdō and Ogawa Akia were opposed, I had taken Kōdō’s words as being prompted by that conflict, but— No, that's not it. I reconsidered. "General Ogaki might have caused it to end in failure out of consideration for his own political ambitions." This was, so to speak, also the view held by Lieutenant Kitatsuki and others of the Kōdō faction. Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his cohort, who were angered by the incident’s failure, held a lamentation gathering at a Western-style restaurant near their regiment.

To this gathering, even I—who did not belong to the Ogawa Akia faction—was invited and attended. “We should still take decisive action through our own initiative.” “The military’s upper echelons can’t be trusted.” Such discussions coalesced into distrust toward General Ogaki. General Ogaki was a man who commanded influence within the military and exerted considerable pressure in political circles, yet precisely because of this, he represented an entity that risked warping the true Imperial Flag Revolution. “Kill him?”

Such a shout arose from within the assembly.

“Who will do the killing?” “I’ll do it.” I said to Lieutenant Kitatsuki in a low voice.

“You…?” In Lieutenant Kitatsuki’s eyes—eyes glaring like he was picking a fight—there burned the haughty radiance of military supremacy.

“I’ll do it.”

I said quietly. "You all still have vital work that needs doing." "You're rather pretentious for someone so young."

Lieutenant Kitatsuki laughed.

“No no—I’m a dead man walking.” “Someone who could die anytime.”

I thought that by assassinating General Ogaki there, I could uphold my beliefs as a terrorist. "Since there's amnesty, well, if you do your full ten years—serve ten and get out—you can make a respectable showing." Among right-wing youths at that time, such talk circulated semi-openly. They said these things unabashedly even in my presence. The bigger the target you killed, they claimed, the more prestige you'd gain—so that after leaving prison, you could walk tall. And that was indeed how it worked.

While they spouted off about matters of state and nation, ultimately killing people for personal gain and fame—I considered such mentality utterly contemptible. But through Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his men's eyes, even I—the one who'd volunteered to assassinate General Ogaki—might have appeared simply angling to build my reputation. In fragments of their speech, I kept sensing this. Yet I neither tried to bare my true feelings to them, nor could have.

Having killed General Ogaki, I couldn't imagine my life being spared. Even if I wasn't shot dead on the spot, I would naturally receive a death sentence. Unlike military personnel or right-wingers, I was a terrorist, and since I intended to make that clear when the time came, I had to prepare myself for the death penalty. Could someone driven by mere self-aggrandizement muster such resolve? This was something I could have confided even in Lieutenant Kitatsuki until now, and there had been no need to remain silent about it; but if pressed on why I maintained such resolve, things would get troublesome, so I had decided from the start to say nothing at all.

By assassinating General Ogaki, I thought I would take revenge—that I could take revenge—against the military men who had massacred Ōsugi Sakae. I had secretly anchored my righteous cause there. In the courtroom, I had intended to state this clearly. I wanted to make this point clear and die.

This was not something I could say to Lieutenant Kitatsuki, a military man. Moreover, since this very lieutenant was supposed to secretly arrange for obtaining the pistol to assassinate General Ogaki, it made the matter all the more unthinkable. That the pistol meant for taking revenge on military men had to be acquired through military men was bitterly ironic. Or perhaps less irony than outright contradiction? I had my reasons for overlooking this.

The assassination attempt on General Fukui had ended in failure, disgracefully labeled a "sniper incident," with bourgeois newspapers sensationalizing it as having fired mere blanks for self-aggrandizement—all because the pistol used proved defective. The lotus root pistol our comrades had painstakingly obtained through covert operations in Shanghai became useless when needed most. Was that antiquated lotus root-style pistol inherently flawed? Had they been duped with counterfeit bullets? Or had the aged gunpowder deteriorated? The exact cause remained unclear, but the bullet fired point-blank—which should have pierced General Fukui's heart from behind—failed to even break the skin, leaving only a superficial burn. The frustration was unbearable. Yet two comrades still faced execution over this fiasco.

At that time, we had also prepared a homemade bomb. It had been placed in a pocket, but with the crucial pistol being in such a state, they were quickly subdued before reaching the point of using the bomb. I had initially been involved in that bomb's manufacturing plan but was removed midway through. Both Sunauma and I were excluded from the assassination group. Because I was particularly young, they told me not to die there—to survive and keep alive the fading flame of terrorist spirit.

I pleaded through tears, begging them not to say that and to let me join, but as a middle school graduate I was labeled an intellectual and persuaded that Sunauma and I had to defend to the death the magazine we had been publishing at the time to spread our principles. On top of that, they even staged a fake fight breakup to prevent us from being implicated together. The comrades carried out the assassination. It was frustrating that it ended in a sniper attack, but their spirit remained unbroken. The comrades met their deaths with composure. I could not erase from my heart the feeling of being a half-dead failure.

Sunauma was the same. Although we avoided being implicated, the magazine was shut down. We too couldn't muster the will to half-heartedly keep putting out some magazine.

If the opportunity arose, I kept thinking I too wanted to die as a terrorist. For that, weapons were essential. A pistol so shoddy it could only burn your target was worthless. I waited for Lieutenant Kitatsuki to bring me the military pistol. But perhaps Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his men had truly meant to do it themselves all along. They remained stubborn about handing over the pistol. I could comprehend their disinclination to entrust such a critical mission's execution to a civilian.

However, eventually, a situation arose where it had to be left to me whether I liked it or not.

General Ogaki had resigned as Army Minister and had become Governor-General of Korea, assuming his post in Keijō. Going all the way to Keijō and staking out that target there was impossible for active military personnel. First of all, with a spiky chestnut head like his, no matter what disguise he wore, he would stand out too much. The assassin had to be a civilian. There, for the first time, I was handed the pistol. "Serves you right!" I screamed inwardly. I slept hugging the cold pistol to my chest.

As I prepared to leave Tokyo, I thought about wanting to meet my anarchist comrades, but fearing I might drunkenly let slip something strange, I reconsidered. I was bitten by a painful sense of loneliness. I stroked the pistol, distracting myself from the ache. Not even for a moment did I let go of the pistol.

Lieutenant Kitatsuki held a farewell party for me. That said, aside from the lieutenant, only three young officers came.

It was a private room at a crab restaurant in Ōmori. A cool wind blew through the wide-open windows, but the unseasonable heat—like summer had come early—left my sweaty skin tacky from the sea breeze, making me feel queasy. Perhaps my own foul mood contributed to it. The room sat directly above the water, the sharp brine of tidal pools stinging my nostrils. That smell forced me to confront anew the reality of crossing the sea all the way to Korea. I'd wanted that pistol sooner. I'd wanted to tell Lieutenant Kitatsuki that.

General Ogaki, having resigned as Army Minister, immediately went to Izu Nagaoka and remained there continuously. As soon as I obtained the pistol, I intended to take down the general and secretly went to Nagaoka on a reconnaissance mission. Military police, not to mention regular police, had been mobilized, and security was tight, but compared to the difficulty of staking out the general who had gone to Keijō, this mainland location was still somewhat easier. Why hadn't they sent the pistol sooner? That—though it was a well-meant farewell party—was making me displeased.

While urging sullen me to drink, Lieutenant Kitatsuki was conducting a nashi—a private discussion—with just himself and the young officers. It might seem odd to suddenly drop this guresansho—this cant—into narrative prose rather than dialogue, though this wasn't the first time I'd done it. For me, this jargon had emerged naturally from my state of mind. Whether through nature or necessity—though Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his men had thrown this farewell party for my sake—I felt there remained a fundamental difference between us military men and them. That feeling made me inwardly mutter at the time about them conducting their nashi. This had naturally seeped into the narrative itself.

There had been times before, and there would be times henceforth, when cant suddenly emerged—but for me, there was always this feeling that its appearance there was inevitable and natural. If I were to abruptly call women's tabi socks yokobira out of nowhere, then in that moment I must have received some particularly intense, special impression from those tabi socks. It wasn't tabi—it absolutely had to be yokobira. But others might take this cant as pretentious. They might see it as showing off. Refined types would surely take offense. Take these modern study-bound leftists—no, that's outdated terminology—what do they call them now? Progressive cultural figures? This crowd putting on airs from their safe zones, who've never been bitten by bugs nor even set foot in the pigpen (jail)—my cant would surely stick in their craw.

The jargon I used wasn't just something I picked up from Maruman who'd become Yasama—it had become second nature from sharing cells with yakuza and thieves. So I know not only the jargon of street vendors but also that of thieves and such. I don't care if people think using such jargon is pretentious or a bluff, but it troubles me that by using thieves' cant, we anarchists might be seen as the same kind as thieves. For anarchists' honor, that is galling.

I really shouldn't be using this kind of jargon. Even though I knew this, why did the cant keep spilling from my lips? All that remained for me now was this slang. Eventful—though it felt absurd to say so myself—but my tumultuous past had left me with nothing but this thieves' lingo.—

As I listened half-heartedly to Lieutenant Kitatsuki and the others talk, it seemed factions existed within the military's upper echelons, engaged in ugly power struggles. It was a turf war.

No—I should write this properly. The so-called reformist factions also had similar cliques, and the conflict—which could be called mutual antagonism—while all intending an Imperial Flag Revolution, had brought division even among the young officers.

The name General Maki kept surfacing repeatedly in these discussions, and Lieutenant Kitatsuki spoke in a tone of reverence toward this general. "Which faction does Kōdō-sensei belong to?" I asked while picking crab meat from a leg with my chopsticks.

“Kōdō-sensei trusts General Maki.” “It’s likely also due to his closeness with Minami Ikko.” Minami Ikko was one of the right-wing’s leading figures, and I knew his name as well.

I shifted the conversation to my own matters, "I intend to keep this matter from Kōdō-sensei as well—keep it from him and proceed." When Lieutenant Kitatsuki silently nodded deeply at my words, several customers came clattering up the stairs with heavy footsteps, thudding down the hallway as if—

“Is this the place?” At their brazen peering into the tatami room, “They’re here.” Lieutenant Kitatsuki tensed up, “Hide!” he told me. That commanding tone grated on me. I wasn’t his subordinate—no one who moved at his orders. I stayed planted where I sat,

“Cops, maybe?” If it's the police, the military could suppress them—and should be suppressing them. As I thought this, Lieutenant Kitatsuki said “No,” “Vacate this seat!” “Why…” “I don’t want you caught in our factional crossfire.” He spoke rapidly while pointing at the window, “Through there—quickly—” Urging escape with his eyes, he thrust a large shoe tag at me, “Take this…” he offered.

"This is some fuckin' joke," I sneered, leaving the throwaway line hanging as I vaulted onto the windowsill. The waves lapping at the shore weren't particularly strong, yet their white crests collapsed in the dark open water before ever reaching land.

At the edge of the window, slightly further down below, a roof came into view. Just as I thought 'Got it!' and tried to leap across, the pistol hidden in my crotch clattered against the boards, making me freeze. I'd tied the pistol to the end of my white belly wrap and hung it beside my balls. Even if they stopped me for questioning and searched my body, they wouldn't touch my balls. I fled along the roof edge like a 'hai' thief—one who sneaks over rooftops—and after spotting the tin gutter running down to the ground, used it to climb down. Mimicking a kisugure drunkard, I went barefoot around to the entrance,

“Hey, gimme my Sukema—my shoes. I’m headin’ back alone first.” The shoe clerk regarded me suspiciously, alternating his gaze between the shoe tag and my face. “Hurry the hell up.” I barked, “Tch, this ain’t funny.”

After hailing a car, I said to the driver, “Trogen.” “Huh?” “It’s Yoshiwara. Hurry up.” To think underworld slang like “Trogen” now came naturally to my lips—my Yoshiwara visits had truly taken root. I’d risen from patronizing streetwalkers to frequenting proper brothels. No—Trogen women were courtesans, not common prostitutes. In other districts they’d be called common whores, but here in Yoshiwara they bore the title of courtesan. Proper courtesans existed nowhere else but Yoshiwara. That said, whether courtesan, common whore, or counterfeit prostitute, they all amounted to the same damn thing in the flesh trade.

The courtesan whose Genji name was Wakamurasaki was my regular, and I, being a regular, was led to the main room. This was neither the woman who had told me to become an adult, nor was it her house. "Oh, you bought a pretty doll."

A Wisteria Maiden doll in a large glass case stood imposingly displayed atop a small tea cabinet. "Yes." Wakamurasaki evaded the question and served me tea. "Those things must be surprisingly expensive."

Someone must have bought it for her. As I thought she must have landed a good client, “Yes, Big brother.” Spreading out a stylish yukata, the woman told me to change clothes. “Yeah. Not yet.” I considered how to hide the pistol without catching the woman’s eye. Even as it was, the crotch of my pants bulged as if that thing were fully erect. Because it looked suspicious, I kept adjusting it with my hands.

“What’s wrong, Big brother?” The woman—who seemed about my age—said to me with evident discomfort; I wasn’t acting my usual aggressive self. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong at all.” Clenching the filter of an Enter Asahi between my teeth, “I’m going on a trip. Won’t see you for a while.”

I said, though this might be the last time we'd ever see each other. "Where you goin' on this trip?" "I'm headin' someplace far."

Perhaps the desperate look had shown on my face, “Far? What do you mean?” the woman said uneasily, “Big brother, I’ve got something to discuss with you, but later…” Beside the laid-out futon, the woman tried to get into her long underrobe.

“Not yet. Let’s talk. What’s this ‘something to discuss’?” The woman who’d presumably served here for a good while looked every bit the Yoshiwara courtesan in her kimono, but when held beneath the bedding, her flesh stayed taut like someone who’d worked rice fields till just recently—this wildness being what I’d come to like about her. She was nothing like Teruko. The only similarity was that underbite, “Let’s talk while lying down.”

On paper, her speech was Tokyo dialect, but traces of a rural accent still clung to it. She slipped smoothly into the futon first, "I'd thought... once my term was up... I wanted to set up house with you, Big brother." "Heh. Quite the charmer, ain't ya?" "It's true. If only you'd be willing... But you'd never take a courtesan for your wife." "That's not true." "Really?" I was the one who wanted to ask if she meant it, but the woman's face stayed deadly serious.

“I thought if it were someone like you, Big brother, you’d surely take me as your wife…” My occupation was that of a writer—a third-rate hack, I’d established. “What do you mean by ‘someone like’?” “I’m sorry.” The woman reached for the wooden pillow, “I’ve received an offer from a tatami shop owner to become his second wife.” “Tatami shop…?” “What should I do…?” I’m a dead man walking—but as I fumbled for words, unable to say so, the shrewd old hag called out from outside the room. A customer came.

(There—didn't I tell you?)

With that expression on her face, the woman sat up, “Big brother…”

and shook my knee. I was bouncing the bedsprings vigorously, but I couldn't tell her to stop the act. Now that a customer who'd come specifically for Wakamurasaki had gone upstairs, she couldn't disregard the house custom of greeting patrons. I had no choice but to urge her along. "Big brother. Hurry..." As she pressed me to finish quickly, her hand slid from my knee to my holster and struck the pistol. The woman who'd had the scare jerked her hand back as if burned,

“What’s that?” “It’s nothing. “Go on ahead.” “Later… properly…” I waved my hand as if to shoo the woman away. Left alone, I was struck by an aching loneliness. I wasn’t so infatuated with Wakamurasaki putting on her act that I’d turn into some lovesick fool, but her words about wanting to set up house with me lingered stubbornly in my ears. It would be cruel to dismiss this as mere oiran’s artifice.

Setting up a household with an oiran and running a candy store or something wouldn’t be half bad. A calm, modest life in the humble backstreets wouldn’t be so bad, I think—but it’s too late now to start dreaming of such a self.

From somewhere, the strains of the record *Asakusa March* drifted in. "The lamp of love glows crimson—how will it dye the apron over my heart?" I knew this part, but not the lyrics that followed. *Reapplying my makeup, though none will know* *If my life were but this single night tonight—*

Dreamlike Asakusa, rain of tears The unfamiliar third verse's lyrics, though I found them worthless, cut through me tonight. If my life were but this single night tonight—this just isn't right. (Damn it all!) I quietly slid my hand beneath the futon. Seeking the pistol's cool touch hidden there, I let my fingers creep through.

What’s become of Teruko? What’s become of that Rin disease? Would she end up with syphilis, her nose caving in, left gasping and wheezing? Even as I cursed her to waste away to bones, I grew sorrowful at how I’d truly wanted to build a life with Teruko.

――Wakamurasaki had returned. After quietly opening the shoji, Wakamurasaki entered holding her zori under her arm. While courtesans would typically walk down the hallway slapping their felt zori noisily, Wakamurasaki returned suppressing even her footsteps. When I raised my head, Wakamurasaki swiftly flipped up the futon, attempting to hide her zori underneath—only for the pistol to come into view— “Ah!”

With a cry, she cowered. “Big brother, keeping something like this…” “Shh.”

I pressed my index finger to my mouth. An intense desire blazed up within me.

Part Two: Keijō’s Cat

If I had actually carried out the assassination of General Ogaki there, I would have long since bid farewell to this world, unable to recount such old memories so nonchalantly. In other words, once again, I had botched dying. Having botched dying, I had survived disgracefully like this until today—but even if my body was spared from death at that time, perhaps my heart had died then. However momentous this was for me personally, as a story it was such an anticlimactic affair that one could dismiss it outright as simply another botched death—so without putting on airs, I should swiftly move to recounting the second time I botched dying. Before heading to Korea—not that there wasn't more to tell—let me board the train without delay.

I went to Shimonoseki by steam train (Poppo). I had enough money for a blue ticket (second class) - back then trains had first, second and third classes - but riding an unaccustomed second-class car risked drawing attention, so I went with a red ticket (third class). Leaving Tokyo meant departing from life while aiming for death. Though I wanted to plunge straight into death's domain, reaching Shimonoseki took far longer back then than it would now. The slow withdrawal from life felt viscerally repulsive to my living flesh. I refused to consider myself cowardly yet couldn't deny the agony of dying alone. In the Shimokuten third-class car I gulped liquor by myself. To numb the pain I cultivated heroism's pathos within.

Alone—I was going to die. I was going to undertake this task alone. This was undoubtedly the true intent of a terrorist, yet I—who had scorned military men's self-righteousness—found myself drunk on heroism indistinguishable from their arrogance. Speaking of military men, the reason my pockets bulged with money was that I'd received it from Lieutenant Kitatsuki as operational funds. That cash must have been procured by the lieutenant from somewhere too—no way he'd have such sums himself. He never said where he got it, and I never asked. Had they procured it through expropriation like us? No—those military bastards couldn't manage such finesse. Which meant there had to be some hidden backer lurking behind them.

This supporter must have been quite wealthy to casually produce the kind of money I had in my pocket—no doubt bourgeois through and through. The bourgeois are our enemy. Using the enemy's money... Well, that might be acceptable. Fighting poison with poison was one thing, but the bourgeois wouldn't put up funds unless they stood to gain something—not in a million years unless certain of their advantage. So would my life ultimately be sacrificed for bourgeois self-interest? This too felt vile.

Am I nothing but a puppet jerked about by the enemy's money? No—I shook my head—that's not it. I'll die for my own beliefs. (Just fucking die then.)

To tell the truth, I can no longer accurately recall my state of mind from that time. It's true there were all sorts of unpleasant feelings, yet at the same time I picture myself standing on the gallows and think I was actually cheering myself on—Good!—or so it seems. I will die as a splendid terrorist. I thought so myself and applauded my own execution scene. But wait—what about this? Did I truly believe I was dying for my beliefs?

Can humans truly die for their beliefs, for their ideology? Even if you convince yourself it's for your beliefs, isn't that just you deceiving yourself? That only through the self-indulgence of believing you're sacrificing yourself for your convictions could you actually bring yourself to die. That seems different from dying for one’s beliefs or ideology. Even I, who had convinced myself I was dying for my beliefs, wasn’t without a certain sentimental notion that among the masses there would surely be someone who would mourn my death—so even then, I should have realized that one cannot die solely for the sake of beliefs. There is only one thing I can still clearly recall at this point: the following matter. In truth, more than I wanted the masses to mourn my death, I wanted Teruko alone to weep for me.

I didn't know whether she would weep for me or not. So I hoped she would weep for me. Yes—it was less about Teruko herself than about having a woman who would weep for me. For me, there was no woman who would weep for me.—

While telling myself I'd make this quick, I was dragging my feet. I arrived at Shimonoseki, boarded the Kanpu Ferry from there and crossed the Genkai-nada Sea—but I should touch on that time...

Under the blazing summer sun—on both sides of passengers lining up to board the ship stood keen-eyed detectives, targeting so-called suspicious-looking individuals and those deemed shady, “Hey, you. Come here.” they went about their task. They arrogantly beckoned with their hands and made them step out of the line. The person who'd been called “Hey” would think it couldn’t possibly be them—maybe it’s the guy behind—and glance sideways... “You!” Some would be barked at by detectives, flinch and duck their heads, then stumble away in confusion while lugging heavy baggage in both hands.

I had heard about this beforehand, but the strictness exceeded what I had imagined. Since this was two months before the outbreak of the Manchurian Incident, security must have been even more stringent. A column of soldiers drenched in sweat and laden with backpacks were boarding a military ship from another pier, while an eerie sense of urgency hung in the air. Given that the South Manchuria Railway bombing incident at Liǔtiáogōu had been orchestrated by the Japanese themselves, it was only natural that a sense of impending turmoil could already be felt there.

A few people ahead of me stood a university student who got called over by detectives with a "Come here." He was unmistakably Korean at first glance. Every Korean would be targeted like this—each one provisionally labeled a rebellious Korean. Korean university students especially faced criminal treatment from the start, whether because detectives without academic credentials resented them for daring to attend college despite being Korean, or because all students were suspected of harboring subversive ideologies. The student—likely returning home for summer break—must have answered the detective's rude interrogation with some perceived disrespect. Suddenly, before everyone's eyes, he was slapped across the face and dragged off with shouts of "Bastard! Think you're smart?!" As they hauled him away unresisting, another detective kicked him in the side with his boot.

I seethed at their brutality. I remembered how during the Great Kantō Earthquake, when military police slaughtered Osugi Sakae and his comrades, Koreans too had been butchered en masse in the streets. This shared martyrdom deepened my longstanding sympathy for Koreans. If I meant to kill General Ogaki regardless, I should've done it while he was still in Japan, I thought— "Of course—executing it in Korea makes perfect sense."

When I had to go all the way to Korea in pursuit, I'd clicked my tongue in irritation—but now my feelings had changed. To snipe the Japanese Governor-General of Korea before Korean eyes—This was good, I told myself anew. Yet given this level of security at Korea's very threshold, General Ogaki's personal guard must have been formidable indeed. The difficulty of targeting him loomed overwhelmingly clear. But just as I vowed to myself that greater obstacles would only fuel my fighting spirit—that very I—

“Hey, come here.” I was nabbed by the detective. My heart lurched, but through sheer force of will I maintained a defiant front—I’m not some Asa-chan Korean, you’ve got the wrong man! While sympathizing with Koreans moments earlier, I’d now inadvertently exposed my true nature of despising them. Was this sympathy born from superiority? “Where are you going?” “Keijō…” My curt tone didn’t stem from any sense of Japanese identity. I’d resolved that with this sort of opponent, taking a strong stance worked best.

“What business do you have there?” When asked, I answered immediately. “Official business…” It was a line I had prepared well in advance. Having said that, I’d never imagined being summoned like this in such a place. “Official business...?” A shadow crossed the detective’s expression as he spoke in a voice that sneered What’s this pup— “What sort of official business?” “I can’t discuss that here.” Being young, I affected Kōdō’s pompous tone. I wasn’t just some terrorist—the awareness that military power backed me seeped into my voice.

“Can’t say…?” The detective glared. I put on a knowing air and deliberately lowered my voice: “Military business…” “Military…?”

Seeing the detective flinch, I immediately— “Are you military police?”

I asked if they were plainclothes military police precisely because I judged they weren't—knowing how police cower before the military, I seized the initiative.

This had gone too far—a miscalculation. The detective bristled visibly, “If you’re not military police, you refuse to answer interrogation?” “Shall I summon them?” “Summon away.” He’s sniffed me out—I fumbled with the Shimonoseki (the bag, using the inverted reading of “Bakan” for Shimonoseki), buying time to concoct fresh lies while—

"This is your jurisdiction, isn't it?" While saying this and pretending to retrieve identification papers to show the detective, I slowly started opening my bag— "No need for that." He gestured with his hand that I didn't need to show them, "That won't be necessary." When I obediently complied, he backed down and fully accepted my act of posing as a special service agent, "My apologies."

He suddenly adopted a servile attitude. "No need for formalities." I said magnanimously. I felt pleased with my masterful deception, but even as I basked in that satisfaction, I couldn't help feeling somewhat ashamed deep down. A fox borrowing the tiger's authority—that's exactly what I am. Here I was trying to die as a pure terrorist, yet I was using the military as my shield. Since associating with Lieutenant Kitatsuki, I had learned these methods—military men parroted 'methods' like a verbal tic—and before I knew it, I'd taken on the affectation of being a right-wing stalwart myself. The police, cowed by the military and right-wing, had also played their part in teaching me those methods.

“Hey, you Korean! Get over here!” I heard that voice behind me. The detective who had just bowed to me moments before now spoke in a voice thick with displaced frustration. “Open the trunk.”

I crossed to Busan by boat and boarded the train bound for Keijō. To me - leaving Japan proper for the first time - every view through the window appeared novel. What particularly caught my eye were the endless bald mountains unseen in what they called the 'mainland' (Japan). Not a single tree remained; red subsoil lay completely exposed. Were all Korean mountains like this? Having jumped to that conclusion, I didn't yet know these barren slopes resulted from reckless deforestation.

The low hills visible just beyond the train window were bare expanses of red earth without a single blade of grass. Beneath their undulations—more ominous than gentle—Korean peasant houses clustered haphazardly like eerie mushrooms. Along a white, parched road where the wind whipped up swirling dust, a Korean woman in a soiled underskirt walked, leading a gaunt, half-naked child by the hand. My chest tightened. Partly it was remembering my dead mother, but not entirely.

Should I, who am about to kill a man, be wallowing in such pathetic sentimentality? Hell no. Even as I thought this, the image of the child burned into my retina refused to fade. When that brat grows up, will he too be unable to make a living in this bald-mountain Korea and drift over to the mainland to struggle?

In the streets of Tokyo, “Candy, candy, Korean candy!” A Korean man muttering in broken Japanese came to mind—peddling candy infused with ginseng to children from a homemade ramshackle stall slung over his shoulder. I wondered how much he could possibly earn roaming the streets like that. “Brown rice bread… fresh and hot…”

There were also Koreans going around selling cheap bread while saying such things. When plotting General Fukui’s assassination, I had once infiltrated a laborers' quarters to obtain dynamite, but the Korean laborers there were even more miserable. Those Koreans must have all come from villages like this. While being scorned as Koreans, they must truly wish to live in their homeland like this rather than suffer in a foreign land...

I nearly thought that instead of sniping at General Ogaki and others, shouldn't I be considering the liberation of these unfortunate Koreans—but I never quite reached that conclusion. Or rather, I was the one who actually felt antipathy toward those Bolshevik bastards spouting off about colonial liberation. That being the case, I was vaguely contemplating a revolution encompassing all of Japan, including Korea. In other words, Korea had been determined from the start to be part of Japan.

Even I, upon going to Keijō, found myself made to feel at every turn through phenomena and circumstances I couldn't help but witness that Korea was less a part of Japan than indeed its colony—yet my mind remained wholly filled with how I might assassinate General Ogaki here in this Keijō.

I entered a shabby Japanese inn in what's called the mainlander town of Keijō—I believe it was Meiji-chō—in some block or other, the sort of place that felt like a merchant's lodging. This was Kohata (a hatagoya lodging house), which I had learned about beforehand from Lieutenant Kitatsuki as being suitable. The lieutenant had heard from a fellow officer assigned to Keijō's 20th Division Headquarters that it would be cheap and adequate for an extended stay. I promptly went to see the Governor-General's Office, but truly—its grandeur had me gaping in awe like some country bumpkin from Gyeongsangbuk-do (there was someone like that beside me). It was a grandeur meant to intimidate through displays of Japanese authority. That said, its magnificence stemmed partly from the imposing surroundings, but such splendor was only natural here, as this was where the royal palace of the Joseon Dynasty once stood.

Gyeongbokgung was the royal palace, its main gate called Gwanghwamun. When erecting this imposing modern edifice of the Governor-General's Office behind Gwanghwamun Gate, they had relocated that main gate of Gyeongbokgung Palace to the eastern side. They devised a clever scheme by positioning the massive Governor-General’s Office directly at the front, causing all former palace structures to be hidden in its shadow, relegated behind the government building. Descending south along the broad Gwanghwamun Street before the Governor-General's Office brought one to Jongno Street intersecting it perpendicularly. A river flows parallel to this Jongno Street, with the Korean quarter on its northern bank and the mainlander quarter on the southern side.

Behind the mainlander quarter rose a mountain called Namsan, and unlike Tokyo—where no such vistas existed—the sight of mountains beyond the rooftops was reminiscent of Kyoto. I had heard that the Governor-General’s Office was originally located at the foot of Namsan, and that the Governor-General’s official residence remained there to this day. This too—not merely imposing—struck my eyes as a fortress-like stronghold.

Through the sweltering streets I wandered aimlessly, wiping away sweat. I felt as though I’d been cast into unfamiliar territory, yet what unsettled my heart wasn’t this displacement itself, but rather how the target I’d pursued all this way—unlike back in the mainland—had become someone you couldn’t approach through half-measures or casual efforts. A desperation akin to despair had already assailed me, but this very circumstance made me think that the imperial era when Russian terrorists successively sacrificed their lives must have likely been under similar conditions. They had likely fought against even harsher and more difficult conditions. Think of that Gershuni. That's right—hasn't even a woman single-handedly accomplished it? Think of Maria Spiridonova—a woman in the bloom of youth who assassinated a high-ranking official under heavy security. Maria was twenty-one years old at the time.

Don't rush—seize the opportunity. Tonight, I thought, I should recover my strength—

“Kaku—where’s the red-light district?”

I asked the attendant maid. The young lodging house maid named Namiko stared silently at my face. She neither smiled nor smirked. It might have been because my voice and expression were so brusque to begin with. "Since I've come to Korea, I want a Korean brothel." As I said with a sneer, "In that case, please go to Shinmachi." "Shinmachi, you say?" I had thought it might be near Jongno, but it turned out to be at the edge of Honmachi Street in the Japanese quarter.

“No, thanks.” I said while turning away.

At that moment, a cat's meow rang out startlingly close. It was as if Namiko had meowed; I inadvertently looked,

“Customer, do you like cats?” “Ah…” I looked at Namiko’s face, (Oh, so this was her face.) Since arriving at this inn three days ago, Namiko had been attending to my every need as my assigned maid with diligent care, yet I now realized I hadn’t so much as looked at her face until now. Perhaps because my mind was restless. Partly because it wasn’t a face that drew attention, but I found myself properly looking at Namiko’s face for the first time at that moment,

(Like a cat that's friendly with people... that's the impression I get.)

That Namiko said, "Customer, you like cats, don't you." "Not really," I replied. "No, you do," she insisted. "Look how they're clinging to you..." "Huh?" Before I knew it, an unnervingly large cat had appeared in the hallway—its unsettlingly massive frame, contrary to all feline grace, rubbing affectionately against a pillar. The moment I saw this, the intense glare from the neighboring tin roof struck my eyes head-on, making me dizzy. In an instant, the room plunged into darkness and Namiko vanished—as if the cat that had taken her form had reverted to its true self.

“Cats know. People who like cats...”

With my eyes closed, Namiko's voice sounded to my ears as if a cat were speaking. “Meow” The cat (or was it Namiko?) let out a cry. “There, there.”

With my eyes closed, I said. "You're from Tokyo, aren't you." Namiko's voice—or rather, a human voice—sounded as if coming from afar. "Yeah." As I nodded,

“Meow”

Namiko meowed—no, that couldn’t be right—and then, “Are you going back to Tokyo again?” “Yeah.” “Tokyo must be a nice place, huh?” “Yeah.” “Could you take me with you?” with a catlike presumption of intimacy, “When you go back, together…” “What did you say?” When I opened my eyes, Namiko was before me, and the cat had vanished.

“Where did that cat go?” “Customer, what business brings you to Keijō…?” “That’s a creepy cat. Is it this house’s cat?” “No.” “A stray?” “I came to Keijō because my sister called for me, but I hate it—Korea of all places...”

She must have been around nineteen, yet resembled a fruit ripened to excess—not just her face but her entire body carried that impression; though not exactly fat, there was something oppressive about her appearance. "What does your sister—what's she do?"

“She works at a restaurant.” “If I’m going to work anyway, I want to work in Tokyo.” “You should ask other customers, not some young pup like me.”

“I see.” Having said she wouldn’t ask so plainly, Namiko nevertheless puffed out her cheeks in a huff. That was oddly endearing. Just as I thought this, Namiko—

“Don’t you have anything you want to ask of me?” “Me asking you…?” “Don’t you have anything to request?” “Nope.” “Then that’s that.” That night, I went out to the Shinmachi Urakoji brothel district Namiko had mentioned. The brothels clustered together in numbers beyond imagining—their teeming density shocked me, but what shocked me more was the oppressive mood utterly mismatched with a pleasure quarter. This didn’t stem from Koreans; it came from Japanese strutting about as if they owned everything.

“Catch that Korean! _Sabare_ (Catch him)!”

A drunk Japanese man was shouting.

“Noara (Let go)! “Noara (Let go)!”

The one screaming "Aigo" was a Korean youth. Had they quarreled over a woman? At the time, I only understood the word "Aigo," but the Japanese brutality struck me viscerally—how they'd immediately start shouting "Sabare!" and abuse Koreans at the slightest provocation. I, a Japanese man who had come to buy a Korean woman, found my mood thoroughly ruined. Thinking to grab cheap liquor at a standing bar, I stepped into a garlic-stinking alleyway—and froze in shock.

A cat lay dead at my feet. Moreover, that cat I had seen during the day—or so I first thought—now lay sprawled before me as a mangled corpse. The blood that had soaked through its fur was unsettling. Had it just been bludgeoned to death by a human? Though the blood was fresh, flies were already swarming. (What an awful thing to have seen.)

In both size and fur color, it was identical to the cat I’d seen at the inn, but there was no way that cat would be loitering around a place like this. While telling myself this, I hastily left the spot—(But even I am prowling in a place like this.)

I couldn't definitively say it wasn't the same cat from earlier that day. With the morbid curiosity of one drawn to horrors, I jerked my head around—and gasped. The cat's corpse had vanished. Not a shadow or shape remained.

Had someone disposed of it? Or had that cat I’d taken for dead actually still been alive, mustered every ounce of its courage, and left of its own volition? I had sweat gushing out all over my face—maybe greasy sweat. I somehow no longer felt any desire to buy women. (I’ll start over.)

When I returned to the inn, a telegram from Tokyo was waiting for me. It was a telegram from Kōdō.

Part Three: The Dog of the Military Training Ground RETURN AT ONCE—the words loomed large before my eyes. Having been handed the telegram by the clerk, I opened it right there in the entranceway and groaned, "Hmm..."

The clerk was staring intently at me. What an unpleasant gaze. “Do you need something?” “No.” The clerk said this, but it wasn’t just him directing unpleasant looks at me. The landlady here—who appeared to be a former convict, more specifically a former pillow geisha from this colony—stretched up from her seated position behind the front desk, her powder-ravaged face wearing a frightened expression as she stared at me. Behind her, even what looked like a rice-cooking crone was craning her neck out, her eyes fixed on me with that same morbidly curious stare.

Did they see the telegram? ——This alone wouldn’t explain such strangeness. There was something else at play. Every person in the house seemed to have mobilized en masse to bombard me with a synchronized volley of suspicious stares. Namiko alone was nowhere to be seen. Had something happened to her? The image of a blood-drenched cat surfaced in my mind.

Where did Namiko go? I meant to ask, but instead cleared my throat and swept my gaze across the entranceway I'd just stepped through. Some sort of visitor might be lying in wait in my room—that could explain why the inn staff were trembling so. But I saw no shoes that matched such a guest. Had they hidden them in the geta box? "Is there... someone here?" Were they coming to arrest me? "No particular reason..." The clerk rubbed his hands together.

Was I being paranoid?

I clomped up the stairs to go to the second-floor room. Return at once? I never told Kōdō about this inn—how did he know to send a telegram here? I hadn't even informed Kōdō about entering Keijō. Had Lieutenant Kitatsuki told him after I left Tokyo? That seemed the only possibility—but if so, did this "RETURN AT ONCE" from Kōdō include Lieutenant Kitatsuki's input too?

"Return at once"—even if told that, I couldn't just slink back like this. It seemed some new scheme was being plotted back on the mainland, some collective endeavor summoning me... but... When cats die, they die alone—the thought struck me abruptly. Tell a cat bound for death to come back, and still it won't return. Leaving the household that kept it, the cat goes off to die solitary. Say "Return at once," yet no cat would go home to die at home.

Alone and forlorn—no—rather, alone and contented, a cat dies. Even humans die alone when their time comes. Years later, when I contracted pulmonary disease and lay bedridden, I wrote this—whether poem or not I cannot say—addressed to myself. I composed it while remembering Keijō's cats, lacing it with self-derision for having bungled my own death in that city.

O you who loved me—farewell I parted from those I loved I am going to the forest to die Keeping the pact with the forest beasts I shall die alone The blood of the forest beasts—O, at that moment Within me it will be resurrected As a wild beast before being tamed by humans Sticking out my tongue at those who tamed me Licking clean with my tongue the humiliation of being tamed With a gentle smile, I shall die. I approached the room like a cat, stealthily muffling my footsteps. I remained wary that there might indeed be someone there, but when I discovered none other than Namiko in that room, I involuntarily—

“You’re alive!” Namiko’s eyes flashed feline-bright as she pressed a finger to her lips. The gesture warned against loud voices. “What do you mean?” Her whisper hung low. “What became of that cat from before?” I asked. Namiko’s fevered face glistened with sweat. Her kiss-damp lips looked obscenely alluring. My aborted brothel visit now burned through me—I wanted to pounce. Then Namiko,

“You really aren’t just some mouse after all,” she dared to say. The young woman spat out words with veteran defiance that belied her age. “The hell you say?” As I moved to grab Namiko—this woman who’d invaded my room spouting such insolence—that uncanny sensation from the entranceway resurfaced. Simultaneously, I noticed something off about the room itself. Though not obviously ransacked like a proper gasa raid, the shifted positions of objects set my nerves jangling.

“Some bastard’s been here.” The hand I’d been lunging toward Namiko, I pressed against my own face. When I stroked downward, a slimy mucus—no, not sweat but a disgusting liquid like an eel’s slippery ooze—clung thickly to my fingers. Through the gaps between my fingers, I saw Namiko nod silently. “They came?” “Yes.” In a hushed voice,

"But it's okay…" "What do you mean 'okay'…" Damn it! I bit my lip. The pistol I'd kept on my person every moment until now—I'd hidden it in the floor cabinet beside the alcove. In the home islands maybe it'd be different, but here when going whoring, I figured carrying such a thing was risky—though truth be told yesterday too, when I went to case the Governor-General's residence, I'd stashed the pistol in that cabinet beforehand, thinking about what if I got stopped for questioning.

Surely they wouldn't have taken it, would they? I wanted to verify immediately. Suppressing my urgency before Namiko— "It's not here." Having said this, Namiko jerked her chin toward the floor cabinet. "Go on and open it." "What do you mean..."

I stumbled over and opened the small floor cabinet. "It's gone!" Landing on my backside like that was an embarrassment even to myself. “Well of course it’s not here.” Namiko said mockingly. When I saw that faint sneer on her face, I snapped. “What are you doing?!” I lunged at Namiko and found myself choking her neck with both hands. I felt terror at this version of myself, but there was no fear on Namiko’s face. To my ears—the ears of someone who had reflexively loosened his grip—Namiko now uttered these words.

“I hid it properly, so it’s safe.” “Where did you hide it?” I was grasping Namiko’s upper arms. “That was a close call.” With my hand still gripping her arm, Namiko turned her gaze to the half-opened floor cabinet,

“When I was cleaning this room yesterday, there was something strange there, so I wondered what it was?”

“Did you open it?” Of course, I hadn’t left the pistol exposed. “I was so startled.” Namiko’s eyes glinted fiercely, “So remember how you asked me during the day if there was anything I could do for you?” [She] put her hands on my knees and shook them,

“If you’d asked me back then, I would’ve kept it safe for you properly beforehand…” “I only asked because I wanted to safeguard it for you, but when you said there was nothing to ask of me, I thought I should just leave it be.” “But when the military police came…” “What? The military police came?”

I sat with Namiko, our knees pressed together.

“That’s right. There was this man asking, ‘Where’s the room?’ He was saying that at the counter. At that moment, even though no one had asked me and it might’ve seemed like I was meddling unnecessarily, I thought it’d be terrible if they took that thing, so before the military police went to the room, I quickly dashed up there and got it out without being seen.” “I see. That... I must apologize.” I gave a small bow,

“Thank you.” I expressed my thanks. Then I reached out my hand, demanding she return the pistol,

“They’ll come again. They told everyone to keep quiet about their visit—the household was silenced. You’d better get back to Tokyo soon.”

"So that I could depart immediately," Namiko said she had taken my place and packed my personal effects into the trunk. “So then—that thing—is it in the trunk…?” “No. It’s dangerous if you keep carrying it.”

Namiko adjusted her disheveled collar, “I want to go to Tokyo. Take me with you…” “You want to go to Tokyo... with a wanted man like me?” “You’re not Nami’s wanted man, are you?” “A big-time thief?” “You’re no thief.” I let out a soft sigh. Despite being a young girl, she had guts. Telling myself firmly it was a sigh of admiration,

“It’d be safer if I kept it.”

Namiko said. She declared. At this moment, I felt myself becoming that bloodied cat. I was none other than that dying cat. “Alright, I’ll take you with me.” I then rephrased it like this.

“Let’s go together.” Being captured here so pitifully was galling. But with military police surely stationed at the station too, could we truly escape from Keijō? “I’ll get us on the train cleverly,” she said. “If we go one station ahead, absolutely no one will find us...”

Under the guise of a young couple, we were able to return to Tokyo.

The boarding house in Hongō was undoubtedly under surveillance by military police, so returning there would be dangerous. Moreover, since Namiko was with me, we checked into a different high-class kohai (inn). And then immediately, when I went alone to visit Kōdō, "You fool!" I was rebuked head-on. Killing one Ogaki wouldn't accomplish anything. I was berated by Kōdō. Kōdō said he had also severely reprimanded Lieutenant Kitatsuki for his recklessness.

However, the recall order to Tokyo hadn't been solely for that reason. The March Incident, which had ended in failure, had involved civilian elements including Ogawa Akia and his faction; this time, even Minami Ikko—who'd been at odds with Ogawa's group—joined in, and thus Saita Kōdō too participated as they formulated a new plan. That was also why Kōdō had summoned me back. This became what history would call the October Incident.

“Sunauma will be returning soon too.” Kōdō said he’d apparently gone through considerable hardship, though his expression remained oddly somber. That night, after leaving Kōdō’s residence, I made straight for Yoshiwara. I’d gone to see Wakamurasaki, but they told me she’d already left the trade. Had the sight of my pistol shattered her nerve? “Snatched up by some tatami artisan?” The shrewd madam evaded my question with a noncommittal “Who’s to say?” “Fetch me someone.” “Of course, of course. I’ll bring out a sweet girl for you—do treat her kindly.”

There at Yoshiwara, it wasn't out of some stubborn pride about maintaining my manhood by not going home empty-handed now that Wakamurasaki was gone that I refrained from calling another prostitute—it was my desire to avoid spending my first night in Tokyo with Namiko, who waited for my return at the inn. I thought tonight would be the most dangerous time. When I say 'dangerous'—though Namiko and I had maintained this journey pretending to be a married couple, what existed between us remained chaste. Even I found it strange how I never laid a hand on Namiko. This differed from simply lacking inclination—there was a resolve not to touch jidama (amateur girls). As for Namiko, I perceived her participation in this marital pretense stemmed solely from her determination to reach Tokyo, not from any romantic sentiment. I considered that keeping my hands to myself was at least some repayment to Namiko, who had saved me from that dire predicament.—

A young courtesan appeared as my companion. She had a long torso and an unnaturally large face. She had smeared her large face with stark white makeup, making it appear all the more enormous. In a cat-like cooing voice, “Take a liking to me instead of Big Sister, please.”

she said. I didn’t recognize this woman’s face, but she knew I had been Wakamurasaki’s regular patron. She sidled up to me,

“I’m so happy!” “What’s there to be happy about?” “But I’ve liked you for a long time.” “But Big Sister was there, so I couldn’t meet you.” What nonsense are you spouting? I thought, disgust rising at her transparent flattery.

“It’s hot—don’t crowd me.” “How cruel.” “I said it’s hot.” “My, what a frightening face…” “The fright’s just beginning.” I shoved my hand into the woman’s crotch without ceremony.

"No!" "How rough!" "Don't talk like some damn amateur."

“You’re hateful.” “You’re doing that rough stuff on purpose…” “Rough’s my game.” “Even though it’s our first meeting, Big brother, don’t be so rough.” “I can’t get in the mood.” “I don’t give a damn about mood or any of that.” “The only thing I want is your ○○○○.” I redacted it because it was unsightly, but I wanted to make myself as base as possible. Not content with merely behaving like a brute, I began spewing increasingly vile words—each more depraved than the last—while

“What’s this? You’re a bald cunt?” “I’m sorry.” Her meek response only irritated me further. I wasn’t some superstitious stockbroker to care about bald pussy bringing bad luck. If anything, “Bald cunt—that’s rich.” I suddenly shoved down the courtesan—this woman who’d dared blush coyly over her hairless state despite being a whore, her oversized face painted ghostly white—and yanked up her underrobe. She flipped onto her belly with practiced speed, hiding her front. Like hiding your head while leaving your ass exposed—I brought my palm sharp against her bared buttocks,

“I’d heard stories about it, but this was my first time seeing it in the flesh.” “Show me.” “No! No!” The woman thrashed, “This isn’t some peep show!” “What the hell’re you on about? If being seen’s so damn awful, why not refuse to show your cunt too?” Was this cruelty really necessary—for me who’d resolved to kill—to scour that resolve from my heart?

“If you don’t wanna show it, I’ll make you see it with my hands. Hell, what a huge cunt.” Perhaps because she was hairless, I pressed my palm against her sweat-slicked mound—this bowl-shaped cunt—and roughly worked my fingers inside. “You’re vile,” she said. “What if you damage my tools of the trade?” Even the woman finally snapped at this. There was something absurd about her phrasing that nearly made me laugh, but— “Quit bitching every damn time.” I tightened my grip. “The whore I bought—I’ll do what I want with her.”

Through these depraved acts, I felt what might be called an instinctual pleasure. "You trying to make your plaything of me?" "You hag." "It's because you won't fucking listen." "You're the most disgusting customer I've ever had." "I've never had a courtesan like you either." If men take pleasure in cruelty, do women find theirs in suffering? Even after I'd pinned her down, that courtesan kept muttering "disgusting"

“Still? The edges are getting tired.” As she kept muttering such things, she suddenly grew serious, and when she let out a scream entirely unlike the fake moans of her trade, even I was stunned. It was a tremendous scream, as if I were committing murder.

After that—whether out of embarrassment or frustration—

“You’re vile.” said the woman. “Ah! Essassa! Hand over the cash, damn you!” Like a victory song, I sang the Asakusa Yasugibushi on the woman’s stomach. In the small theaters of Asakusa during that era, patrons would chorus certain words (though I blush to specify them) during this “Essassa” portion of the song.

The next day, I returned around noon to the inn where I had left Namiko alone. Namiko was nowhere to be seen. I thought she’d immediately gone out sightseeing in Tokyo or something, but that wasn’t the case. There was a note left behind—"I'll let you know once I've secured a live-in position"—written in handwriting neater than I’d expected. “Huh, is that so?” Because I felt a pain in my heart, I instead sneered coldly and, “That’s one strong-willed woman.”

She hadn’t written anything unnecessary. Because of that, even a single sheet of paper felt strangely heavy in my hand. “Do whatever you want.” I left the inn, intending to quickly return the pistol to Lieutenant Kitatsuki. I thought it would be troublesome if the military police who were undoubtedly tailing me took it, but somehow it also felt infuriating to just meekly return it to the lieutenant as things were. A strong beam of light blazed down. I also felt like I wanted to slam a pistol bullet into my own head. Merely a night with a prostitute wasn’t going to calm my mind so easily.

I took the train to Roppongi. Transferring there meant the next stop was Regiment-mae. Though there was a tram stop right before Lieutenant Kitatsuki's regiment, since it was just a short distance, I got off at Roppongi and walked straight there. I had previously visited that regiment's officers' dormitory to demand the lieutenant hand over the pistol quickly. The single officers' dormitory sat in a hollow down to the left past the barracks gate - a gloomy single-story structure where young officers dreaming of an Imperial Standard Revolution had once burned with rainbow-like fervor.

I went to request an audience with the sentry at that officers' dormitory. The reply came that Lieutenant Kitatsuki was at the training ground. Officers had no business being in the dormitory in broad daylight. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know that—had the heat addled my brain? Clicking my tongue at my own carelessness, I exited through the barracks gate and began plodding along a roundabout path toward the training ground. Since I was hungry and had spotted a bakery along the way, I stopped to buy some bread.

Perhaps from walking beneath the scorching sky, my head burned fiercely. Yet within that burning head, there was only hollow emptiness. This hollowness might have caused my carelessness. The Bol bastards used to sneer that anarchists lacked ideology - now I clearly felt that very ideological void within myself. Having reached the training ground, I sat beneath a tree's shade and wiped my sweat. Gunfire practice echoed in the distance. Lieutenant Kitatsuki's whereabouts remained unknown.

The rustling paper bread bag had become a nuisance. "Maybe I should just eat here," I thought. I began devouring the crumbling jam-filled bread. A black dog materialized from nowhere and fixed its gaze on me from a distance as I ate. "You hungry too?" "Starvin' mosakoke?" Even I—who'd shown courtesans no mercy—treated this dog gently. It was a filthy, skeletal stray. Its hindquarters faced me in perpetual readiness to bolt, only its head turned my way. It watched me sidelong. The posture struck me as both absurdly comical and pitifully endearing,

“All right, I’ll give you some too.” When I tore off some bread and threw it toward him, the dog tucked its tail like it had been struck by a stone and bolted in panic. Stupid creature. But that foolish thing, though it had initially fled, came shambling back to press its nose against the ground searching for bread. “Not there. Over here.” When I spoke, the dog flinched as if to run. I stopped offering needless instructions.

The dog clamped the bread it had found between its jaws. It gobbled it down noisily, then nearly swallowed it whole in one gulp. “How was it? Tasty?” At that moment, there wasn’t the slightest trace of murderous intent within me.

The dog watched me with a suspicious gaze. They weren't eyes of gratitude for the bread I'd given, but eyes brimming with suspicion about why I would offer it. Wanting to show the dog my kind intentions, I threw it more bread.

The dog flinched and started to flee, but this time merely held that stance without actually running away. It found the bread immediately and wolfed it down in an instant. I tossed fresh bread into the air toward the dog as if floating it. The dog caught it in its mouth. “Nice catch!” I praised it, but the dog kept watching me warily. Again I tossed the bread into the air. I made it land closer than before. The highly cautious dog, fearing to approach me, didn’t catch it with its mouth.

"What a cowardly creature." I kept throwing bread. Gradually shortening the throwing distance, I tried to draw the dog closer to me.

It succeeded. The dog came very close. Even so, it was clear as day that it still didn’t trust me. That really grated on my instincts. “Disgusting creature.” Suddenly, murderous intent flashed through my head. “I’ll kill this mutt (dog).” I took out the pistol. The dog, startled, leaped back. Had my murderous intent pierced through to the dog? “Hey, here you go.” I threw the bread right there.

With a servile lowering of its head that seemed to say, "I don't like being startled," the dog approached the bread. I pressed the pistol to my waist and held bread in my left hand, “Here...” I stretched out my hand and lured the dog closer. The dog wagged its tail for the first time and moved its mouth toward my hand. Now it’s wagging its damn tail. I hesitated for a moment. But my finger had already pulled the trigger. Aiming for the heart—or rather, I didn’t know where the dog’s heart was, but the area behind its front legs, unlike its sunken belly, seemed like a better target for accuracy.

The shot must have struck true—with a piercing shriek, the damn dog leapt up from the ground. No sooner had it done so than it fell with a thud, lying on its side as it scratched at the dirt with all four legs. "Serves you right." I didn't know what 'serves you right' even meant, but I stood up straight and went to the dog's side. When I tried to kick it, the dog raised its head and snapped at my leg. "What are you—" Into its snarling mouth, I fired a bullet.

Twitching and convulsing, the pitiable dog (not that I saw it as pitiable—on the contrary, I felt intense hatred) vomited bloody froth from its half-open mouth. At the sound of the pistol, I could immediately see people rushing toward me.

“See ya.”

With that, I beat a hasty retreat from the scene. I bolted out of there.

Instead of assassinating General Ogaki, I had been killing a stray dog.

Part Four: Fingers That Smell of Edamame

I received a letter at my Hongo boarding house from Namiko informing me she had become a live-in maid at a small restaurant. After returning the pistol to Lieutenant Kitatsuki, I went back to my old boarding house. The old man at the boarding house, who had been staked out by the military police and even had his place searched during my absence, probably wanted to use this as an excuse to kick me out, but when I departed for Korea, I had threatened him that if he dared dispose of my room without permission while I was gone—especially to keep my trip to Korea secret—I wouldn’t let it slide. Therefore, convinced that my room must have been secured, I had informed Namiko about there.

Upon returning to the boarding house, I immediately presented myself to the military police of my own accord and sat back defiantly, telling them to do their worst. Even though I'd gone to Korea on official business, they'd been tailing me like a common criminal—what was the meaning of this? How dare they persecute patriots! I bellowed back. Who would've thought becoming a 'patriotic stalwart' would let me stand my ground like this? Compared to my anarchist days when they treated me as a traitor unworthy of basic decency, it was a world of difference. The military police handled me like a festering boil they feared to touch.

When I had adjusted myself to move about openly, a letter from Namiko fortunately arrived, and I promptly set out for her live-in workplace. I was anxious. This was an era where a notice for "hostess recruitment" might make you think of serving girls pouring drinks—only to find the workplace turned out to be some disreputable brothel. This wasn't how it was supposed to be—this wasn't the agreement, this was terrible—even if I panicked and tried to run, once things reached that point, it would already be hopeless. If you fell into the hands of some low-rent Keian—a broker—who could say what might happen to an inexperienced woman. That hairless courtesan who might have become Yoshiwara's "caged bird" after stumbling into such traps—though it's profoundly contradictory for me, who behaved not just crudely but savagely toward her, to feel such worry for Namiko now—had I perhaps thought that once women fell into prostitution, they became like insects?

In her letter, Namiko had written that at that small restaurant, she went by the name Teruko. Even though it was a coincidence, the fact that this matched Clara's real name made me restless. The address on the envelope's back placed the restaurant in Nihonbashi - a district this Tokyo-born man had never visited, a Nihonbashi utterly disconnected from someone like me - yet I couldn't imagine any establishment forcing covert prostitution on maids existing in such an area. This very anxiety might prove how deeply I regarded Namiko as precious - how desperately I wanted to protect her - even while remaining unconscious of these feelings myself.

The shop was located in a corner of the wholesale district. Shops catering to wholesale house employees—confectioneries, ice shops, and Western-style restaurants—formed one section of the area, while this small restaurant had the air of being a place where clerks and the like would go for a drink after finishing work. Thus, though structured more as a drinking establishment than a small restaurant, its chic setup apparently served small bowls of food, and unfortunately on the second floor now blazing with western sunlight, there seemed to be a tatami room where customers could be entertained. That they weren’t engaged in any shady business—for now, I felt relieved.

The storefront, coolly watered down, already displayed a salt arrangement (盛り花) at its entrance where a short indigo curtain hung beneath wide-open doors. The shop had opened for business, though at this hour no customers yet darkened its threshold. This emptiness suited my purpose of meeting Namiko there, but the thought of abruptly playing patron filled me with such guilty discomfort that I quietly circled to the back alley. Entering that narrow passageway stirred in me a sentimental fancy—as if stealing away to rendezvous with some cherished paramour. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant. To imagine myself in such romantic circumstances brought a sweet melancholy that momentarily moistened the parched dustscape of my heart, like rain pattering across sun-baked earth.

The main street was parched dry like my heart, yet the alley was damp and humid, with planks laid over mosquito-infested ditches rotting away, making the footing treacherous. As for me, I wasn't bothered by any of that at the time. When I went to the back entrance, I spotted a woman who appeared to be Namiko's colleague—though considerably older—using a toothpick as she happened to be passing through, and I called out softly.

“Is Teruko… not here?”

I had begun to say "Teruko-san" but dropped the honorific mid-utterance. In that clipped hesitation lingered my silent commentary. Written out formally, it would read: "Teruko." What an idiotic name to choose. "Is Teruko here?" — that's how it came out. The woman ignored this backdoor visitor entirely, toothpick still clamped between her teeth as she called out: "Teru-chan. Got company." She delivered this in a thoroughly annoyed tone.

“Who could it be?”

The voice of Teruko—that is, Namiko—reached me from right nearby. When I peered in, there was Namiko herself, tucked away in the shadows. She sat heavily on an empty soy sauce barrel, crisply snipping edamame from their branches with hefty gardener's shears. Though wearing an apron, she'd boldly spread her legs like a man, dropping beans into a sieve clamped between her thighs. That posture seemed impossible for an innocent girl—or was it precisely because she was innocent that she could manage it?—and there I stood before this indecent display,

(Hmm, this girl...?) At the moment something struck me,

“Oh, big brother.” Then Namiko blurted it out brashly. It felt less like something said than something violently ejected. Unlike courtesans’ “brother,” this “brother” meant an actual sibling. How brazenly she—yet that casual tone carried a crispness that scattered all my fretting about how Namiko might be faring. I—who’d done nothing for this woman tossed into Tokyo’s murky currents—felt I saw an unexpectedly vital Namiko there: Look! Her face popping up through swirling waters.

Namiko’s face actually glistened with sweat as if she’d been splashed with water. It was a valiant glow. She wasn’t working reluctantly but was actively enjoying the work she took on herself. It was a healthy glow that proclaimed just that. Namiko had smoothly risen to her feet on the wet earthen floor—after barely a week in Tokyo—now standing at a height that seemed to have stretched upward, throwing both my parents and me into disarray. She was wearing suigeso clogs with high wooden teeth. Wiping her hands on her apron,

“Miss. About ten minutes—please.” With that, she removed her apron, rolled it up briskly, and set it aside. Then just as quickly, she tried to straighten her disheveled yukata by tugging hard at the front overlap—only to pull too forcefully, making the side seam swing forward. “Hurry back now. The mistress’ll scold me...” To Namiko’s retreating back—her geta clacking against the floor as she headed deeper inside—and to the woman who’d spoken those words—

“I’m sorry.” This was something I said. It carried an almost virtuous air, as if I were someone entirely different from the man who had mercilessly slaughtered that innocent stray dog. One could say this virtue became mine through that cruelty—or that I reclaimed virtue by means of that cruelty. Namiko emerged having changed from high clogs to low wooden geta. She came bustling toward me at the alley’s entrance with what appeared to my eyes as eager steps—only to thud her shoulder against my chest. Her approach hadn’t been so frantic that she couldn’t stop. Namiko’s face wore a sullen expression, antithetical to her usual briskness. At the same moment, I noticed that colleague of hers peering from the back door, casting inquisitive eyes our way. Whatever shattered that indifference must have been in Namiko’s bearing.

“What do you want to do?” As we exited the alley, I said to Namiko words that could be taken any number of ways. “For now I’m still doing menial work...” Namiko answered immediately in a bright voice. As if reciting some obligatory status report, she continued: “I have to work hard and make myself a kimono...” This was a muttered reminder to herself. Without a kimono, she couldn’t work in the shop?

“Alright, as thanks—shall I buy you a kimono?” “Thanks for what?” Her voice snapped back. “It’s hot—let’s get something cold.” “Let’s walk.”

We couldn't talk at the ice shop—there were people there. Having said that, Namiko avoided the main street where wholesalers' men were packaging goods by the roadside and led me into an inconspicuous alleyway. Escaping the blazing sun into shade brought relief. While watching the nape of Namiko's neck as she walked ahead, I recalled stems of summer weeds growing in wasteland—vigorous yet pitiful wild grass. That she'd come to Tokyo with a complete stranger—a wanted man like me no less—proved her resolute nature, yet here she was already putting down roots alone in this city. "Hmm," I inadvertently let slip in admiration.

“What?” “Well—‘Brother’? That’s unexpected.” “Then what should I call you?” She had to nitpick every little thing. “I do have a proper name.” “Kashiwai Shiro.” “Commonly called Mr. Shiro.” “Mr. Shiro... you’re a good person.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Did you think I was some villain?”

“If I thought you were a bad person, I wouldn’t have come to Tokyo with you.” “I returned the pistol.” There was more I wanted to say. It wasn’t like that courtesan’s line, but I wanted to say something more impactful. And yet, I ended up saying things that only ruined the mood. Then Namiko—no, it was Namiko who—said something even more mood-ruining. “You went to a courtesan house that night, didn’t you? “The night we arrived in Tokyo…”

“How did you know?” “You like courtesan houses, don’t you?” “Not particularly.” “You went straight to one even in Keijō, didn’t you?” “I’m a man.” “Do all men like courtesan houses?”

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “You found a good spot, huh?” “Your shop?” “That’s good. Did you find it yourself?” “It’s not like I don’t have acquaintances in Tokyo.” I jolted. I felt uneasy. It was a strange kind of jealousy.

Namiko interposed as if mediating, "May I come visit your house, Mr. Shiro?" "It's a crappy boarding house." “Can’t I go?”

“It’s not that you can’t.” “But... it’s just too filthy...” “I’ll move to a cleaner boarding house soon.” “Just wait a little longer.”

There was another reason I had said that. As someone meant to join the uprising, I didn't want Namiko getting caught in the blast should things go south.

In front of the window of the small rented house, morning glory leaves grew thick like a sunshade. Terracotta pots stood lined up with thin bamboo poles set toward the eaves, the morning glories competing to stretch their vines upward. The many flowers that must have been splendid in the morning now hung withered like clenched fists. A child was picking those flowers - to keep the later-blooming ones from growing small. Bringing out a stepping stool, the child stood on it and meticulously plucked blossoms that had opened high up.

I took Namiko’s hand and walked, swinging our clasped hands vigorously like schoolchildren on their way home. Namiko kept holding onto my hand, "I sent a letter to my sister and asked her to take care of the luggage I left behind. She must have been surprised." "My sister must be furious."

"I wonder if she's more worried than angry." "Well... But that's probably not how it is." "You think she believes you'll be fine since you're steady?" "She's not my biological sister." "She's not your real sister?" "I'm Mom's stepchild." As we had this exchange—not that I wasn't listening intently to Namiko's words, quite the contrary—I was suddenly gripped by the delusion that this self of mine had died long ago. No, not a delusion exactly. To phrase it that way would misrepresent what I truly felt in that moment. The conviction came to me not as some fleeting illusion, but as absolute truth: I was someone who had already died. Yet here I was, dead but somehow alive—how absurd it felt. How bizarre that this deceased version of myself could walk the earth in apparent contentment. This was my reality. To put it plainly, being alive itself felt like the illusion.

If I had used that pistol in Keijō, I would likely have been shot dead on the spot instead—by now I'd be a corpse. This didn't stem from such conjecture. It existed independent of any premise. Suddenly I felt myself a dead man. What I should have recognized much earlier now came to me with clarity. Through that way of feeling, I lost what might be called the tangible reality of being alive. And this loss filled me with something wholly unlike emptiness—better termed fulfillment. By recognizing the dead within me, I paradoxically lived.

I gripped Namiko's hand tightly. It wasn't that I was trying to verify I was alive. Rather the opposite; I became aware instead that I was a living, flesh-and-blood human being. The tangible reality of being alive felt ill-fitting to me—something that never settled right. That left me strangely unsettled. Suddenly I brought Namiko's hand near my mouth—this odd act, it seemed, stemmed from that unsettled mood. I took the dimpled hand where fingers met palm—not to my lips but to my nose.

“It smells like edamame,” I said. Namiko silently shook off her hand. “Shiro.” “What is it?” Without a word, Namiko suddenly shoved me roughly. I nearly collided with a bicycle coming from ahead. “What the hell are you doing?” “Shiro, go straight.” “That’s straight out of a Naniwa-bushi ballad.” The reason I acted flippant was because I was thrown off by Namiko’s sincerity.

“Fine then.”

With that, Namiko briskly walked away from me. "Hey, Nami-chan!"

Namiko quickened her pace and then broke into a run, getting away from me.

“Hey, Nami-chan, I say!”

I was recalled for what would later be called the October Incident insurrection plan, which had been devised in response to the Manchurian Incident that erupted in September.

Just before that incident, Sunauma had unexpectedly drifted back to Tokyo. His face, tanned dark by the sun, evoked the hardships of his time in Manchuria, yet precisely because of this, his features took on an intensely brazen quality.

"I met Inosawa Ichitaro." "That Teruko's...?" "Where?" "He's holed up in a hotel in Fengtian—living the high life, I tell ya." "Turning his daughter into some cheap whore..." When I bristled, Sunauma inexplicably burst into booming laughter—Wahahaha—and, "The old man doesn't know a thing about that." "Why's that funny?" "Irresponsible bastard." "Still the same old Kashiwai." With a face that practically screamed 'zero personal growth',

“Of course I couldn’t tell the old man straight up that his daughter’s become some gasebiri whore, so I just said something like, ‘My comrade Kashiwai Shiro here was romantically involved with your daughter.’” “Romantically involved...?” “Thanks to that story, I got close with Mr. Inosawa and received tremendous help. Maybe it’s your doing, Kashiwai.” With that he unleashed another booming laugh—from his theatrical guffaw to his deceptive storytelling, his Chinese rōnin bluster now fully polished—yet as I stood there speechless,

“I met Kōdō-sensei too.” “So this Manchuria trip—you were following secret orders from Kōdō-sensei then...?” To that question which held such profound psychological weight for me, Sunauma gave no answer,

“While I was away in Manchuria, seems you’ve started cozying up to Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his crew, Kashiwai.” “Yeah. Well, from my side...”

When I tried to explain my feelings defensively,

“It’s fine. What I’m saying is—if that’s how things stand, what kind of man settles for playing some third-rate thug’s part? For someone of Mr. Shiro Kashiwai’s standing to be treated like some two-bit thug—it affects all of our reputations. How about it? Don’t you want to take on a big job with me?” “Did you sneak into a secret opium plantation?”

“It was too dangerous to go into the hinterlands.” Sunauma changed the subject as if deftly dodging with his body, “When it comes to Kōdō-sensei, he’s one impressive old man." "I met him on his way back after he’d been invited to China as a state guest." "As a benefactor of the Chinese Revolution, he had been invited by the Nationalist Government to attend Sun Yat-sen’s funeral." “He’s one impressive old man.” "But what made me admire that Kajikawa Hido as one impressive old man was how he didn’t put on any airs like some state guest." "He had the face of a mere old man running a Shina greasy spoon." "He played dumb, saying something like how he’d gotten to taste authentic cuisine again after so long and found it educational."

Despite Sunauma's acrid words, Kōdō-sensei's carefree dignity could be vividly discerned there. "I wonder if he's truly withdrawn completely from national affairs by now."

“National affairs…?”

Sunauma curled a faint smile at the fact that I had come to use such words,

“That’s why he was invited, I suppose.” “So he plunged right into the thick of the anti-Japanese movement, I suppose.”

Sunauma urged me to drink, "When you hear Kōdō-sensei's stories, you realize most of today's right-wing heavyweights were supporters of the Shina Revolution." "It's quite something, isn't it?" "Interesting...?" "Liberty and Civil Rights advocates have become nationalists." "That's the kind of country Japan is." "Just wait and see—next it'll be the socialists turning into nationalists." "Are you talking about me?" Sunauma brushed it off, "Kōdō-sensei met setbacks in the Freedom and People's Rights Movement and threw himself into the Shina Revolution." "He tried to put his own principles and beliefs into practice within the Shina Revolution." "When you consider how the Shina Revolution finally achieved success and took its present form, now it's all 'Anti-Japanese!' and 'Down with Japanese imperialism...'"

“So they turned those hard-won Shina Revolution supporters into nationalists? Are you saying China drove Pan-Asianist patriots into right-wing nationalism?” “Kōdō-sensei didn’t become a nationalist—he became a Shina diner owner.”

“So Kōdō-sensei…?” What kind of ideologue was he? However, Sunauma seemed reluctant to broach the subject of Kōdō-sensei,

“In Harbin, I saw foreign women doing nude dances.” “They strip completely naked to dance.” “The hair down there was all fuzzy and glowing gold, goddammit.” “Incredible.” Alone and jittery from nicotine,

“Though the price was steep as hell. In just ten minutes—though it’s two people per group—the going rate was thirteen yen. Those White Russians had the nerve to demand a two-yen tip in broken Japanese—ended up swindling me out of fifteen yen total.” “When you say pairs of two...?” “You go there, about ten women come out and line up in a row. From that lineup, you pick two you want to see stark naked. Those two then put on a nude dance show in a private room…”

This manner of Sunauma’s storytelling made it seem like he’d had no hardships at all in Manchuria, yet I could also perceive he was avoiding any tales of hardship. “When the dance ended, the Russian guide had the nerve to say five yen for a fuck." "He said it in Japanese—‘fuck.’" "The women who do nude dances also sell sex." “Watching costs fifteen yen, sleeping with them five yen—it’s strange that the sex is cheaper, but apparently it’s bundled with the nude dance for a total of twenty yen.” “So it’s a pair fuck?”

“That’s per person.”

“What was it like?” Glaring at me, Sunauma claimed he hadn't done it. “Bullshit!” “I’m telling you, it’s true. When I saw such blatant nude dancing, it made me nauseous—ended up feeling disgusted. And even if they say five yen for a fuck, when it comes down to it I’d probably get swindled again, and I don’t have that kind of money anyway...” “Even so, how did you get that kind of money—” I was appalled that such money even existed.

“When you’re over there, money just flows in naturally.” “Even without expropriation, you won’t be short on cash.” “That’s what makes the colonies so damn interesting.”

Having blustered this, Sunauma was fairly drunk. Whether it was due to his drunkenness or feigned inebriation meant to draw me in through confessions, Sunauma began talking about opium. On the surface, strict anti-opium edicts had been issued, so of course the collection of opium from poppy pods and the open cultivation of those poppies in fields were prohibited. They were secretly cultivating it deep in the hinterlands of Manchuria. Sunauma, who had earlier denied having gone to those secret cultivation sites, described to me the opium collection method as if he’d witnessed it firsthand.

“It’s simple enough to describe in words. Right after the poppy flower drops, you take a sharp knife and make faint shallow cuts on that poppy pod.” First, Sunauma said to start at the base and demonstrated with hand gestures the process of making a semicircular cut. “White opium latex immediately begins to ooze out from this wound. You hurriedly gather that with your fingertips into a can. One makes the cuts, and the other collects the opium latex. This too gets done in pairs of two like the nude dances—they call this team formation 'a single knife.' Payments and everything else—it’s all calculated per single knife unit. Now, the next day, they make similar wounds on the opposite side of the poppy pod. They do this once daily for two weeks straight. Starting from the base of the poppy pod, gradually working upward toward the top…”

While this made it sound simple, Sunauma added that the method of making the cuts was quite difficult for amateurs. "If you cut too deep into the epidermis," he explained, "the sap flows inward instead of seeping out. Getting it to exude properly takes real skill." His fingers traced imaginary arcs in the air. "And if it rains even once during collection? Water gets in the wounds—rots the pod completely." The cigarette between his lips bobbed with each terse declaration. "Then you get nothing. Even if it doesn't rot, once the pod hardens..." He made a throttling gesture, "...the sap barely trickles."

“You pour the collected sap onto oiled paper that’s been spread with soybean oil, let it settle to about an inch deep, then leave it under direct sunlight for two days.” “When you dry it while stirring constantly, the sap hardens into something like amber.” “That’s opium.” “The hotter the sun—meaning the more times you stir—the higher quality opium you get.” “This pure ‘ki’ form is what they call premium great smoke over there—but regular opium’s got about a quarter filler mixed in, what they call ryaozu.” “They sow these poppy seeds around late April—harvest starts mid-July, and by August the new product’s flooding the markets…”

“That period coincides exactly with when you were away, Mr. Sunauma.” “Poppies have both red and white flowers, but the ones used for opium are the white-flowered variety. Deep in the forest, there was this gaping white flower field—truly beautiful.” “Why did you set your sights on something like opium, Mr. Sunauma? For the profits?” “Not just that. “Though it’s profitable—extremely so. “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. “Listen close. “Keep this strictly confidential even from Kōdō-sensei.”

Sunauma drove the point home with a stern expression.

Part Five: Riot Plan

Sunauma had not participated in this insurrection plan. Even during the previous March Incident, Sunauma—who had been away in the home islands—remained unconnected to it. Was that why he couldn't join this time either? Since Kōdō-sensei himself was involved in this uprising plan, Sunauma could naturally have participated had he been willing. The truth was Sunauma himself had made no move to take part. When I met Kōdō-sensei and asked why Sunauma wasn't participating,

"That man is rather shrewd," Kōdō said bitterly, his face twisting as if tasting something foul. "He might share Inosawa Ichitarō's stripe." "He apparently met Mr. Inosawa in Harbin."

“Oh? Is that so.” “So then has he already joined Inosawa’s group?” “He apparently also met Kajikawa-sensei.”

“I heard that from Kajikawa Hido.” “Though he did say Mr. Sunauma was an intriguing man.”

This Kōdō—according to Sunauma’s account—when Kajikawa Hido was invited by the Nationalist Government, had suggested that Kōdō accompany him, but Kōdō refused. Both had equally devoted themselves to the Chinese Revolution, but only Kajikawa—the senior of the two—received an invitation; none came for Kōdō. Thereupon, Kajikawa said that if Kōdō had any intention of accompanying him, he would try making a request to have Kōdō invited along with himself. It was said that in the event approval did not come from them, he had gone so far as to tell Kōdō that he himself would not go either.

Kōdō refused that. He refused not so much the act of accompanying him as the trip to China itself. He refused to countenance traveling to a China that was now vociferously anti-Japanese. Moreover, the reason for his refusal was not only that but also because those on the Chinese side seemed to view Kōdō as having become a nationalist unlike before, which presumably led them to invite only Kajikawa. "Mr. Sunauma also respected Mr. Kajikawa Hido." "He might have been closer in sentiment to Mr. Kajikawa Hido."

I had tentatively defended my former comrade Sunauma, but Kōdō—as if responding to my words—snapped his palm-fiber fly swatter with a sharp crack, "Why are there so many flies this year?" he said as though it were my fault, "Autumn's nearly here, yet look at these flies. They write 'May fly' but make you read it as 'annoying'—with this many, we'd better rewrite it as 'September fly.'"

After muttering such things,

"It would be better not to press Mr. Sunauma too hard." "Oh…" "It would be wisest not to tell Mr. Sunauma anything."

Admonishing me for my loose tongue, he swatted at flies again. Though less than a month remained until the world would be turned upside down in upheaval, Kōdō—one of the very masterminds—acted as if he had no connection to this crucial matter, diligently yet leisurely swatting flies with his fly swatter as though this were his sole occupation. I was even made to feel a kind of bewilderment, as though things weren’t proceeding as they should.

I was getting excited, thinking that a massive event would soon occur. I was worked up. I was letting it show plainly on my face and in my words. Of course, even I wasn't like that in front of just anyone—it was precisely because it was Kōdō—but when he saw me acting that way, he made a face as if thoroughly disillusioned, a strained expression playing across his features. This Kōdō, who seemed to hold little expectation for our current plan—no, who appeared rather to be experiencing bitter disillusionment from lost hopes—looked almost as though...

That he appeared this way was perhaps because Kōdō—having thrown himself into the Chinese Revolution and wandered the brink of death multiple times—unlike someone like me, possessed steadfast nerve. With a composed yet subtly altered expression, he said, "You should watch your back too." When Kōdō said "you too," including himself, I thought he meant it in relation to our current plan—

“Your plans for Korea have been uncovered.” “By Kurobii—no, I mean the military police?” “The Ogaki faction.” “Are they targeting me?” “No signs yet.” Kōdō swatted flies again. “Though I called you back from Keijō, I’ve given you no real work. You must feel cheated.”

He said something that seemed to throw cold water on my excitement.

"No, that's not the case." "I see." Kōdō said only that briefly. Sunauma had also asked me, "You content to stay a low-level thug?" I hadn't tried forcing him to join us either, but maybe his refusal came from not wanting to remain some petty underling. Low-level thug - Sunauma had coined that abbreviation himself from the full term 'low-level thug lackey.' There wasn't even a proper word for it, but by his phrasing, I'd joined the insurrection plan as exactly that. Being a low-level thug suited me fine - not that it really mattered either way. The plan itself held terrible fascination for me.

Compared to the March Incident, this current plan was far more violent. Given that the previous attempt had ended in failure, it was precisely this determination to act decisively this time that must have infused the plan with such violent intensity. In the March Incident that I was scheduled to participate in as a bomber, though we were to throw explosives at targets like the Prime Minister's Official Residence and party headquarters, they actually planned to use bombs with minimal lethality purely for intimidation—even the Diet building assault merely aimed to force mass ministerial resignations. But under this new scheme, we would storm the cabinet meeting at the Prime Minister's residence and slaughter every minister on site, beginning with the Prime Minister himself. We would cut them down before they could utter a word.

It was downright exhilarating. This was exactly what it meant for one's blood to boil and flesh to dance. The mere prospect of assassinating General Ogaki alone had me leaping for joy, but the fact that we weren't just killing one man—we were going to mow down all those ministers—made it downright delightful. Could there ever be another such delightful thing as this? What true faces would those ministers—cozying up in their seats of power—reveal before drawn blades? Precisely because they were protected by power, those bastards sitting so arrogantly in their ministerial seats would likely—no, undoubtedly—prove utterly spineless when push came to shove. They were absolutely spineless—no doubt about it.

"If you just listen—" Their begging would have been preferable, "Spare me!" they might even grovel on the ground. Imagining this made my chest pulse with exhilaration. I'd never met them face-to-face, but I'd seen their newspaper photos—those bastards in gilded formal wear puffing out their chests, sporting those ridiculous catfish-whisker mustaches meant to intimidate. What pitiful faces would those insects-disdaining wretches make?

“P-p-please… spare my life…” They’d surely put on such a disgraceful show. Just imagining it brought a satisfying sense of relief. This wasn’t some covert solo sniping of General Ogaki in Keijō’s heavily guarded streets—this time soldiers would march out in force to slaughter those ministers in grand style. Even a plain sniper attack had me burning with fighting spirit—how could I resist such a magnificent act of terror?

Not only would we bring down the sword of retribution upon the ministers rotting away politics, but simultaneously strike the financial world bosses too. While Lieutenant Kitatsuki and others claimed this unavoidable measure was needed to sever gold-driven politics' money vines, I saw it as natural reckoning for their accumulated evils. The young officers framed it as an undesirable last resort—"necessary to purge corruption"—but to me, this was pure justice. The ultimate retaliation. Peasants crawled through dirt yet starved; laborers slathered in grease wore rags—while capitalists sat warm and fat, never sweating brows nor soiling hands, hoarding gold upon gold through clean fingers. Was such lawlessness permissible? Against decades of this rot, answering lawlessness with lawless means became righteous arithmetic—how could one act erase years of crimes?

The politics defending lawlessness had to be rejected. Such a contradictory society had to be overturned. We had to start riots and crush those bastards sucking the people's lifeblood like flies. Politicians sharing dens with those vermin had to be decisively cut down too. No—forget all that logic—I burned for riots. Beyond reason—I hungered for blood.

We would also attack the Metropolitan Police Department; if they resisted this uprising meant for the people, the plan was to immediately open fire with machine guns and seize control by force. This bold plan thrilled me. Not merely bloodthirsty—it was a robust plan. This was how revolution must be. I longed to embrace rivers of blood. Even a footsoldier's role would suffice. To me—a mere footsoldier—no detailed explanation of this coup had been given. I'd caught fragments of the outline from Lieutenant Kitatsuki and others, but its very vagueness made the imagined violence blaze brighter, setting my blood afire with renewed fervor.

Lieutenant Kitatsuki and the other young officers were likewise underlings. It fell to these unit-attached officers to actually mobilize the most crucial and indispensable military force for the coup—the soldiers they would deploy from their regiments were to become the driving force when executing the insurrection. Yet above these young officers sat senior officers constituting a leadership body, firmly entrenched. As field-grade staff officers, they considered themselves the very engine of this movement.

The young officers who had failed in the March Incident judged that the problem in that case lay in the military’s upper echelon having been involved in the plan, and thus plotted to carry out the deed themselves. However, when putting their patriotic aspirations into action, they sought to obtain the understanding and support of staff officers who shared their ideals. Having been burned before with generals, they avoided them and chose colonels instead. That was indeed necessary for resolving the post-insurrection situation. From this perspective, they had ostensibly co-opted staff officers deemed reform-minded, but no sooner had they done so than—lo and behold—the tables were turned. It was as if they had been seized upon by the other side, who’d been waiting for just this opportunity. In the military with its strict hierarchy, senior officers had instead seized control of leadership, and the young officers were made to serve as low-level thugs.

However, those young officers believed it was they who truly controlled the soldiers. No matter how much the staff officers acted like leaders, if there were no unit-attached officers who could actually mobilize the troops when needed, nothing could be accomplished. Out of such pride, they had resigned themselves to being low-level enforcers—but the senior officers believed that simply issuing orders to unit-attached officers would suffice to mobilize troops. These senior officers had been colluding with Manchuria's Kwantung Army and had instigated the Manchurian Incident. This had been plotted since the March Incident's failure—one might even say the Kwantung Army initiated it by relying on central support—but they were equally aiming to establish a military dictatorship. The unit-attached officers serving as low-ranking enforcers could also be viewed as having been exploited for such ambitions.

One night, I met with the staff officers of the leadership at a geisha house in Akasaka. Lieutenant Kitatsuki had taken me there, but I had always hated these high-class geisha houses. I didn't dislike common brothels and whorehouses—no, rather, I loved them—but I hated these geisha houses that were no different in essence from brothels yet acted all refined. Perhaps there was also resentment towards the bourgeoisie monopolizing everything. "I'll introduce you to the leadership." "You should meet them."

Since Lieutenant Kitatsuki urged me to go, I attended that kisuba banquet. Otherwise I wouldn't have gone. It was my first time in Akasaka. Nothing like those cheap Kagurazaka teahouses. The okagura geishas and their shabotsuri entertainments here felt worlds apart. I grew acutely aware of my grimy shoes. That's exactly why I—

“So this is the kind of place you’re using as your base?” I said to the lieutenant in a tone of reproach. Were they following the precedent of Ōishi Kuranosuke, who had made Gion his playground, to deceive society’s eyes? This Akasaka was a place that had prospered through military clientele, where officers swaggered about arrogantly. I hadn’t known that history. A lavish banquet unfolded in the spacious tatami room. Even though we were about to crush those bourgeoisie bastards, here they were imitating their ways. What was this about? I wondered—but the senior officers were serving sake to the young officers, calling it morale boosting. Where did all that money come from? The spread was obscenely extravagant. Lieutenant Kitatsuki didn’t look particularly grateful for the freely flowing liquor either.

When they had the geisha leave the room and began discussing matters privately—perhaps because the alcohol had been flowing—the conversation turned to the composition of the post-coup cabinet. They already seemed to have prepared a cabinet list, acting as though everything were settled. Starting with the Prime Minister, all ministers were military men. They were mostly generals. And for Finance Minister—a civilian position—Ogawa Akia’s name had been put forward. “I have a question,” I said. “What ministerial post does Kōdō-sensei hold?”

"I said. I hadn't meant it seriously. 'What, Kōdō?' The central figure among the staff officers had blurted this out. He was then a lieutenant colonel who would later establish a fascist political organization. With a contemptuous look that seemed to ask 'What's this meddler doing here?', 'And Mr. Minami Ikko?' I pressed from my seat at the far end. 'Such shadowy figures can't be brought into the open.' This was their answer. The ministerial candidates were mostly generals, and this lieutenant colonel was being considered for Home Minister."

“Mr. Kōdō wouldn’t want to become some minister anyway. Even if you told him to become one, he’d never do it.” Since I wasn’t military personnel and owed no deference to superiors, I spoke bluntly. “Mr. Kōdō isn’t the type to act for personal gain.” “Is that so?” The lieutenant colonel snorted dismissively. At that moment, Lieutenant Kitatsuki interjected: “We feel the same.”

he said, declaring that their most fervent wish was to restore everything to His August Majesty the Emperor. "When our cause is accomplished," he continued, "in fearful apology for having troubled His August Majesty's divine countenance, we believe we must commit seppuku at Nijubashi Bridge." I felt remorse toward the lieutenant who had brought me there—for my drunken-sounding words to his superior officer had instead spurred him on— "We must also account for the crimes of violating military regulations and national law."

he said in a serious voice. To my ears—moved by how admirable this was— “That we understand.”

A voice came from the upper seats. "I understand that well, but how do you intend to handle the aftermath? What do you think you're doing, irresponsibly abandoning everything and trying to act like the good kid all by yourself?" "I have no intention of becoming any 'good kid.'" "Dying? You can die anytime you want." After the reprimand, he changed his tone and said that the leadership was considering your merit-based rewards. This was just like the March Incident. "Alright, call in the geisha. Hey, you women! Get in here."

Lieutenant Kitatsuki and others began showing passive attitudes toward the coup plan. Due to distrust in the leadership, some unit-attached officers started declaring they would withdraw. I too had grown sick of it. Rumors had reached me that Kōdō would be assassinated by a military faction should the coup succeed. The reason lay in his influence over young officers. He'd become a disruptive force constantly agitating those meddlesome youths. The military's factional strife also played into this. They didn't openly oppose Kōdō, but their infighting seemed to spawn conspiracies eliminating him as a nuisance.

The existence of various factions within the military had become concretely clear to me as well - Seigun-ha, Tōsei-ha, Kōdō-ha, Kokutai Genri-ha - factions that would later be given these names. I'll refrain from explaining what each meant here - it would complicate matters - but their ugly infighting corroded me too. Maybe I should withdraw, I thought at times. But abandoning that audacious plan felt too regrettable. Though I feared things might fizzle out again, given what I'd witnessed at that Akasaka geisha house, I couldn't bear to let this plan end in failure too. Perhaps through wishful thinking, I'd convinced myself this time would be different. Here's why - rather than some pure, childlike sense of justice, it's when entangled with vile ambition and lust for power that such schemes gain unstoppable momentum. Ambition would drive this plan to reckless execution. Of this I felt certain. Not every unit-attached officer had turned away.

Abruptly, I went to visit Maruman. Having disclosed the general outline of the plan to him, I argued that now was the time for anarchists to rise up in concert with the uprising. "I'll get the weapons and explosives from the military myself." "'Wild Boar' riot, huh?" "If those Bol bastards try to meddle, we'll grab 'em and execute them by firing squad." "That's a riot." Maruman clapped his hands, but

“That’s certainly satisfying, Mr. Shiro, but if we hesitate, we’ll just end up helping the fascists.” “We’ll use them instead.” “You mean to turn the Brocade Banner Revolution into a Black Flag Revolution?” Maruman grimaced at this, sensing their inadequate strength, “What did Mr. Sunauma say?”

“I’ve only told you about this, Maru-san. If you go blabbing to everyone and it leaks out beforehand, we’re finished. I need you to round up your street vendor pals and have them ready to scatter in every direction at a moment’s notice.”

“Alright, I’m in.” “Got it.” “So…?” “With the military uprising, Tokyo will plunge into chaos. At that time, set fire to key locations throughout Tokyo and cause conflagrations. I’ll have your comrades handle this. It’s a job that can be done with just one hontershi. There’s no need to worry about things like insufficient manpower.” “I see—so we’re the ones to light the fire. The ones to ignite the Wild Boar’s flames.” “Even during the Rice Riots, all it took was a single housewife shouting ‘Take down the rice merchants!’ for all that incredible torching to begin. If you ignite the fire smoldering in the hearts of the masses—those who’ve been bottling up their discontent day after day—they’ll explode all at once. In an instant, it’ll be a riot.”

I grew excited by my own words. I told Maruman there the thing I most wanted to do.

“One by one, we’ll hang those who’ve tormented the masses for years—just like in foreign revolutions—stringing them up from Ginza’s streetlights by the neck. How’s that for exhilaration?” “Damn, that’s brutal.” Two or three years back, one of our anarchist comrades had walked through Ginza smashing every storefront window along the avenue. He’d unleashed his rage against society that way—only to get hauled off by the police and beaten by detectives till his eyeballs nearly burst.

“I’ll track down that detective too and string him up by the neck.” “What’ll happen to the cops then?” “The cops will come under the command of the uprising forces. I won’t let them utter a word.” I pressed on forcefully, “The Wild Boar isn’t our only objective. At the same time as causing riots in the city, we must seize the factories with our own hands and create revolutionary committees in each one.” “In that case, the Bol will come out.” “Why are you so timid, Maru-san? The Bol bastards go around spouting their grand slogans day in and day out, but have they managed to start a single riot with all that? They go on about ‘the masses’ revolutionary energy this’ and ‘advancing from economic struggle to political struggle that’—spouting all these fine words—but who can actually channel revolutionary energy into real riots? Not the Bol bastards—it’s us. When those workers see that, they’ll all come surging after us—the ones who actually get things done. First of all, we have weapons. Within the military, revolutionary committees will be formed, and they’ll actively supply weapons to the factory committees.”

I had grown drunk on my own words. “After the coup d’état, the military will form a cabinet of military personnel. And we’ll present the workers’ demands. At last, it’ll be the Brocade Banner Revolution clashing with the Black Flag Revolution. The military has soldiers, but we’ve got the people. Even soldiers are part of the people. So who’ll win then? Come on, Maru-san—let’s do this!”

Part Six: The Inmates of the Pig Box

October 17, 1931 (Showa 6)—the uprising was scheduled to commence on this day of the Kanname-sai Festival. On this day, over a dozen bombers from the Kasumigaura Air Corps and several aircraft from the Shimoshizu Air Corps were scheduled to sortie in support of the ground uprising forces. Depending on how events unfolded, this meant they would "implement" (a military term of the time) intimidation bombing to cover the ground forces. This plan was on a far grander scale than the March Incident. Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his group had withdrawn, but in their place, a group of naval officers from the Yokosuka Naval District had also joined the plan. However, the main force was of course several battalions of infantry regiments led by army officers.

I coordinated with Maruman on our side’s riot plans. It wasn’t merely about setting fires at key locations throughout the city. We intended to seize control of substations and such with our own hands. Apart from the attacks to be carried out by the military, it was necessary to create massive chaos throughout the city. Occupying substations was also a means to that end. As for the uprising forces—how were we to handle taking over broadcasting stations that weren’t included in their plan? A coup d'état aimed at seizing power ended with taking down the ruling class’s upper echelon, but we required a mass uprising. The uprising forces would likely mobilize to suppress it, but diverting their forces was our opening. Exploiting that gap, we had to carry out our revolution.

Maruman and I looked down at the nighttime city from a high elevation. Small lights dotted the windows of houses. The distant lights twinkled as if whispering something to us. The modest happiness of the petit bourgeois twinkled quietly. This city would transform into a scene of carnage overnight. It was unfortunate for the citizens caught in the crossfire of revolution, but (since they'd indulged in their complacency...) There was no need for sympathy. I turned toward the lights whispering to me and muttered this. The cold night wind felt pleasant against my flushed cheeks.

I hated complacency. Peaceful happiness—I might have been envious of it. Yet in this tranquil night city, there was Namiko—Namiko too dwelled here. Amidst the night lamps casting their humble light, Namiko too lived. Namiko, persevering and living modestly—should I hate that Namiko? At that moment, I discovered myself there—the self who loved Namiko.

When I went to visit Namiko, I suddenly sensed a corpse within myself on the way. Was I trying to turn others into corpses like myself? Was that why I sought to transform this tranquil city into a city of death? The thought struck me. Did I crave bloodshed and find cruelty fascinating because I was already a corpse?

“In the event of failure, I’ll take responsibility.” If our Black Flag Revolution fell to the Brocade Banner Revolution in this clash, I resolved to end myself with dignity. After I said this, “Don’t spout that right-wing fanatic nonsense about dying alone, Shiro.” “When that time comes, I’ll die with you right under their gunfire.”

Maruman exposed his black gums and laughed, “It’s not like things’ll go smoothly on the first try anyway.” “What did you say?” “Success isn’t the goal. Riots themselves are our purpose.”

“Hmm.”

Riots themselves were the most crucial element in "the development of revolutionary spirit among the oppressed masses." Bakunin had long declared this principle paramount. "That's right—destruction," I said. "Destruam!" "Destroy and build." (The phrase destrurm et aedificabo—though originating from Figaro—was one Proudhon had appropriated to stress destruction's necessity.) Upon anarchism's banner stood words inscribed in "letters of blood and flame": "A free organization rising from below through voluntary federation—the organization of laboring masses liberated from all chains...the organization of emancipated humanity, the creation of a new human world" (Bakunin). For this organization and creation, destruction became prerequisite above all else. For our ideals' realization, riots stood as indispensable first step.

“What’s important are riots. To incite riots.” Maruman repeated. I found myself being egged on by Maruman instead. “You better not let me down, Shiro. Flatter the soldiers—sweet-talk and con ’em into pulling it off smooth.”

“What the hell is that?” In the dark grass thicket, something glinted. “It’s just a stray cat.” When Maruman said that, I already knew it was so, but knowing it made me feel all the more disgusted. That Oshama—the cat—lumbered past while making me recall the felines of Keijō. Its eyes alone glinted—and with those shining orbs, it glared at me as it went. “If we end up swallowing a failure—kara—we’ll just slip away to Manchuria and wait for the next chance.”

To Maruman, who urged, "Let's do this with tenacity," “Escape to Manchuria and become the second Tengki or something?” This referred to the Tanjia—the leader of Manchurian bandits—whose name I’d heard from Sunauma. A Japanese bandit chief. Maruman too had heard these tales from Sunauma. Am I the second Hakuryu? Whether these were genuine bandits remained unclear—they might’ve been posing as outlaws to extort gold from Manchuria’s Japanese settlers—but regardless, Sunauma’s stories painted them as legendary figures.

“I wish the 17th would hurry up and come.”

Maruman said, like a child waiting for New Year's. In the night streets, the flames that scorched the sky—which I had secretly envisioned—were already blazing within Maruman's eyes.

On the night before the execution, I stayed at a cheap inn in Yotsuya with the civilian participants. Because hotels drew attention, an inn had been chosen. I wanted to be alone to contact Maruman, but acting independently was impossible. Since they mustn't suspect we were plotting another riot for the Black Flag Revolution, I had to avoid solitary movements. I drank myself to sleep but found no rest. The inn's futon reeked of women. It made me recall brothels and Wakamurasaki. No—to tell the truth, having remembered Teruko and then thought of Namiko, I tried to avoid considering either by summoning Wakamurasaki in my mind. No—to be blunter still, I wanted a woman.

I desperately wanted a woman. When I reached into my crotch, Yoshiko stood rigid as a rod. I gripped Yoshiko - hot like an iron bar - in my hand. I held down Yoshiko as it thrashed wildly, desperate to meet Yachi. That business with women - what Maruman's street vendor crew called in their jargon "plowing Yachi" or "grinding Yachi". Through plowing Yachi I came to know Teruko and fell for her. Not that I fell for Teruko first and ended up plowing Yachi. No question of love - diving straight into Yachi had been my habit since gaining consciousness, bedding women not out of affection. Yachi-plowing alone was the goal; afterwards I'd act like nothing happened. But with Teruko - through bedding her came love.

I hadn't slept with Namiko. Yet I now clearly realized I'd fallen completely for this Namiko I'd never touched. This wasn't like how I'd fallen for Teruko. Wasn't like how I'd known Teruko. Why then did I ache for such a Namiko? Because she remained unknown to me? I discovered one could crave women they'd never possessed. Just as we lust after those known through flesh, we yearn more fiercely for strangers. No—rather, it's precisely the unknown women who grip us tighter. This truth had been revealed to me.

I had yet to experience riots through my flesh. Yet I found riots alluring. I was madly enthralled. Was it because they were unknown to me, as with Namiko? Teruko I knew bodily. Through such knowing I had not come to understand riots. That I loved these riots - was it because they were theories and ideologies untainted by physical knowledge? Ideologies gain greater allure precisely through being unknown to the body - perhaps this holds true as with women.

Is Namiko an ideology to me? —— I had just named three women—Wakamurasaki, Teruko, and Namiko—but Wakamurasaki the courtesan was someone I'd come to know through plowing Yachi, same as Teruko. Yet unlike with Teruko, I hadn't fallen in love. Rather than Teruko whom I'd loved or Namiko whom I was loving, it was unloved Wakamurasaki I found myself picturing. All for this rod-like Yoshiko of mine. This seemed to be how it worked. To calm my thrashing Yoshiko, any woman's Yachi would suffice—didn't matter whose. Some dame unburdened by all that lovey-dovey complication worked best. That's how I'd been trying to frame it.

But that cunt wasn't available in reality. There was no cunt; all I had was my own hand. I was stroking Yoshiko with my own hand. Just as the ejaculate threatened to burst forth, the sliding door clattered open,

“Oh, I’ve entered the wrong room.” "This isn’t a fucking joke," I screamed inside my head. Startled, I let go of Yoshiko. The man with a square face like a tiered lunchbox said “Excuse me” and started closing the sliding door, “Um… You know Mr. Yahagi, don’t you?” he said like someone covering embarrassment. It was a name I’d never heard before. “I don’t know,” I said. In a voice insisting there was no need for pretense, the man asked, “What’s it feel like when you kill someone?”

“Before you kill them?”

"I knew it." "What do you mean by that?" "How refined." "As I thought—you're at it."

The man with a square face made a gesture of stabbing someone with a dagger. "Unfortunately, I have yet to cut someone up."

To be honest, when I said—

“In that case, you shouldn’t have been allowed into our group.” “So everyone’s just a bunch who’ve cut someone up? Then there’s no need to ask about how killing feels.”

“That spirit of yours—not an ounce of boastfulness—is truly commendable. Though I heard you hail from ideologues…”

The follow-up remark was problematic. Because it struck me hard, "I wanna go whore-hopping (visiting prostitutes)." I played dumb, though this was my genuine truth. "I want to go worship the Healing Buddha's yoni."

It was also called Amitabha Buddha or simply Tathagata. It meant a woman’s cunt. I’d said that wanting to worship Namiko’s Tathagata. Wakamurasaki’s cunt wasn’t some Tathagata—a red pot would do. A copper pot heats up quickly. Hence this red pot—a prostitute’s cunt was like an earthenware pot. The maeana was plenty. “Rurikō…?” “Rurikō…?” said the Man with a Square Face. No wonder he didn’t know—it was old slang. This was something I’d used between Maruman and me too.

“The valley.”

I said, but it still didn’t get through to him. I thought I was being pretentious, but “Keman.”

I knew the right-wingers staying here with me had gone to perform misogi purification rituals before the uprising. I didn't know whether this square-faced man had gone too, but I—who hadn't gone—even while scorning that misogi as absurd, felt some restraint against using explicit language toward those who'd earnestly cleansed their bodies and souls through the ritual, so I'd resorted to coded terms instead. "Keman?" This was prisoner jargon.

“Never been to the clink? Kemanju. Hairy buns.” “Kemanju.” “Hairy buns.”

The Square-Faced Man left in exasperation. The distant howl of a dog came through. It was a lonely-sounding howl—like a death-throe groan, utterly unpleasant. Just as I felt myself drifting off, the sliding door opened again and the Square-Faced Man came in. Thinking that, “Shut up.”

When I pulled the futon over myself, it was violently ripped away. "What the hell are you doing?" What appeared in my bleary eyes was not the Square-Faced Man. A detective was pressing a pistol against my chest. Behind him stood a policeman wearing a chin strap, gripping his saber's hilt with his sword half-drawn to keep silent. We'd been ambushed in our sleep by those Main Office bastards. Me and Square-Face—all of us caught in one sweep. Surrounded by armed police, we were rats in a sack.

I was first taken to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, then transported to what you might call my familiar local precinct. It was not Main Office detention. In other words, I was being treated as a low-ranking thug. Handcuffed (Kai), I was put into a car. The city at dawn wore an utterly peaceful expression. A hazy mist hung over the city, still not yet awakened from slumber, as a newspaper delivery person dashed through. A milk delivery person was pulling a cart with a rattling sound. They didn’t so much as glance my way.

I arrived at Satsu (Police),

“What’s the reason?” When I asked again about the grounds for my arrest, they said it was a vagrancy charge for lacking fixed residence. They’re making fools of people. Though it was a shabby boarding house, I did have a proper address. “Even if you do, you’re currently without a fixed address.” During that period, they were hauling in ideological suspects—leftists mainly—on these non-reasons that didn’t even count as proper charges. The Police Offense Punishment Ordinance stated that “those corresponding to any one of the items listed on the left may be sentenced to detention of less than thirty days,” with “individuals lacking fixed residences or occupations who wander about various places” falling under this provision. This was how they’d gotten me too. Since the actual charge was so vague, they’d probably used this vagrancy pretext for now.

“Get me the Chief!” I shouted. “Understood. Understood,” they said. “Just be a good boy and take your little nap.” I was thrown into the pig box. As the new inmate forced to sit at the cell entrance, I howled like a beast. While sensing the captured animal within myself, I let out a humiliating growl. “Shut up.”

said Pimpuku the guard.

“Shut up!”

I shouted back. "You bastard, acting all high and mighty..." The man in the cell sprang up agitatedly, “Officer. Should I shut him up?” He was trying to take the guard’s place and punish me. “Wait!”

The guard stood up from his chair and approached. "Hey, can’t you keep it down?" he said to me in a placating tone. "Shut up!" With a bellow taught by Kōdō himself, I glared at the guard. The patrolman was also glaring at me through the bars, but then he tsked in annoyance— "There’s no handling him…" he muttered and walked away. It was restraint out of seeing me as right-wing.

My cellmates looked at me with eyes wide with astonishment. A newbie like me acting so defiantly in a detention center would normally not get off unscathed. I’d be ganged up on by my cellmates before even getting beaten by the guard. But once the guard they called “Boss” showed me some deference, everyone suddenly shrank back.

When the cell fell silent,

“Hey, hey.” A man dressed like nothing but a beggar, who had been clinging to the wall like a gecko until then, suddenly called out to me. The man who had been huddling silently when everyone was agitated now, conversely, as those around him shrank back, “You’re not right.” he said in an arrogant voice. I glared, “What’s this, you bastard?”

“You’ve got something clinging to you.” Pitifully, the man said. “Feeling lucky?” “It’s a possessing spirit.”

He was a man sunburned pitch black, like a Rakan statue. His forehead in particular had a glossy black sheen, surrounded by tangled hair like the thorns from Christ’s crown. “A possessing spirit…?” “That’s why you’re tormented so much.” “I’m not being tormented, you bastard!” I waved my hand as if to drive away a possessing spirit. At this, “He’s a ‘radio’ (dine-and-dasher).” The man next to me sneered. Being dragged here over a petty misdemeanor like dine-and-dash—what they called “radio”—was something worthy of contempt.

“How pitiful, ain’t it?” Whether he meant himself or me, the Rakan-like man kept talking: “What’s clinging to you... maybe a cat.” “A cat...?” “A dog.” The burglar next to Rakan—later I learned they called him Kurotonbi, a deep-night thief—put a finger to his temple, twirled it in a circle, and told me this Rakan was crazy. Crazy? Still, he kept spouting unsettling nonsense.

“Is there a dog clinging to you?” “You’re not born in the Year of the Dog, are you?” “Year of the Horse.” “You shouldn’t fall for a woman born in the Year of the Dog.” “None of your damn business.”

"This guy really was crazy," I thought. I turned away, "Woof!" when he let out a loud bark, "Hey, hey." The Rakan-like man came to my side, "Cut it out." A foul smell hit my nose. It was the stench of sweat and grime, but even in this foul pig box of a jail, it stood out as particularly rank. It was a nauseating stench. He brought that stinking head close to my ear, "You've got to cast off that possessing spirit..."

“I’ve got a death god clinging to me.” “That person…” He looked toward the back. The cell boss at the back was using a toilet paper roll core to make straw sandals the size of beans. I later found out this man had gone into a robbery and ended up killing someone. Because his family made a commotion, he ended up making them face west—killing them.

“Unlike that person, you—you’ve got strong luck.” “Bad luck? Flattery won’t get you anywhere, I tell ya.” “Hey, hey.” The Rakan-like man brought his face right up to mine,

“Your eyes are shining like a cat’s.” “Must be because I’ve got a cat possessing me.” I tried joking it off, but he kept his grave expression,

“A cat’s eyes glowing at night doesn’t mean light’s coming from them,” “It’s outside light making them shine.” “Same way your eyes are shining because—” “Hold it.” “Cat eyes glow even in pitch-dark blackness, I tell ya.”

“In pitch darkness, they don’t glow.” “They must be receiving light from somewhere…” “No—they were glowing in total darkness.” “I saw it with my own eyes.” “That must’ve been because your eyes were glowing.” “It must’ve been that light that made the cat’s eyes glow.”

“You really are crazy.” “You’re not sane yourself.” “Enough.” “You get grabbed by dogs because you’re clinging to something yourself.” As if he’d said something amusing, Rakan narrowed his eyes. In those eyes was something still and deep, like a mountain lake. Just as I noticed this, he bared his jagged, irregular teeth, “If you stop that, the possessing spirit will leave you.” “You’re spouting lines I’ve heard before…”

“Because your eyes are shining like a cat’s—that’s proof you’ve got a possessing spirit. That’s what makes them glow.” “What the hell are you?” “Don’t you know me?” “The hell should I know?” He was a Rakan-like figure of indeterminate age.

“I know you.” “I know you well.” “You’re lying!” “I don’t deal with you myself, but I’m friends with that thing possessing you.”

“This one’s a real lunatic.” “I’m not crazy. I’m Abiru from Hyoutan Pond.” He emphasized the “a” when he said it— “Abiru?” “It’s ‘Ahiru from the pond,’ right?”

Kurotonbi sneered. After that, the man next to me, "So this old guy's a cop." "Cut it out!" I hadn't known 'duck' was police slang. "Ducks and cops take their time walking around."

said the man next to me.

That day's lunch side dish was Akarenga—salt-cured salmon. Rakan ate that boxed lunch as if it were some grand feast, smacking his lips with relish. It was the sort of eating that laid bare his grubbiness for all to see. That I found this somewhat disillusioning stemmed from having felt a slight pull toward this "just a bit, just a bit" Rakan. Tentatively—with such thoughts—when I offered my leftovers, "Oh—much obliged."

He stretched out his mummy-like hand and made as if to reverently receive my boxed lunch. Unlike now, salmon—salt-cured salmon—was the lowest-grade side dish back then.

Right, why don't I just blithely talk about the side dishes from those boxed lunches there? *Akarenga* meant salmon, and *Shirorenga* meant tofu. Grilled tofu was stylishly called *castella*. In the more charming jargon, pork and potato stew was called *gakutai*. Because it was pork (*ton*) and potatoes (*jagaimo*), they called it 'band'. Daikon and bean stew was 'children's toy'. Did it come from bean guns? Vegetable stew was *Aki-ta*. *Aki-ta* came from being sick of eating it. Shredded daikon was called things like *Nankin soba* or *Gojō Bridge*—the latter being prison jargon derived from the legend of Benkei seizing a thousand swords at Gojō Bridge.

The jargon for side dishes was "newspaper"— "What's today's newspaper?" “Kōso-in.” Herring (*nishin*) referred to the second trial. The second trial had been conducted at the appellate court back then, but such jargon from prison (*honmushi*) was also used in detention centers (*karimushi*). I—thrown into the *karimushi*, I whose dreams of riots and bloodshed had been extinguished—was in a state of mind diametrically opposed to such carefree talk. I wanted to smash my own head against the detention center wall—to drench myself in blood—such was my reckless despair, but perhaps this idiotic talk about side dishes unexpectedly suited precisely such reckless despair.

Vegetable leaves were called *Mejiro*. Yes, that was *Mejiro* feed—and this too had a sort of reckless despair clinging to it, don’t you think? *Tenjiku no Oiran*—that meant broad beans. *Yanagimame* was shredded kelp (this being the *Yanagi*) stewed with beans. *Akabato* meant quail beans.

When it came to vegetable jargon, carrots were Yakehibashi. Burdock root was Tetsuhibashi. It was also called Kuromansu. Daikon was Mansui or Mansu. Lotus root was Hachinosu, eggplant was Kurodori, and salt-pickled eggplant was Kumanoi. Beef was something you rarely encountered. Just when you thought something rare had appeared, it turned out to be rock-hard stuff you couldn't chew through—that's why beef was called Ssetta no Kawa. The most common side dish was hijiki seaweed, commonly known as Yami.

Ridiculous. Enough of this. That's right—takuan was *Koban*. Red bean rice was *Genpei Bō*. Because the red beans were red (Genji) and the rice white (Heike). It wasn't like I ever ate red bean rice in this Ryūko detention center. I'd learned most of these jargon terms back when they threw me in during General Fukui's assassination attempt.

It was several days later, after lunch. A Tokkō detective, "I request," opened the small window in the detention cell door and spoke to the jail guard. That small window reminded me of where Teruko had sat, but there was a world of difference between a detention center and an unlicensed brothel. The detective had brought a 'guest'—a new inmate. This was an unexpected guest. That washed-up ex-student from the Bolshevik faction's organizer corps. He'd entered this pig box. Though I hadn't seen him since our encounter at Setsurudai—his cheeks scraped gaunt, face aged a decade—I recognized him instantly. No longer some low-ranking organizer, he must've risen to union executive by now.

“Then I leave Shigeno in your care.”

The detective handed him over to the jail guard and left. I learned there that his name was Shigeno. The jail guard took Shigeno to a corner table and made him remove his tie and belt. All long items were confiscated. “Where’d they transfer you from?” “Tomisaka…” At that response, I realized—ah, this was the prisoner shuffle. When a full stretch of detention (twenty-nine days) ended, they’d transfer you to another cop shop, feed you another full stretch, then ship you off elsewhere again—this was what they called detention rotation. Due to regulations prohibiting detention beyond twenty-nine days, this taraimawashi had been devised; however, eventually they began formally taking detainees outside the police station’s entrance only to immediately throw them back into the same pig box. This too was soon abandoned, and they began falsifying paperwork to conduct rotations while leaving detainees thrown into the cells.

The jail guard rattled a large key, peering into cells as he deliberated where to put Shigeno, but—

“Every cell is full. Get in here.”

and unlocked my cell with a key. With unsteady steps suggesting he'd been thoroughly tortured, Shigeno passed through the iron-barred door, "Please take care of me."

He gave the existing inmates a customary detention-center greeting. When I was about to call out to Shigeno, “Open up there.” The Cell Boss pointed toward the middle of the long narrow room and ordered those guys sitting cross-legged there to make space. He had him sit in a seat of higher status than mine. It seemed like petty retaliation against me with my imposing presence.

“Hey.” I cut in beside Shigeno—who hadn’t noticed me—making my presence known as I did so. The Cell Boss didn’t try to stop me, but— “It’s been a while...” Shigeno showed me an unexpected, nostalgic-looking smile. “Looks like they worked you over pretty hard,” said the Cell Boss, interjecting with honeyed words to disrupt our conversation,

“You’re a Red, aren’t you?” With that, the Cell Boss turned to me, “Is he your buddy?” the Cell Boss asked Shigeno. “I’m ‘Kuro’ (Guilty).” I said. “‘Kuro’…?” “Ain’t no difference between ‘Kuro’ and guilty.”

said Fukkeshi.

Then from somewhere— “Then you’re Kurotonbi…” “My bad. If I’m Kuro (Guilty), then you’re Akainu (Arson)…” When someone retorted, again from somewhere— “Aka may be Aka, but there’s also those packing Aka (weapons) and running Akade (heists)...” “Three Akas… Now that’s an Aka-tan hand.” This was Akainu (Arson). Because private conversations were prohibited in the pig box, they spoke of course in hushed voices— “Not so fast.”

Kurotonbi interjected. "In the Pig Box's tanzaku strips, 'tan' might be 'tan,' but it's a boar's tongue!" This needed no explanation for Ryūko's crew—it referred to hanafuda cards they all knew. Where you couldn't play hanafuda in the Pig Box, these punning word games became your only amusement.

“Hey, hold on!” the Cell Boss interjected in an authoritative voice— “The Plum’s Red’s already here.”

“You mean me? Aka-kiri (lock picking)…?” “It’s not about me. I don’t have syphilis.” “Who’s Ume…?” “Ume mark’s fine by me—I’d rather get my teeth into some red clam (female genitalia).” “Not the red clam—you’ll be meeting the Aka-oni (Prosecutor) soon enough.” “So then comes the Red Drop (prison time)...” “Red titties, huh?” As they were all talking over each other, “Better than getting a red paper (draft notice).”

“Better than getting a red paper (draft notice),” said Abiru. At the time, such lines were precisely what you couldn’t say unless you were insane. Yet Abiru, who uttered these things openly, conversely made me think he must not be insane at all. When everyone jolted and fell silent for an instant, “You a Red Gate graduate?”

said the "Cell Boss" to Shigeno. “Everyone comes from the Red Gate (vagina).” At my interjection, Shigeno,

“I met Mr. Tamatsuka.” “In the pig box.” “Can’t you keep it down?”

The Shirihiki guard, as if unable to endure it any longer, shouted.

Shirihiki—this was what they called the lenient guards—but during one such Shirihiki’s shift (though not this particular guard), they all pooled their money to buy amashari (sweets) to eat before lights out at night. In detention centers, such things were of course strictly prohibited, but they would secretly ask a Shirihiki guard—who would skim a cut anyway—to have a bento shop bring some over. When you’re locked up for too long, you start craving sweets something fierce.

Shigeno did not have any money. Radio Rakan was also penniless, and when I said I’d pay for the two of them, “Much obliged.” Rakan straightforwardly expressed his thanks, but Shigeno, “I don’t need it. That’s quite all right.” Having said that, he clammed up. “What the hell are you saying?” Here in this place—not that it’s Kropotkin’s doing—there’s a code of mutual aid: those without money naturally have those who do cover for them.

That night, there was a delivery of amashari—even if we bought them ourselves, they still called it a “delivery”—and the orderly (though he was just another guy eating the same prison slop as us while working as an orderly) eagerly went around distributing them. “Here, eat up.”

When I urged Shigeno,

“I don’t need it.” Shigeno resolutely did not eat.

“You bastard!”

"I can't stand this guy." I clenched my fist to punch him and raised it, “Hold on, hold on.” Rakan said in an oddly authoritative voice, “That’s not good.” Though he should’ve been released immediately as Radio, Rakan remained in the pig box—apparently there were other charges.

“Stop that. You need to quit it.” At a loss where to direct my fist, “Oh yeah?” I said, then managed to bonk Rakan square on the head— “Ouch. What a rock-hard skull!” Rakan chuckled sheepishly, “Since I got paid with a punch, I’ll take one more.” He swiftly reached out, took my daifuku, and popped it into his mouth.

Seven: Spiritual Vertigo

After serving the full twenty-nine days, I was released from the pig box. The main headquarters had come to investigate once, but in the end, they released me to the outside with everything swept under the rug. The cover-up wasn't just about me. It wasn't only me—a mere underling—being acquitted; even the masterminds who planned and prepared that fearsome coup d'état had received no punishment whatsoever, just as with the March Incident. A strange tale indeed. Even that lieutenant colonel who had been a central figure among the staff officers received nothing more than a mere formality of punishment—twenty days of strict confinement. If the Bol faction had hatched such a plan, there would have been a tremendous uproar. The executives would most certainly have been sentenced to death.

The executives of the October Incident received a "visit" from the military police at the same time we were arrested. It had been discovered beforehand. There were two theories: one that Ogawa Akia had leaked the plan to Imperial Household Ministry officials, and another that Minami Ikko had leaked it to the Seiyukai. It was impossible to tell which was true. The cause was probably neither of those. The Ogawa faction and the Minami faction had likely spread those theories with the aim of slandering each other. When I think back to that time I went to the meeting house in Akasaka... well, it’s no wonder the whole thing got exposed.

The story had gotten ahead of itself. After leaving the detention center, I immediately rushed into a haberdashery and bought a full set of underwear—tari (shirt), tamabira (sarubata). The clerk eyed my bearded, disheveled, bandit-like self with suspicion as I demanded: “Where’s the bathhouse around here? I need to wash off the jail grime. Oh right—underpants too. And a hand towel.” Before visiting the barber, I needed the bathhouse first. In detention I’d been crawling with Kannon-sama—lice—until the itching drove me mad. Bedbugs they called pigeons had left two vivid red bites on my wrist, marks anyone could recognize at a glance. Unlike lice, pigeons don’t cling to your skin—but that didn’t mean some idiot bug wasn’t still stuck to my shirt.

I went to the bathhouse, stripped naked, and bundled up my filthy underclothes (amahada). The lice that should have been white—their bellies now black from gorging on my blood—were lined up in a row along the seams of the amahada. I rolled them tightly and handed them to the bathhouse attendant girl. “Toss this out. There’s bugs on it...” “Bugs?” “Not you.” It might have looked like harassment, but what I really wanted was to hurl something far more vicious at myself.

The bathhouse at midday contained only an old man who seemed to embody comfortable retirement. Sunlight streamed through the glass onto pristine bathwater that filled the tub to overflowing—a refreshing sight indeed. The old man had fully submerged himself in the water, a hand towel resting on his head as he carelessly hummed what sounded like a rōkyoku ballad. I sank into the bath and involuntarily muttered, "Ah, this feels good," yet even this comfort couldn't shield me from irritation. The world outside remained as utterly tranquil as this midday bathhouse. The first impression society granted me upon leaving detention filled me with particular fury. The October Incident had been completely erased from public awareness. I'd believed ours was a world where such events became inevitable, yet here society basked in undisturbed serenity. Somehow I felt thoroughly swindled.

When I climbed out of the bath and set my feet down in the washing area, I felt a dizzy spell. Despite being detained for only twenty-nine days, my body had gone completely soft. The dizziness forced me to squat down helplessly right there. It was a disgraceful sight. Indeed—speaking of dizziness—when I climbed out of the bath and smoked a cigarette, another wave of vertigo hit me. I'd been completely cut off from tobacco. Even in the detention center where smoking was strictly prohibited, some guys would sneak in moku—tobacco—stealing glances from the guards to occasionally take a puff, but you couldn't smoke like normal people did outside. When I smoked like an ordinary person would, that dizzy spell struck again.

A physical dizziness—that woozy sensation resembled disarray. There must also exist something like a spiritual vertigo that resembles confusion. Perhaps my participation in the October Incident was due to just that. Had I been wrestling alone and fallen into what could be called a spiritual vertigo—a mental confusion? But the true confusion—this dizzying spiritual vertigo—was still to come. And soon enough, I was assaulted by it.

I needed to meet Maruman, but couldn't face him. I wanted to see Kōdō too, but found myself unable to go. The one I wanted most to see was Namiko. But before meeting her, I needed—for my own sake—to sort out my feelings. As I lingered in this indecision, "Where'd you take my daughter?" Teruko's father Inozawa Ichitarō came barging in with this roar. He wore an unnervingly sharp three-piece suit that gave him the air of a shiroshi (gentleman), yet his speech reeked of vulgarity. "If you don't come clean," he threatened, "you won't walk away from this!"

“If she’s such a precious daughter, why’d you put her in a prostitution racket?”

"You’re the one who put your daughter in a prostitution racket—how dare you talk so big?" I shot back without backing down.

“Prostitution racket…?” “It’s prostitution.” “As if I’d know anything about that!” “You knew and still put your own daughter in a prostitution racket? What kinda father does that?” “I didn’t know about that either.” “When I met your daughter, she was already in that racket. “Pathetic…” “I didn’t know a damn thing. That’s why I came from Manchuria lookin’ for her. Where’d you take my girl?” “Dunno. Too late now.”

Even as I spoke, I could feel Teruko slipping further away from my heart—perhaps because of this father's appearance. "She's already been sold off somewhere by someone." "Wasn't it you who sold her?" "Don't fuck with me. No matter how far I've fallen (零落), I'm not the sort who'd traffic women (女を売り飛ばす)!"

Did Sunauma tell this Inozawa Ichitarō that I was the one who'd sold off his daughter Teruko somewhere? I said I'd meet Sunauma. When we met he'd realize it wasn't my fault—so Inozawa and I went to Sunauma's house, where there was a guest unknown to me though Inozawa seemed to recognize him—

“Hey.” He managed a greeting, but his face was bitterly contorted. The guest too remained sullen, and the two of them seemed like sworn enemies. “Rough time, was it?” Sunauma said to me mockingly about the October Incident, “We were just talking about that.” Then the guest raised his square jaw, as if delivering some sort of edict to us, “Everything stems from that military reduction by General Ogaki. “It’s Ogaki who’s at fault.” Solemnly—in that tone—he said. When General Ogaki was Army Minister, he carried out the so-called “Taishō Military Reduction.” Therefore, dissatisfaction had been growing among military personnel. In fact, due to the military reduction, many career soldiers ended up retiring at best as field officers, resulting in their path to promotion being blocked. Military personnel driven by ambition formed factions and began devising methods for self-preservation and career advancement. The guest’s opinion was that both the March Incident and the October Incident were, in the end, things that arose from those factions’ power struggles.

Since it was an internal factional struggle, the military kept the incident secret from the public. Had it leaked, it would have damaged the military's prestige. He argued that this was also why no proper punishment had been carried out. "Well then, Mr. Inozawa? What's your opinion?" "As a supporter of weak diplomacy, what do you have to say?" "That's in the past." "The current Mr. Inozawa is a hardliner on China policy."

Sunauma interjected, “The current Mr. Inozawa is a hardliner on China.” The guest pressed further against Inozawa, who remained silent with sealed lips, “Did that come about for business reasons?” “When it comes to Mr. Yahagi, he really tears you apart, huh?” Inozawa laughed.

Yahagi...? I raised my eyebrows. It was a name I'd heard from a right-wing bastard at a meeting house in Yotsuya. He had looked at me as if I were part of Yahagi's gang and claimed that being in the gang meant I must have experience killing people. I turned my gaze back to Yahagi. Looking closely now, his face was terribly ghastly. Though his words sounded stubborn, a dark brooding had taken root within him, seeming to seep through to the surface. Yahagi could be seen putting up a bold front, but Inozawa—laughing off being torn to shreds—seemed to have the upper hand.

“Hey, Kashiwai.” As if to divert my gaze and shift the topic elsewhere, Sunauma said.

“Why don’t you go take a rest at a hot spring resort—Senba or somewhere like that? After you’ve rested up, how about it—work with me?” “Should we stay out of the military’s factional squabbles…?” I was still keeping my gaze fixed on Yahagi. “What kind of work…? Killing people? Murder work?” “What kind of talk is that?” Sunauma shouted angrily. “I kinda want to kill someone too.”

“Kashiwai!”

Yahagi quietly turned his face toward Sunauma, who had shouted. "You talked, didn't you?" His gleaming eyes seemed to compel those words.

Sunauma was surely looking at Inozawa, “What were you and Kashiwai talking about?” Sunauma was implicitly suggesting that it might have been Inozawa who had talked. “We weren’t talking about killing people or anything.”

The way Inozawa thrust out his lower lip made his mouth somehow resemble Teruko's. I was reminded of Teruko and felt disgusted. In a bitter tone, I said: "Mr. Sunauma made it sound like I'd done something to Mr. Inozawa's daughter." "How repulsive." "Mr. Inozawa's daughter...?" Yahagi pressed the question. "That Kashiwai just keeps yapping without restraint..."

Having been scolded by Sunauma, I said in a reckless voice, “I kinda want to kill someone.” “Kill Ogaki!” Yahagi commanded. I snapped. I didn’t have to take orders from this stranger. “Then you do it.” “Kashiwai, cut it out,” Sunauma said. “You’re getting carried away.” To this Sunauma, Inozawa interjected— “No—I’ve taken a liking to this sort of person.” His tone suggested less that he was protecting me and more that he truly wanted to purchase me like a commodity. Sunauma reacted bitterly—

“Kashiwai’s been my comrade since way back—unfortunately for you, Mr. Inozawa…” “Not for sale?” I said it aloud, then muttered under my breath that this was no fucking joke.

That night, I wandered aimlessly alone to Hyoutan Pond in Asakusa. No—or rather, to tell the truth—when I abruptly realized, I found myself having come to be by Hyoutan Pond. In Rokku's theater district, the discount bells were ringing, and the footsteps of the bustling crowd were clamorous. The commotion of that bustle sounded to my ears like some distant surf as I stood at the edge of the dark pond.

The man I met in jail, who called himself Abiru, had told me to meet him again at Hyoutan Pond. I remembered that, and that was what had led me here.

Under the wisteria trellis—its leaves fallen, leaving only bare branches—those dead branches twisting like snakes beneath it, a man who looked no different from a beggar stood exposed to the biting wind, holding a candle in one hand. He had crafted a makeshift shield from cardboard and was using his body to protect the candle's flame from being extinguished by the wind. When I peered at the face illuminated by the flickering light, it was Abiru. His face bore the same layer of grime as when he'd been in jail.

“What are you doing standing around in a place like this?” When I abruptly voiced the question, “I’m doing business.” Abiru said without so much as a smile and cast a scrutinizing look behind me. “What? Do you see something again?” “Can you see some evil spirit or something?” “What’d you come here for?” “A courtesy call, huh?” "I came to see you." “I see. That was careless of me, Mr. Shiro Kashiwai.” “Mr. Shiro Kashiwai.” “Hmph, you’re getting awfully familiar.”

“If I were to speak even more familiarly, I thought you’d come to ask me a favor.” “Getting full of yourself, huh?” “You’ve got Death riding on your shoulders, Mr. Shiro.” “Oh yeah?” I blustered.

“You’re being targeted by someone.”

Abiru continued. Is the Ogaki faction still after me?

“How do you know?”

Abiru did not answer that, “There’s someone who wants to kill you.” He said it lightly; his tone held no menace. It could be taken for the voice of a madman, “Is there really such a noble soul out there?” “Where?” I was being somewhat facetious. “There...” “There...” Abiru said immediately and looked behind me. I turned around. “No one’s here. "No—there are plenty here." Crowds of people were walking. "Now, please do not interfere with my business."

When he suddenly switched to polite speech, Abiru brusquely waved his hand as if shooing me away. "What business?" "I'm a prophet..." He thrust the candle flame toward my face, peering intently at me. "There's no error in Abiru's words." "I want to meet later." "Let's drink somewhere." "Where's good?"

Abiru told me about a shochu bar behind what seemed to be his regular park. So I promised to meet there and,

“Is your home in Hongo?” “No.” “I heard you got caught in Hongo…” “I didn’t get caught.” “What’s with ‘Abiru’? I prefer Vagabond.” “Abiru… warrior of David…” A voice roared—it could only belong to a madman.

In a dirty shochu bar, I tilted a thick glass. All of them were customers who looked like vagrants, and they were shouting loudly inside the cramped shop. I paid no attention to those guys.

If things kept up like this, I was going to end up going to Yoshiwara. Telling myself I wouldn't go, I was uncharacteristically holding back. I gulped down the onigisu (shochu). That Yahagi was indeed a man with a criminal record for murder. I had come to that conclusion. Was he a bandit now?

“Hey there.” A voice identical to Abiru’s yet unnervingly feminine whispered by my ear. Before I realized it, a repulsive man had materialized beside me. “You’re mimicking Abiru.” I glared at his pallid face as I spoke. The shaven skin of his jaw shone an unnatural blue beneath the light. He arched into a coquettish posture, “Hmm? Who-o-o? Who’s copying who here?”

While saying this, he pressed his own leg against mine. "This guy's a queer," I thought, recoiling. “Beat it!” “A scary face…”

The man looked delighted,

“Marvelous. There was no error in my eyes’ judgment.”

“What the hell are you saying? Honyama (male love) isn’t my thing.” “That’s not what this is about.”

The man brought his face closer, “Hey, Big brother,”

“Cut it out!” “Oh? If you don’t like it, I’ll stop. But you’d better hear this, Big brother.” “What’s this about?” “An important matter… Something crucial for Big brother.”

The man brought his mouth close to my ear, “Big brother, you want to kill someone right now, don’t you?” He said the opposite of what Abiru would say. I jolted involuntarily. “That face of yours… It’s the face of someone who wants to kill…” “You sound like a broken record…” I grew furiously angry. I wanted to land a Joten—a blow to the head—on him. “Was I wrong?” There was an undeniable force to his words, “You saw right through me.”

My anger was reaching its peak, so I— "You're right. Isn't there someone..."

"A killable opponent—" I said. The narrow shop was filled with the loud voices of drunken customers, and our voices were drowned out. "Anyone will do?" The man stared at me and said. "Then kill me." "You?" "You can kill me. Won't you kill me?"

The ecstatic words might have carried a meaning different from murder, but—

“Interesting. This is gettin’ good.” I abruptly resolved to kill this queer. Having bludgeoned a dog to death, I now wanted to kill not some stray like that, but a human this time. “Alright, I’ll kill you.” A spiritual vertigo seized me at that moment.

“Hey, hey.”

This was Abiru’s voice, “Got curious and came by for a look,”

Before I knew it, Abiru was standing behind me. “Let’s meet here tomorrow night.” As I stood up from my seat after saying this, Abiru responded in a dismayed voice— “Where are you going with Death…?” As we stepped outside, the queer flagged down a rickshaw that approached immediately as if he’d arranged it in advance; though his body swayed with womanly undulations, he moved with brisk efficiency,

“Come on, let’s get in.” After saying that to me, he whispered the destination to the driver. Where the hell are we going—Asking felt infuriating, so I got into the rickshaw in silence. Abiru, that bastard, stood grimacing as he watched me leave. In the darkness of night, his expression seemed to pity me with striking clarity; but perhaps unexpectedly, that was merely him grimacing from the cold.

The wind was fierce. When we left Asakusa, dark towns stretched endlessly outside the rickshaw window. Take me wherever the hell you want. In a sullen slump, I plopped down and leaned back on the seat as if sprawling. The queer had his hand on the thigh. He pressed close as if nursing a sick patient—me. Looking up at the queer’s face from below, I sensed that his forced smile concealed something rather complex.

"You know about me, don't you?" First I said that to test him. I thought he'd panic, but— "Well, how should I put this..."

He brazenly spouted off like this. I was the one who ended up flustered instead, and with a heave-ho, I shifted my body up. At that moment, I caught a glimpse in the rickshaw’s rearview mirror of the driver’s fierce eyes directed at me. In other words, my gaze and the driver’s collided abruptly within the small mirror—it felt exactly as if sparks were flying—but by the time I sensed this, the driver’s eyes had already been averted. The instant I saw it, another intense spark shot toward my eyes from within that mirror—as if a gun muzzle had erupted with fire.

It wasn't that our gazes had met again. When I—momentarily blinded—finally opened my eyes and looked in the mirror, what reflected there were just the ordinary horizontal wrinkles on the driver's forehead. Why had this bastard fixed such a freakish stare on me? Was it simply because he thought me some kind of deviant for being with a man anyone could instantly recognize as queer? I said to the queer, loud enough for the driver to hear: "Wouldn't make a damn difference if I killed you." "Well—might as well catch some shut-eye."

"Well, I thought about telling you to go ahead and sleep, but—" "You can't. We're almost there..." Saying this, the queer shook my thigh.

In truth, it wasn't that imminent after all. The passage of time made me realize that second spark had been some intense outside light piercing into the rickshaw and glinting off the rearview mirror. It was nothing more than me overreacting to a trivial phenomenon. As I was despising myself for that, "I was quite beautiful when I was young too, you know." The queer suddenly said—as if scorning himself. The shaven stubble that had been bluish in the shochu shop now looked dark as if a beard had sprouted overnight.

“So you changed jobs, huh?” When I said offhandedly, “Do you know about me?” Immediately, I— “Well, how should I put this…” “It’s fine.” The queer pulled away,

“Even now, there's someone who cares for me...” “Someone I know?” “Someone real... who's truly loved me all along.” “Are you talking about Abiru?” “Abiru...?”

The rickshaw emerged at what seemed to be a riverside near the Sumida River. “Stop.” said the queer. The gray warehouse walls lining the shore stood coldly illuminated by bare light bulbs, devoid of any human presence. After alighting from the vehicle, we emerged through the warehouses to the waterfront. The dark canal teemed with boats moored side by side, huddling against the wind. There were even several sizable dharma boats among them. The queer led the way across the gangplank connecting shore to vessel. Swaying his hips in a dance-like manner that bordered on obscene, he skillfully navigated the precarious footing of the bending plank to cross onto the boat—then proceeded from that craft to another. Near one vessel’s stern cabin leaked the faint glow of a lamp.

“Where are you taking me?” For the first time, I spoke. This was certainly abnormal—that’s why.

“Slaughterhouse…” the queer said in a mocking tone.

“Is that so? Your room?” My voice must have sounded like bravado,

“Killing ground…” Though he walked pigeon-toed, his steps were swift, “A place where someone gets killed…” With a soft chuckle, the queer moved from boat to boat like the Hare of Inaba leaping over the lined-up backs of crocodile sharks, finally boarding a small fishing vessel.

“Hey there. Do me this favor, will you?”

Though feminine, it was a voice that carried an intimidating edge. A black mass heaved up from inside the boat. What had seemed a mere mass revealed itself as human; throwing off the blanket draped over his head, he stayed silent but made his eyes gleam (they reminded me of that cat from before), then gripped the oar and hoisted it effortlessly. Suddenly, a baby's wail pierced the air from somewhere. The fiery cry—doubly startling for its incongruity in such a place—made me jump, though it turned out just some boatman's brat from a nearby dharma vessel. Even had that realization warranted reflection, I found myself far beyond such sentimental capacity.

With a shrill creaking of the oar accompanying us through ink-black waters, Nefu (boat) moved onward. There exists a phrase about moving with stealthy footsteps, but here it was precisely moving with stealthy oar sounds as the boat departed. In this situation, I was just like a character from the detective novels by Kuroiwa Ruikou that I read as a child. I looked exactly like a pitiful victim being kidnapped by villains. But this thought wasn’t born solely from fear. The reason detective novels for boys came to mind was that I could sense an absurdity there akin to a child’s trick.

“What the hell are you?” I said to the queer hunched over in a crouch. I was about to tell him to quit the cheap intimidation act when— “Getting scared?” “You saying it’s too late even if I wanna run?” “Nice backbone. How delightful.”

"Brr, it's cold," the queer said as he adjusted his suit collar like a kimono, holding the base of it with his left hand while freeing up his right. He flicked his nose tip with his index finger—the gesture meant hanafuda gambling. "Hana...?" I said. Was he suggesting we'd play Hana once we reached wherever this boat was headed?

“I bring in customers…” “So you’re a bottom, huh?” “I want to be taken…” “Did you take me for a mark? I don’t have any money.” “I don’t have any money.” “The mark’s over there, waiting with his neck on the line.” “Unfortunately, while I’m sharp with bluffs, my nose isn’t so tough.” “If only your bluffs were strong enough…” “Even so, things have taken quite a different turn.” “Not really, you know.”

The boat rocked violently, and the smell of the shore reached us. We seemed to emerge into Tokyo Bay.

The black water's surface glowed bluish-white, as if oil or something had been spilled there.

Things had taken a strange turn. Well, I'd go as far as I could go.

The destination was a boat about the size of one of those small steamers that ply the Sumida River.

“Are we moving into this one?” “Yes.” Not out at sea, the boat lay moored in the shadow where evergreen branches hung thickly from a stone wall above, hiding itself like some furtive creature. The wind grew strangely fierce, the waves rose higher, and the boat rocked as if rejecting me. A faint light leaked from the tightly sealed cabin door; people seemed to be inside yet it stood utterly silent.

“Hey now, hey now.”

The queer grabbed my upper arm. I, having planted my foot on the gunwale of the higher boat, was nearly blown away by the wind. "Oh, this is a problem," he said. "I’ve gone and fallen for you. What am I to do?" Shaking off that hand, I transferred to the boat. If I hesitated even a moment, the two boats I’d straddled with a foot each would start moving apart through the force of my legs, and I was about to fall into the water. A violent shudder ran through me. When I told myself it was because of the cold, a human moan came from inside the Ukabi boat. It was a good thing I had shuddered beforehand—it was that kind of eerie moan.—

Part Eight: Bewilderment at Life

――To Namiko, who had answered the phone, I― “Nami-chan.” “Nami-chan.” “Shiro?” “Nami-chan.” “Nami-chan.” In that voice of mine―trying to pull Namiko closer though she stood far away―I’d poured every ounce of love I could muster. Yet she must have sensed something wrong after all.

“What’s wrong? Shiro?” “Nami-chan.” “Yeees?” “Namiko…” “Yeees?” “I want to see Namiko.” Once we met, I would flee to Manchuria. I’d go with Maruman and become one of those bandits we’d discussed before. I wanted to see Namiko just once before leaving. “Something happened, didn’t it, Shiro?”

“I’ll meet you and talk. Can you come?” I was calling from a public phone near Namiko’s shop. Having neglected her for so long, I had no confidence whatsoever about what kind of response I might get from her. “I’ll be right there.” When Namiko said this, I leapt for joy. Yet even in her voice, I couldn’t help sensing something amiss within myself.

But when we met, Namiko— “I’ve been allowed to work out front at the shop now.” she said happily, (That’s why my hands aren’t rough anymore, see?) she held out her hands as if to show them off. I took both of them. Namiko’s hands were warm on one side and cold on the other.

“That’s good.” Namiko was not in her everyday clothes but wore a formal kimono properly. Perhaps because of this, over these past months she had come to appear thoroughly refined. As I noted how her figure too had grown womanly— “But then we won’t be able to take our time.” “It’s fine,” Namiko said, adding— “I might’ve asked the landlady to let me have today off.” Overcome with joy—

“Why?”

I inadvertently blurted that out and bit my lip, thinking it was a mistake. "But..." Namiko stared at me with what could be taken as a reproachful look, "A strange person came to my place today. About you..." "The cops—those police bastards?" "That's not it," Namiko said, "Are you being chased by the cops again? You wouldn't come unless it's something like this..."

“Come to think of it, last time too—when I was about to get caught—Nami-chan helped me out.” My way of speaking had become self-serving, as if practically begging her for help again. When I tried to backtrack, “Do you want to run off somewhere again?” “But I won’t help anymore.” She suddenly declared with finality. Caught unprepared after my presumptuousness—though I hadn’t even come to ask for help—I felt bitter resentment at her blunt refusal. But I neither spoke those words aloud nor could have.

"I asked you to go straight, but you never listen to me," Namiko said in a low voice. "Sorry." Before Namiko, I turned timid as if becoming a different person. "You mean to keep me walking these freezing streets forever?" This Namiko—perhaps growing bolder facing me—spat out words like hurling stones, then tugged at her shawl and buried her face in it. "Shall we go to your boarding house?"

“The boarding house won’t work.” The whiteness of Namiko’s small tabi socks stung my eyes. “Are you still at your old boarding house?” “Yeah.”

The reason I said it was no good wasn't because of that. I still hadn't returned to the boarding house since last night. I hesitated to go back.

“Let’s go somewhere.” Battered by the cold wind, Namiko’s lips—strangely vivid, appearing almost feverish to the touch—drew my gaze with such intensity I wanted to sink my teeth into them. “Where should we go?” Why not take her to a love hotel—the thought surged through me with violent urgency, but— “Who came to your place, Nami-chan?” “That person said they’d hide you, Shiro...” Her words came abruptly, devoid of context—and precisely because of that, they pierced straight to my core.

“None of your business. I—” “I…” Catch a cold and board the bita (journey/flee). Make a break for Manchuria. Kept that to myself, “I’ll handle my own affairs myself.” “Alone…” “Alone? Where to?” “I came to say goodbye to you, Nami-chan.”

“Oh，come on.” “Like some cheap yakuza flick…” Namiko mocked my earnest words as if I’d cracked a joke，

“Maybe I should come along too. Can’t become proper without me around, can you?” There was no becoming “proper” like Namiko kept saying now. When I made a bitter face, “Let’s go to a place I know and eat.” “Yeah.” “Somewhere quiet would be best.” “Yeah. Let’s go.” I answered casually, never imagining this “place she knew” would be a love hotel in Omori.

Unlike the cheap hotels in the city, this place differed from the start with its imposing sukiya-style gate. Though nominally a kaiseki ryokan, it was unmistakably a love hotel. When Namiko boldly had the car pull up there—"Huh?"—I was startled. When she pressed the bell with practiced hands, the middle-aged maid wore a professional mask of expressionlessness that concealed her swift observations. "Welcome." Even Namiko's footsteps as she followed the stepping stones appeared to my eyes as those of someone well-acquainted with such places. To the love hotel I had hesitated to suggest myself, Namiko had brought me in. We were led to a detached cottage facing the sea,

“I’ll have beer.” “The meal… a little later…”

Namiko smoothly instructed the maid. In her composed demeanor—so unlike the young girl who used to snip edamame with crisp, lively motions of scissors—I felt Tokyo's terrifying power vividly demonstrating itself through this complete transformation wrought in mere days. Even acknowledging that Namiko, who had boldly hidden my pistol at the Keijō inn, had always possessed such fearlessness couldn't free me from this hollow, creeping dread.

Having been completely overwhelmed, I kept silent throughout, but when the maid withdrew, "You know a place like this, Nami-chan?" That my voice came out sounding resentful only made me resent myself all the more.

“I came with a customer.” While loosening the clasps of her tabi socks, Namiko stated this matter-of-factly. With a 'customer'...? I caught my breath. Was she brought here by a customer, or did she bring one along? I flared up. The fact that Namiko kept her composure only made me flare up even more. “The truth is, Nami-chan. I killed someone.” “I killed someone.” By talking about what had happened the previous night, I wanted to hurt Namiko.

That eerie moaning sound had come from the ship’s cabin. The okama had also heard it, but "Oh my, what’s going on here?" As if going to see something interesting, they proceeded toward the ship’s cabin and opened its door. “Roku!” From inside came such a call,

“Tonight won’t work.”

From behind the okama called Roku, when I peered inside, I saw a man lying on the floor strewn with hanafuda cards, his hands tied behind his back. A muzzle-like gag had also been tightly fitted. “Oh my, that’s intense.” To the okama who had cried out, the man who stood in the room with a fearsome face said, “This one pulled some fraud and put up a fight.” Then another man roared that they should hurl this bastard into the sea. Ignoring me, the customer,

“Before we hurl him in, if we don’t finish ’im off and he somehow survives, it’ll be a damn pain later.”

The okama turned back to me,

“Instead of killing me, if you do that man…”

Grinning, he egged me on, “Show me your best move.” “What the hell are you saying? I don’t wanna.” The bound man was squirming like a caterpillar. “What were you muttering about?” The man in the room glared at the okama,

“Roku, now that it’s come to this, you help out too.” “Yes.” The okama shot me a glance that seemed meaningful. I snorted and turned away, “Making him struggle like that just to kill him…” “What? You’re talkin’ pretty big there.” The man who’d caught my muttered remark,

“Well then, shall I get the rope? If I do, will you be the one to do it?” “I never said I’d do it.” “Look at that. You don’t even have the guts for it.” “Shut the hell up. I came here to kill this okama.” The man on the floor turned his bloodshot eyes toward me, pleadingly. From deep within the muzzle-like gag, he let out a guttural moan that defied words, pleading with me to save him. That had a strange effect on me. “Take that!” I kicked the man on the floor with my shoe. Instead of feeling pity for this wretched man, I wanted to twist and crush this maggot-like bastard. A violent, purposeless murderous intent blazed up inside me.

With a putt-putt-putt from the engine, the boat pulled away from the shore. I had started telling this story wanting to torment Namiko, but halfway through began feeling like a complete brain-addled (idiot) fool. The previous night, I'd been out of my mind. Why hadn't I gone to see Namiko before doing such an idiotic thing?

“Couldn’t it have been one of those men who came to my place?” said Namiko. “That’s impossible—they couldn’t possibly know Nami-chan.” Just then, the maid brought beer, and the conversation was interrupted. When they were alone again,

"Nami-chan, what did you come here with a customer to do?"

“Mahjong.” “Just that?” A leaden sea showed through the window. “I like you, Nami-chan.” “Shiro... did you really kill someone?” Namiko poured beer into my glass. The refill made it overflow. “Why would I fall for someone like this too?” With a heavy clunk, she set down the beer bottle. Without a word, Namiko stood up, took fresh clothes from the messy basket in the tatami room’s corner, and went alone to the bath.

Damn it! I'd really gotten used to this—I guzzled down the beer. From the bathroom came the sound of Namiko pouring water over her body, unbearably stimulating to hear. That sound—usually drowned out by waves—now reverberated loudly in my ears. Then silence fell as she likely submerged herself in the tub. I sighed. Overcome with restlessness, I stood and stripped off my Western clothes to change into a yukata. Making excuses to myself about standing up anyway, I slid open the small room's paper door—there lay a provocatively spread futon. Though I'd never lacked prowess with prostitutes, I'd turned into some greenhorn boy. Like a caged beast, I lumbered heavily about the tatami room.

“What’re you doing?”

Namiko emerged from the bathroom with an exasperated look, "You're such a weirdo." She then turned toward the vanity, "I thought you'd come join me in the bath afterward..." "Were you disappointed I didn't?" Namiko had stretched her leg sideways from her hip in a pose resembling a mollusk extending its foot. Though it looked more endearing than improper, "You've become thoroughly corrupted."

"Why?" "The fact you'd say that proves how far you've fallen." From behind Namiko as she fastened her padded robe, I didn't embrace her—I attacked. "How violent." "Damn right I am." I couldn't figure out how to handle an amateur girl. "I'd cherished you till now, but I'm done. Did you come here with shop customers? Take baths together?" "Don't be absurd."

Denying in a mature tone, “It hurts. Don’t put so much strength into your hands… No—no—” The scent of her freshly bathed skin enveloped my face. I suddenly knocked Namiko sideways and thrust my hand between her knees.

"No, don't..." Suddenly shifting to a childish tone, "Stop teasing me like that."

“Mean things?” Telling her not to say such strange things, I pinned down the struggling Namiko, “Are you wearing something like this?” I too got into a mischievous mood and pinched her bloomers, “A regular fortress.” “I don’t know.” Namiko pushed me away, “Please... be gentler...” “It’s because you resist.” “Then I won’t resist.” Namiko said with an oddly sorrowful expression, “Let’s run away somewhere together. I could ask someone who came to my place, don’t you think? I think it was someone called Mr. Yahagi or something.”

“Yahagi…?”

“Yahagi…?” I said loudly. How had Yahagi found out about her? “Kiss me.” Namiko closed her eyes and whispered. Her body quivered faintly. “Even though I’ve come here with customers to play mahjong, I’ve absolutely never… done something like this before.” “With a man like this…” Namiko was a kochijiro—a virgin. I, who had only known birinao—prostitutes—came to know a virgin for the first time. What this brought me wasn’t joy but bewilderment. I’d assumed Namiko had already been with men—so why this turmoil when she hadn’t? My bewilderment wasn’t that kind. That’s not what would leave me unmoored.

Toshibarashi (murder) hadn't bewildered me like this either. The very thing that now bewildered me like this—I had in fact secretly sought it out myself. And now that had been given to me. This bewilderment tells me that. This bewilderment made me realize such things. However, objectively speaking, it was simply that the utterly trivial fact of Namiko being a kochijiro (virgin)—and thus unworthy of joy?—an entirely commonplace matter to others—and thus abnormal for someone like me?—something hardly rare, had completely bewildered me. Was I subjectively inflating this so-called trivial bewilderment, receiving it as though it were precisely the bewilderment I had been seeking? But this, which seemed like trivial bewilderment, was giving me what despair would give me. In other words, that bewilderment was inflicting intense pain upon my heart.

While inflicting this bewilderment upon me, Namiko said she wanted to escape somewhere with me. She said she'd go anywhere. This determination didn't stem from her having surrendered her body to me—in reality, it was quite the opposite. Even before causing me bewilderment, Namiko had been saying that. But for me, precisely because she was that kind of Namiko, I didn't want to drag my beloved Namiko into my deranged fate. Yet I also felt a powerful urge not to let go of her as things stood. What should I do? This confusion too seemed to generate bewilderment, but in truth, like Namiko's earlier resolve, the bewilderment had existed first—this confusion existed for the sake of that bewilderment.

She would go to the shop, gather her belongings, and come out. After parting with Namiko who had said that, I went to meet Abiru. Had I remembered my promise with Abiru? It was bewilderment that drove me to Abiru. What did I intend to do by meeting him? That I myself didn't understand at all. This too might stand as evidence of how bewildered I was. I had promised to meet him at the shochu shop, but when I first went to check Hyoutan Pond, Abiru stood there as usual holding a candle. The beggar-like figure of Abiru the Rokuma—what people called a street fortune-teller—appeared to me through my own agitated mind as something filled with mystery and dignity. It differed utterly from his clownish impression in the detention center.

Before I could approach, a kisuzure (drunkard) stood before Abiru with a gait that seemed half in jest. He used the candlelight to examine the customer’s palm and physiognomy, then solemnly imparted some revelation—all of which I observed from the shadows. The shop clerk from the downtown area and what appeared to be a customer gradually showed increasingly solemn expressions across their entire demeanor, telling of how they were being drawn into this “prophet’s” words. Before long, Abiru received the money that this customer respectfully offered while keeping his head held high.

When Abiru saw me—what was this now?—he too appeared flustered and hurriedly blew out the candlelight. He moved with a panic as if struck by the same bewilderment that had seized me, yet with that very same agitation—which left me somewhat disappointed—he led me to a shadowed bench beneath the wisteria trellis. I wondered if his fluster stemmed from being seen at his so-called “business,” but that didn’t seem to be the case.

In summer this place would be a den for vagrants, but in winter there were no people around—yet it reeked terribly of urine. Instead of vagrants, their dogs wandered about, sniffing around the area. "I want you to tell my fortune."

Abiru brushed off my words and,

“Do you feel pity when you see a dog like this? Or… do you want to kill it?” So that’s how you tell fortunes? I asked, “Which one are you?” “To be killed is fate. To live while starving is fate…”

Abiru said. That voice no longer held any trace of panic; if anything, it even carried a certain dignity. "To kill is also fate...?"

Cutting me off as I said this,

“You did it, huh!” “Better than being killed, I suppose.” Fate did not permit me to commit murder with purpose and made me commit meaningless murder. Though he was a swindler, there was no doubt he had killed people.

“That dog always looks at my face, but tonight it’s looking at you.”

Abiru said angrily. The dog tilted its head slightly, as if interested in our conversation. "Is it because I'm haunted by a dog?" "You are strangely loved by everyone." "Even though you're a person unworthy of being loved."

“You’re the one who decided that... and now you’re killing.” “Kill someone...?” “Love…” That voice was filled with mystery. “So, yourself…”

Against the pillar of the wisteria trellis, the dog lifted one leg. When I looked expecting it to urinate, no urine came out. Casting a look as if ashamed of it, the dog slunk away. "You're not a madman—you're one hell of an egghead." When I said this, Abiru, "Calling me an egghead—that's no compliment at all." "Eggheads are of no use in this day and age..." That's exactly the kind of thing an egghead would say.

“For an egghead, you go on about a dog haunting me or whatever...”

“That was a bluff.” He said embarrassedly, like a dog that couldn’t piss. “Well, you might really have a dog haunting you. I killed a dog. You’ve seen through that. You’ve also seen through what comes after the dog.” “That was my bluff.”

Now that he wasn’t bluffing, it was all the more eerie. No—never had Abiru appeared more resolute than at this moment. Abiru was radiant with mystery and dignity. Panic assailed me anew with fresh intensity. The panic accompanied by considerable intense pain—that pain had grown stronger than before. This panic—now intensified, accompanied by what could truly be called pain—vividly announced to me that I, who had until this moment felt a dead person within myself, was at last trying to crawl out toward life. The dead me was trying to come alive. That was what brought me panic, and indeed, the panic I felt upon learning of Kochijiro’s Namiko had been precisely that kind of panic. And that panic once again made me realize I was trying to live. While dimly sensing it myself, panic had unmistakably cast its light—gradually yet clearly—upon that awareness still sunk in twilight.

I was trying to live. The act of trying to live was summoning pain along with panic. Hope was pain to me. It was a pain akin to despair. It might have been even more painful than despair.

I was trying to live. I wanted to live. It gave me something akin to what despair would bring. Was it because hoping to live meant despair itself?

“So, what’re you gonna do?” Abiru said. “What should I do…” I said. “What’re you supposed to do…” Abiru said the kind of thing I wanted to say, and— “Guess there’s nothin’ to be done…” “That’s not true.”

I said emphatically.

“So, what’re you gonna do?” “I want to do something.”

“But you don’t know what to do?” “I know that.” “Wanna skip town?” “Yeah. Let’s skip town.” “Might as well make a clean break—TENGAERU (escape) far away.”

Abiru put his hand into his pocket,

“I knew you’d come, so I wrote this sasa (letter) in advance. This isn’t a bluff. You might take this as a bluff, but I’ve prepared a letter of introduction.”

From his pocket, he produced a white, pristine envelope. It was just a Hitsujiroppuku (envelope), but contrasted with his shabby appearance, it looked unnervingly impressive. “Take this and flee to Hokkaido.” “Hokkaido?”

"A letter of introduction to a labor camp?" When I said this, Abiru’s tone turned harsh,

“Go to my brother’s house in Nemuro.” “If you show this letter, my brother will definitely take care of you.” “Is your brother yakuza?”

“He’s just a civilian fisherman, but having my brother look after you would be nothing.” “Will he shelter me?” “No need to worry.”

“Is it really okay for a complete stranger like me to show up out of nowhere?”

“I’ll send a binpi (telegram) too.” The whole thing sounded so fishy I wanted to spit on my eyebrows in disbelief, so I adopted a joking tone: “Can I take a naon (woman) with me?” “Sounds good to me.” Abiru’s voice turned playful too. “Do I really want to go with a woman?”

“That’s better—better that way than going it alone.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?” Even as I spoke, I had to confront the fact that my struggle to live was precisely that—a struggle against death closing in from without. I wanted to escape from the death closing in. Since that was indeed the fact, was my perception of it as an escape from my dead self an illusion? The flight from the approaching death was, for me, also a flight from the death within myself. If it weren’t for escaping from my dead self, I wouldn’t have tried to escape from the death closing in.

Because Abiru's proposed escape to Hokkaido meant an escape from my own self, I gladly accepted the envelope. "Why are you being so kind to someone like me—no ties, no connection?" "Mr. Kashiwai."

Abiru said my name— "I was once an anarchist too." "A country anarchist, but one who'd been completely devoted to Stirner." "That's why I know about you." "I don't know who you are now, but I've long respected the courage and passion you showed during your terrorist days." "At least... I want to do this much for you..." I was overcome with violent shame. It felt like being subjected to undeserved humiliation. To receive such undue kindness was indeed a shameful, humiliating thing.

Abiru said in a voice that saw through this, "For my part, I want to ask you this:" "Why did you specifically choose me?" "If you're going to ask why I'm being kind to you, then I want to ask why you came here having put your faith in me." "That makes me happy, and I'm grateful for that." "The fact that we met at that Karimushi is a strange twist of fate."

I nodded silently. Regarding Abiru's kindness, I felt a momentary sense that something was fishy, but I didn't harbor any deep suspicion that I might be tricked again like last night. I couldn't harbor it. "That was for the best, and that was fine," I told myself as I hung my head. "At that time, the reason Ryuko mentioned on the radio dragged on so long was because my past from when I used to raise hell came to light."

“You seem to know not just my past, but my present too...” “In your current state—with no outlet for your passion—you kill dogs, cats…” “Hikobee—I didn’t kill him.” “No—or did I?” “No-o, I didn’t kill him... but it feels like I did.” “But the dog—I bludgeoned that.” “After that mess (bludgeoning a dog), you’d join murderers…?” “Don’t do that.”

“You’re supposed to be a nihilist…” “No—I can’t fully become one. I do things like this to deceive myself. “I’m just faking it. “It’s half-hearted concealment.” “Half-hearted?” My spiritual vertigo too had been not a staggering toward death, but a struggle toward life. A half-hearted struggle—when I sensed this meaning in Abiru’s words, “You should cut ties with those right-wing murderers. “I want you to cut them off.”

For some reason, Abiru said with embarrassment. The movie theaters in Rokku had let out, and people were streaming out. The black shadows of people satisfied by the screen’s tragedy moved like a rotating lantern against the bright lights—a world apart from us— “Business, business.” Abiru said in a voice meant to steel himself, “I may be like this, but my brother—you’ll understand once you meet him—unlike me, he’s a proper member of society.” “He’ll take you in without fail.” “Believe what I say.” “You should go to Nemuro for a while and live among ordinary people, Mr. Kashiwai.”

Abiru, having convinced me, then seemed to drain of strength—or rather, as if through giving me hope he himself had transformed into some sort of hollow shell—and slumped his shoulders heavily. "I've been thinking I should run away from this version of myself." "But what kind of self I could even escape to..."

I should have remembered these last words. Had I done so, several years later, when I encountered an unexpected Abiru in an unexpected place—the shock, or rather astonishment, and the resulting spiritual vertigo—I surely could have escaped from them… but…

“The death god’s come.”

When I followed Abiru’s gaze, there stood the loathsome figure of Okama Roku. He was beckoning me with an evening newspaper in hand. "That man tonight seems a bit off, Mr. Kashiwai. Don’t engage with him—go quickly."

“Thank you.”

For the first time, I expressed gratitude. The words left my mouth with genuine sincerity. I thought I'd dissolved into the bustling crowd, but Okama Roku doggedly trailed after me. "Wait, wait—" he clung to me. I couldn't help but marvel at his tracking skill. Simultaneously, I'd already begun sensing some connection between Roku's appearance last night and this proficiency.

"Mr.Kashiwai." "Forgive me! I was wrong."

“Shut up, will you? Yeah, quit tailing me.” “That’s how it is. Last night was my fault.” “If you think you were wrong, then get lost over there.” “No, I must confess everything to you…” Roku’s confession—prefaced by his claim that he’d come to like me—went like this: “Someone asked me to—last night I followed you again and approached you at that shochu shop like it was a chance meeting. And I’m sorry for taking you to such a place. Still, I never thought you’d actually take matters into your own hands and do such a thing. But you were magnificent back then. So magnificent it got me all worked up. It’s embarrassing, but I… I ejaculated. Oh, I’m getting sidetracked. The real swindler isn’t that person—it’s the one who crushed them. Surprised? But even if you hadn’t acted, those bastards would’ve done the same right in front of you. With you there, it would’ve ended the same regardless. That’s why I was told to bring you there. Why, you ask?”

“Maybe they wanted to recruit you?” “That’s beyond my knowledge.” “I was simply told to guide you to the boat.” “Wondering if it’s in this evening paper?” “I bought it curious too, but those people wouldn’t make such clumsy mistakes.” “But now that things have come to this, wouldn’t you be safer joining them?” “Don’t want to?” “It’d be completely safe if we stayed together.” “No, that’s not why I approached you.” “I only came to unburden myself by confessing everything.” “I wanted to lay bare my heart to you—”

“A confession? What kind of ridiculous made-up story... I ain’t falling for that trick,” I said. Though I sensed it wasn’t entirely fabricated, I deliberately rebuffed him—the undeniable fact remained that I’d wrapped a rope around that struggling man’s neck and strangled him like an insect. I strangled him with a rope. It wasn’t my hands that did the strangling. Yet why did it feel as though I’d used my bare hands? Had that sensation transmitted from the rope to my palms? The memory of the man’s neck now revived sickeningly in my touch. Yet what lingered more unsettlingly was the barnacle-crusted piling I’d glimpsed while boarding the boat—its hard, scabrous surface as it had merely appeared to my eyes haunted me more than any tactile recollection.

“A made-up story? My made-up story…?” Okama Roku stared blankly, then after a pause uttered something bizarre. “I’m no good. “Just no good at this. “My lies get sniffed out straight away, don’t they?” His voice carried none of its usual gloom as he declared this brightly,

“With things like this, it’s no wonder I can’t hold down a stage role anymore, but even I was once an onnagata who made some name for myself at the Miyato-za.”

“So that Mr. Yahagi was your patron, huh? Tell your patron this: If they wanted to drag me into their fold, they should’ve used more refined methods. You—quit skulking about and shadowing me. Keep it up, and your life’s forfeit too. Got that, you ham actor (third-rate thespian)?”

I decided to flee to Hokkaido. At any rate, I settled on a place to flee to. That’s how it should be.

It was unclear what effect Abiru’s letter would have, but having a destination to flee to was enough for me. “Will you come with me?”

I said to Namiko. “I’ll go.”

Namiko declared flatly. "I'm not nursing some grudge, but since it worked last time too, if I'm with you, we'll definitely slip away clean." "So you'll take me along?" It wasn't a protesting tone. In a voice that didn't match my true feelings either, "If we go... we'll have to become husband and wife." "We're already married." "I see." "Do you hate the idea?" "What the hell are you saying?" "You know... I'm burakumin."

“Even so… will you still marry me?” he asked. “Are you saying burakumin aren’t human beings?” “Shiro-san. Thank you.” “Namiko, your zodiac sign… what year is it?” “The Year of the Dog… why do you ask?”

When fleeing to Hokkaido became inevitable,I couldn't leave without meeting Maruman. I went to meet Maruman,the man I couldn't face. I went through with a bekatsuke—an apology ritual.

It was a suibare (rainy) day. It was a day when Maruman couldn’t go out for business.

In a small rundown house in Asakusa's Matsuba-cho, Maruman rented a room on the second floor. This entire area housed Maruman's colleagues—or rather, proper vendors unlike a washed-up anarchist like him, who maintained permanent stalls in Rokku. Though small, each stood as an independent dwelling. To visit Maruman in his rented room, one had to go around to the back of the rundown house and enter through the kitchen. The second-floor tenant's entrance was effectively the household kitchen. This wasn't because Maruman—with his suspicious bundles—avoided using the front door, but rather because the stairs to the upper floor had been inexplicably built within that kitchen. Had they designed the okaruba from the start to be rentable?

When I opened the creaky kitchen door, there sat an old pair of women's geta with red straps and what appeared to be Maruman's stubby, worn-down geta. Maruman was still single, so the women’s geta belonged to the landlady of this house. As I was taking off my shoes, I saw a tightly rolled clump of woman’s hair discarded in the corner of the packed-earth floor. When I first met Clara, something like this had been floating in the Chinese soba bowl. Had I still not forgotten about Clara? To me, filled with bitterness,

“That brothel—Clara, was it? That woman’s father is looking for you, Shiro-san.” Maruman said. I had thought Maruman would show me a sullen face, but he didn’t. Instead, I was the one grimacing, “Did he come all the way to your place for a gassari search, Maru-san?” “So you met the old man.”

“Huh?” I had thought he meant something from before our meeting. “Speaking of brothels—that house had Tomie, y'know, the matron? “She runs an oden stall in Ikebukuro now. “Cheap setup, but for a brothel veteran—damn impressive. “That trade ages you quick—she’s all menchiri (wrinkled up)... Not that I’d remember anyway. Went drinking there once—started saying how she finally washed her hands of the red-light life... Damn impressive how blunt she was.”

He said with a deliberate air of changing the subject, "Mari-chan's made something of herself—they say she's become a pillow geisha at some hot spring resort." "And I heard Emiko died of syphilis." "The hell would I know?" "Tomie still remembers you—'Shiro-san,' she said—was wonderin' what became of ya." "More importantly, what about Clara?" "No clue about her, the main one." "That much even Tomie don't know."

“Why’s Clara’s old man lookin’ for me?” “Tryin’ to drag me off to Manchuria or somethin’?” “Mr. Sunauma’s huntin’ you too.” “Clara’s pops and Mr. Sunauma—seems they’re butting heads over somethin’, eh?” “Both gunnin’ for you, Shiro-san.” “Hell of a prize you are.” “You too, Shiro-san...”

How did Maruman know these things?

“Another person targeting me—don’t tell me there isn’t one?” “You mean Yahagi?” Maruman said bluntly, “He’s a bit intimidating, isn’t he?” “Scary?” “Now that you mention it, they even came to Namiko’s place.” “A shady—no—a bad feeling.” “Namiko...?”

“Why do they know about me?” “Once those guys fix their eyes on someone, they dig up everythin’.” He patted his legs—legs that looked even shorter when he sat cross-legged—and said, “Tamatsuka Hidenobu turned into a novelist.” He shifted topics again,

“He switched from anarchist to Bolshevik, then novelist... I suppose that’s what they mean by conversion writer.” “Sunauma Kouichi went from pure anarchist to racketeer, and now he’s a China rōnin…” “It seems Mr. Sunauma’s thinking up something big,” he said protectively. “Maybe going over there and seeing those bastards exploiting China was a mistake.” “Maru-san and I promised we’d become bandits if things fell apart, but…”

I lowered my head and put on my cap. "I never thought that insurrection plan would fizzle out just like that." "I had a feeling that thing wouldn’t pan out. The plan was too good to be true…" Maruman added charcoal to the small ceramic hibachi that looked almost cute while, "So you’re giving up on going to Manchuria? The animals from Northern Manchuria in Kropotkin’s Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution—I really thought I’d get to see them… Animals surviving by helping each other in Northern Manchuria’s harsh natural environment…"

“We’re just like them. Kropotkin... now there’s a name that takes me back.”

“Nostalgic?” Had I strayed so far from anarchism? Had I abandoned it altogether? At Maruman’s probing words— “Not Northern Manchuria... but I’m heading to the northern edge.” “Where exactly?” “I put someone to sleep.” I resolved to confess everything to Maruman alone. Yet despite my solemn tone, he dismissed it with a shrug— “Figured as much. Heard it from Mr. Sunauma.”

“Did Mr. Sunauma hear it from Yahagi?” “What kind of guy is that Yahagi anyway?” “You don’t know?” Maruman said pityingly and told this story: A few years back there’d been a strange death involving a Japanese consul-general. The Consul-General to China—they called it Shina back then—had returned to Tokyo for talks with the Foreign Ministry. On the eve of his scheduled return to China after concluding negotiations, he’d “committed suicide” in a hotel room. The pistol bullet had entered through his left temple and exited the right. The gun lay by the pillow, but it wasn’t the consul-general’s own weapon. Though clearly murder rather than “suicide,” the case got buried—what they call a cold case.

“It seems the culprit was Yahagi.” “No—it’s been established as Yahagi.” “That consul-general had come to propose the abolition of Japan’s extraterritorial rights.” “Apparently he took him out in a rage over that.” “They made a bloody example of that consul-general to warn those advocating weak diplomacy toward China.” “So then, how come they never busted him... Not only that, but that Yahagi’s swanning about bold as brass...” “Seems like he’s been involved in even more serious bad business—all sorts of crimes—behind the scenes.” “Wouldn’t it be safer for you to join that group, Mr. Shiro?”

“What a nightmare.” “Maru-san, you seem awfully close with Mr. Sunauma—but can you really preserve anarchism that way?” “You think you can talk to me like that?”

The rain fell in a dismal drizzle. We listened gloomily to its patter. Suddenly Maruman assumed an embarrassed look. "I think I'll start settling down myself." "Sounds like a woman's line." "I've been considering taking a wife too..."

Exposing black gums, Maruman laughed.

Chapter Three

Part One: Northernmost Reaches The town of Nemuro is situated on hilly land facing the sea. That sea was the Sea of Okhotsk.

After continuing our long, long Nagabako train journey, when Namiko and I arrived at Nemuro terminal station, the town lay buried under deep snow. From Hakone station atop the hill, looking down revealed a view entirely blanketed by snow and ice - impossible to tell where land ended and sea began. Here the sea had frozen like a freshwater lake, appearing transformed into a vast ice field stretching all the way to the Kuril Islands.

Cast out into a vast world of ice and snow, I found myself muttering involuntarily: I'd ended up in one hell of a place. For Namiko, who had grown up in southern climes, the desolation of this northernmost reach must have struck her heart with particular severity. Yet Namiko, with a scarf pulled completely over her head, diligently carried the heavy trunk in both hands and uttered no complaints. The figure whose face peeked out from the scarf was unmistakably that Katyusha. Unlike in Tolstoy's novel, this Japanese Katyusha had followed me to my place of exile.

Abiru’s brother’s house stood at what could be called the liminal space between land and sea. He bore the exceedingly auspicious surname Hyakunari—Abiru had described this younger brother to me merely as a fisherman, but he was in fact a proper fishing magnate. The large house, truly befitting the Hyakunari name (though inherited from his parents), was being shown to me by its young master, who carried himself with all the dignity his station demanded,

“Mr. Nonaka?” That was my surname here. “I received a letter from my brother.” It seemed he’d deliberately sent a letter rather than a telegram, but I had no idea how Abiru had described me in it. Whether this younger brother’s reticence came from his nature or from regarding me with suspicion—that too remained unclear. He was Hyakunari Shinjiro, while his elder brother Abiru was named Seiichiro. The grime-blackened Abiru having the pristine given name Seiichiro struck me as darkly comical.

A woman in neat attire entered silently, glared suspiciously at Namiko, and added coal to the stove. “This is my brother’s friend, Mr. Nonaka.”

Shinjiro introduced me that way and told me that woman was his wife. And then,

“Well then…”

he stood up. Behind the house was Shinjiro’s cannery. Though it was called a factory, it was a small-scale operation that shut down during winters when there was no fishing. In one corner of that factory was a dormitory for migrant factory girls, and for the time being we were assigned one of its rooms. The factory girls nicknamed “migratory birds” had returned to their hometowns during snowy season and were not there now. Namiko promptly began cleaning— “That wife is such a beautiful person.”

“Yeah.” “But she seems kind of scary, doesn’t she?” “Yeah.” “She looks older than her husband.” “Yeah.” “No matter what I say, you just keep grunting ‘yeah’... How annoying.” “Yeah.” “Oh—there’s a temari ball here…” In the closet, Namiko found a temari ball likely left behind by one of the factory girls. Made from beautiful multicolored fabric scraps now faded and lightly soiled, it spoke of its owner’s long-cherished attachment.

“The clasps are properly inserted.” When old tabi fasteners were mixed into the azuki beans, they gave a pleasant texture when bounced and produced a soothing clinking sound. Nostalgic for that sound, Namiko bounced the temari ball by her ear before finally tossing it high— Mount Saijō veiled in deepest fog Chikuma’s river roars with stormy waves Distant echoes carry faintly— Does Sakamaku Mizuka breed true warriors? That was the voice of a tender girl. Namiko’s voice seeped through my chest.

In the rising morning sun, the standard-bearers The charioteers' war cries

I later learned that here they called this temari ball "Ayako" and juggling temari balls "Ayatsuki."

“Why would they leave this temari ball behind? They wouldn’t just forget something like this.” “Yeah.”

“I wonder if she died.” “The owner?” I said. Had her fellow factory girls abandoned it here because they found it ill-omened? “Don’t touch that thing.”

"Because it's filthy, you should throw it away," I said. "It's too precious to waste." Namiko cradled it in her hands, "It's cold," she said for the first time.

When March came, the cannery girls arrived en masse already. They were daughters of poor farmers from Tohoku. Though the ground still lay under unmelted snow, crab fishing had started. We moved from the factory girls' quarters to separate housing. To call it housing gave it airs—they were shacks. I came to help with the accounts office. The male drifters hired as fishing boat hands came pouring in too, and nobody took any notice of my existence whatsoever.

"They use a dialect like mine." Namiko looked intrigued. "It's not 'batten,' but they say 'batte'." For instance, they'd say "went batte (but) didn't see." "Are the deckhands from Kyushu?"

“No, it’s those factory girls.” “They say they came from Akita.” “They use the same ‘batte’ as Kyushu, you know.” “How strange.” Among those factory girls were some who boarded ships from Nemuro to work at cannery factories on Kunashiri Island. Because the wages were slightly better than working in Nemuro—if only just—they crossed over to the island. Carrying their mothers’ hand-me-down bikkuri (shingenbukuro) bags, they appeared earnest—but to me, those young girls looked pitiful. There must have been girls who kept temari balls in their shingenbukuro bags.

Seeing those factory girls, Namiko said that since it would be a waste to remain idle, she wanted to work at the factory too. “At the cannery factory?” “Yes.” From the factory where female workers were watta watta (their dialect for “working”), came the constant ton-ton sound of deba knives chopping red king crab legs. This work was called deba knife cutting. It was also simply called saikatsu. When ships returned from crab fishing in the Okhotsk Sea—not factory ships but Nemuro’s independent vessels—the ton-ton-ton of saikatsu would echo through the harbor until midnight. Even those crisp rhythmic sounds grew erratic late at night from exhaustion. Some dozed off and sliced through gloves and fingers alike. Scarecrow clappers hung from the factory ceiling—the supervisor yanked their strings to clatter awake workers nodding off.

I disapproved of Namiko working in such a place, but once she set her mind to something, she wouldn’t budge. Abiru’s brother had also said he would arrange other work if Namiko wanted to work, but Namiko wished to labor at the factory like the factory girls. As this was Namiko’s first time working at the cannery, saikatsu was out of the question. Saikatsu couldn't be done by anyone but skilled workers. The large legs of red king crabs were called "Ichiban," "Rakkyo," and "Nanban" sequentially from the base joint, and saikatsu consisted of ton-ton-ton chopping these three crab leg sections with a deba knife. The skilled factory girls wielded their deba knives with door-knocking rapidity and efficiency.

Extracting the meat from legs split into three sections was Namiko’s job. This meat extraction was the most basic task for a factory girl. The work of removing shoulder meat—called soboro and considered lower-grade for canning—was also done by girls newly arrived at the plant. Namiko did that. “I do like working.” She sewed herself the work trousers and wappa jackets that Tohoku factory girls wore as uniforms. “My hands are nimble—I’ll get moved to meat-packing soon enough and show them.”

It was the work of stuffing crab meat into cans lined with parchment paper. The task of opening the can, placing the crab legs upside down so their red side would show when opened, stuffing soboro between them, adding more leg meat, and wrapping it in paper seemed simple enough but was a job that demanded dexterous speed. "You're awfully enthusiastic." When I teased her, "I don't like just idly being taken care of by Mr. Hyakunari." “A waste, you think?” “That’s not it. I feel bad for those poor factory girls. I don’t want to just sit idly by on top of what you call exploitation—exploitation.”

In February and March of that year, the Blood-Pledge Corps Incident occurred, and Inoue Junnosuke and Dan Takuma were shot dead. In May, Prime Minister Inukai was assassinated. Unlike the previous two incidents, this May 15 Incident sent shockwaves through society as a large-scale organized act. Precisely because of this magnitude, the truth became classified as top secret—the newspaper details wouldn't emerge until a year later—leaving me in Nemuro with nothing to do but glare at Tokyo's distant skies and mutter, "They're at it again."

I could do nothing but glare at the distant Tokyo sky. The March and October Incidents, which had ended in failure, seemed to have finally been realized as I left Tokyo. It was vexing to me, yet different from mere vexation. It could also be said that it wasn’t merely vexation.

Hyakunari Shinjiro came to my house. “It’s become such turbulent times,” he said. “Or rather—does that sound accusatory to you, Mr. Nonaka?” “Accusatory? Are you implying I’m part of those dangerous factions… Did Mr. Seiichiro’s letter suggest something like that?” When I feigned ignorance, the man laughed. “That wasn’t my meaning.” Though “Master” Hyakunari maintained formal politeness, I answered brusquely: “If I were truly involved, government agents would’ve come hunting me down already.”

“I see…”

Hyakunari, whose tone showed no particular desire to evade me, crossed his arms in his jacket, “The May Incident appears to have Ogawa Akiaki as its mastermind.” “Then Minami Ikko too...” I wondered if Kōdō-sensei had been involved in that incident too. “You didn’t inquire about Minami Ikko?” “Mr. Hyakunari, do you possess detailed information?” “No, I merely asked some newspaper people.” “Hmm.” “Regarding matters about Mr. Nonaka—I won’t say anything unnecessary to those people...”

Hyakunari said he wanted me to rest assured,

“By the way, where has Ayako gone?” This Ayako did not refer to beanbags but was the name of Hyakunari’s wife. “Doesn’t she visit occasionally?” “No.” “Did you mention anything about your brother?” “No.” Hyakunari averted his eyes from me. “It seems naval officers were quite active in this incident.” He shifted the topic back to the May 15 Incident, though in truth he seemed more concerned about Ayako than about any of that. It struck me that he had come here wanting to discuss both Ayako and his brother. While I too held some interest in those matters, what concerned me more now was the May 15 Incident.

Speaking of Hyakunari's brother—since I had been in Nemuro nearly half a year by then—I had already heard rumors about that Abiru's "running away from home." The rumor claimed his older brother Seiichiro had left for Tokyo to pass this fishing magnate's household to his younger brother Shinjiro. As Seiichiro, who called himself Abiru, had told me, while it was true he'd rampaged as an anarchist for a time, he hadn't been declared disinherited because of it. They said he'd voluntarily discarded his rights as eldest son to pass the household to his earnest younger brother.

The rumors about Seiichiro were extremely sympathetic. However, the rumors did not stop there. I also heard rumors that there seemed to be some complex circumstances involving Ayako between the brothers. Ayako was, as Namiko had observed, older than Shinjiro. She was only one year older, but there must have been something subtle lurking in the fact that she was older. "Oh, it's Mr. Nonaka's wife." Namiko, with a face so pale that it was only natural for Hyakunari to be startled, had returned after quitting her night work. Staggering in, she hurried to the kitchen, squatted down, and gagged and vomited painfully. I thought it might be due to factory overwork, but in reality, it was morning sickness.

It was just before the Chishima cherry blossoms began to bloom. The road that had been muddy from melting snow finally hardened. On that ground, children were playing menko. The sight of them playing territory with ramune marbles also caught my eye. Though images of children had never before entered my eyes, was I now trying to become a parent like everyone else? Seeing the children's joyful figures—to use the factory girls' term—it was a teki-nai feeling. That said, it wasn't because I didn't want a child. It was precisely because it was the opposite.

It was around that time that memories of an abominable murder began appearing in my dreams. The memories I had been striving to forget came back vividly. The eyes of the man I killed as he rolled his white eyes threatened me.

“What’s wrong? You were having a nightmare.”

Namiko woke me, “Get a hold of yourself.” “Namiko?” “What were you dreaming about?” “Namiko…” “I’m right here. You’ve got to get a hold of yourself—I can’t stand this.” More than at Namiko—or rather, at myself—I flared up in anger, “I dreamed of being hauled in. Yes, damnable.” Hiding the truth, “There was no need to come all the way near Abashiri.”

Life-term prisoners are sent to Abashiri Prison north of Nemuro.

“I had a damnable dream.” “Even if you get hauled in, I’ll have this baby and raise it right.”

Namiko, suffering from severe morning sickness, took time off from the factory—a break that coincided with the crabs’ molting period, when the factory itself would temporarily shut down. Molted crabs develop a "tofu-like" substance between their shells and flesh, making their meat unpalatable and unsuitable for canned products.

Even when operations ceased, the cannery factory remained permeated with the smell of crabs, and whenever it reached her nose, Namiko would immediately feel nauseous. Without approaching the factory, Namiko idled around at home.

Then one day, Hyakunari’s wife showed up out of the blue alone to visit. Dressed to the nines—as Namiko later remarked—her Western-style outfit, likely made in Sapporo for formal occasions, was indeed excessively grand for visiting this shabby barrack, and her face was caked with thick makeup. Yet to me—who still retained memories of Tokyo’s customs—even if she gave the impression of a café waitress (feenago) or something similar, the truth remained that it felt like a crane alighting in a trash heap, and “Oh my, ma’am...,” said Namiko in her faded and shabby kimono, both apologetic and flustered.

"How about..." Ayako said with affected graciousness, swiftly surveying the room with her eyes. Through her gaze, I became newly aware of how our furnishings remained utterly incomplete. Yet even so, Namiko had been doggedly purchasing and arranging items with our scant funds, trying to make our place resemble a proper newlywed home. This marked Ayako's first visit to our dwelling. Her sudden appearance flustered me—this woman who'd always seemed to avoid me whenever we crossed paths outdoors. There existed no zabuton cushion fit for offering to this silk-stockinged visitor. I turned my own cushion inside out and presented it to her.

“Please don’t trouble yourself…”

Ayako sat directly on the engawa veranda, “I’ve been meaning to visit for some time now…”

After mumbling evasively, she crossed her legs, “Today, since my husband has gone to Kushiro...” It was as if she were saying she hadn’t been able to come sooner because Hyakunari’s watchful eyes had been too intrusive. “Won’t you come in?” Dismissing my words, “You don’t happen to know Mr. Kanehara, do you?” On Ayako’s cheek was a mole that looked like an artificial beauty mark. “The one in Kushiro…?” I wondered if she meant Hyakunari’s friend who had gone to Kushiro,

“No.” With that, she let the matter drop, “The skunk cabbages are blooming beautifully...”

She looked toward the back of the house. Across the ditch, skunk cabbages were in full bloom. Their thriving growth meant the area was thoroughly humid. The flowers were beautiful in their way—but their flame-shaped white petals jutted thickly from the ground, their sheer size lending them an eeriness that transcended mere beauty. "Such eerie flowers," said Namiko. "They look almost poisonous..." "I've never heard they're toxic," Ayako replied. "Though horses won't eat them, will they?"

In Honshu, these were flowers you couldn't see unless you went deep into the mountains. I had never seen them even in Honshu and only saw them for the first time after coming here. Speaking of which, those adonis flowers blooming wild—it was also the first time in my life I'd seen them here. Though this wasn't near our house but somewhere away from town, when I saw the yellow adonis buds emerging from a blanket of dead grass on a sunlit cliff where the snow had melted earlier than elsewhere—well, what could I say? Though I casually uttered a "Huh," my surprise was anything but simple. Was my shock at Hyakunari's wife's sudden visit comparable? No—that wasn't it. If flowers were to be compared, this wife was skunk cabbage.

In Tokyo, these adonis flowers were kept as potted plants for New Year's decorations—luxurious ones at that, planted in bonsai-style glazed pots—and when I was a child, my old man would always buy them on New Year's Eve (it was invariably New Year’s Eve), and even when drunk, he’d carry them home with exaggerated care as if they were treasures. They were long-lasting flowers, but once fully bloomed, the adonis plants would inevitably wither along with their blossoms. Perhaps they couldn’t survive in Tokyo; every year we bought them only to watch them perish. Seeing their forms—dust-coated and crisply desiccated in death—felt cruel even to my childish sensibilities. It was only after coming to Nemuro that I first saw adonis flowers growing wild. To encounter them in this northern extremity—I felt astonishment mingled with something stirring deep in my chest. These adonis flowers aren’t doomed to die. They don’t wither—they endure. They live rooted in the earth. What I saw for the first time weren’t those pitiful potted specimens, but adonis flowers thriving in native soil. Perhaps it was my imagination, but their buds seemed more vibrantly alive than those I’d seen in Tokyo.

The adonis flowers at the northernmost reaches seemed to be saying this to me who had come to these extremities: You too can now live rooted in the earth. I am living rooted in the earth. For the first time, I am putting down roots in life—. “Never mind the tea—come here and sit down. There’s no need... Really, it’s fine.” As Namiko bustled about preparing tea, Ayako said to me: “You seem quite content.”

she said to me, “You must take good care… Mr. Kashiwai will also become the daddy of your own adorable baby next year. You must be happy.” Here, where I went by the alias Nonaka, Ayako spoke my real name. “Mrs. Hyakunari, how do you know my name…?” “Even if my husband doesn’t know, I do.” I stared at Ayako’s face, white like a skunk cabbage flower. While sensing the “scary person” Namiko had mentioned there,

“Who did you hear it from?” “From Sei-san…” For a moment, I didn’t understand who she meant—then realized it was Hyakunari Seiichiro. “I’ve wanted to ask you about Mr. Sei too—ever since you came to Nemuro. But I hesitated.” “No—not hesitation toward others. More like… holding myself back from myself.”

Ayako chattered on by herself. Her chatter seemed to pour out all the things pent up in her heart at once—superficially appearing that way, but in reality, it was more like she was using her talk to conceal her true feelings.

“What on earth could Mr. Sei be doing in Tokyo? Mr. Kanehara seems to know, but he doesn’t tell me anything. Is it difficult to talk about? Mr. Kashiwai—no, Mr. Nonaka—if it’s difficult for you to talk about, you don’t have to force yourself.”

"It's not that there's anything difficult to talk about." "No—if hearing it would make me feel unpleasant, then I too should refrain from asking..." When I started to say, 'Then let's stop—' "Something about living like a beggar..." "Oh, you knew?" "Do you know too?" Ayako turned to Namiko. "I've never met him." "Oh? But you're married."

Her tone carried less surprise than contempt, and in the same manner, “I do wish Mr. Sei would get married soon.”

To her baiting words, I— “Since he’s practically a hermit, I don’t think he’s considering marriage.”

“What a difficult person.” “Did he say something about me to you…?”

“Mr. Sei?” Odachi—the wind picked up. The Yamase that fishermen speak of—when this east wind blows in from Nosappu, the weather turns foul. Playing on the term, fishermen say "Yamase" when they're in ill humor, and I too felt Yamase-like as I said: "My husband told me something peculiar about you. He suspects Mr. Sei might be visiting my place frequently to discuss himself."

“My husband is right-wing.” [She] said something unrelated, “Mr. Nonaka—Mr. Sei’s friend—you’re left-wing, aren’t you?” “Is your husband right-wing?” “It’s just for appearances’ sake, I suppose.” Ayako looked at me with sharp eyes,

“If there’s anything troubling you, do tell me.” Even if Hyakunari were to abandon me, she declared in a gang leader-like tone that she herself would become my backer and look after me. As I thought about this—that her gang leader act might be directed at Hyakunari too—I pursed my lips into a へ-shaped frown.

Then from beside them, Namiko spoke up in an unusually serious voice,

“I’m counting on you.” In the Maruman style, it felt like an itsuki (formal greeting) to the oyabun’s bashita (the boss’s wife). Ayako nodded deeply, “This talk’s gotten all rambling...”

This was a term used by female factory workers, meaning something like "aimless" or "rambling."

At that moment, in the port town where fair-skinned children were rare, a boy appeared with a heavy gait unbefitting his age. He was Ayako’s child and a first grader in elementary school. He stood silently, staring at us with dark eyes.

The festival began. Each neighborhood paraded out their prized floats, and the entire town was in literal festive uproar. Taking advantage of the festival, various itinerant vendors had come into town. They came riding in on their so-called bitaba vendor carts. The rowdy young guys were saying things like "What'd you do with that flophouse maid?" and "That maid's real loose," which reached my ears. Even if they used yago—their cant—thinking that nessu wouldn’t understand, I could, having been Maruman’s close friend.

Namiko was a maid. But she wasn't a slut. In society's eyes maids might be considered sluts, but Namiko wasn't one. I—who'd once been called Yachimoro's Shiro-san—had hardened too alongside her. Namiko went out to enjoy the festival streets with her cannery worker friends. I followed behind. Spotting them as easy prey like migrant birds, the young tekiya men began sweet-talking the factory girls. Using their monoshina komashi tactic, they tried to hook women by handing out trinkets they thought would please them.

“You think you can sweet-talk them with fake wai-bi rings?” The thought that even Namiko was being disrespected by those bastards made me furious. “You mustn’t use such words.” Namiko grabbed my arm. Her warning was justified. Being admonished by her, I came to my senses—there was no guarantee some slip-up wouldn’t leave a trail. The townspeople were generous, and with it being a festival, they spent money freely; the tekiya vendors crowed “Bai wa mabuten, santaku yoroku shita” (“Business went smooth—made a killing”). But some grumbled too: “Yoroku wa Namintonkan de shimatte” (“Earnings all spent”) and “Hin wa yari mo kamaran” (“Not a penny left”). There was a brothel district on the hill—had they blown it all on those “Yama no Ue” biritsuri visits?

I wondered what had become of Maru-san. Had he quit the itinerant vendor life? He’d mentioned getting married—I found myself growing nostalgic for Maruman.

(Maru-san... Though Yachimoro and you mocked me, I haven't gone biritsuri even once here.) He'd been completely out of contact. Not just Maruman—I hadn't told anyone I was here. The local Tokkō must've been scouring the earth for me—a vanished Person Under Surveillance. Cops did come to my workplace, always checking if ex-cons had holed up there, but the kicker was me being stuck handling them. Hyakunari had engineered it skillfully. This Nonaka was some relative's referral, but what saved us was telling cops upfront they'd put him on accounts. Having a wife proved damn useful shielding me from suspicion.

The incident on that ship where Yahagi’s gang tried to recruit me—that too seemed buried from shadow to shadow. If it came out, they’d be in danger themselves, so they must’ve made sure it wouldn’t. Even if it did get exposed—though with that lot, they’d probably stay cool as ice—they’d weighted the body proper and dumped it out at sea. Who that was exactly—I hadn’t a clue—but I could make a rough guess. A secret purge of some traitor in their ranks? If so, shadows swallowing shadows made twisted sense. Not that this was anything more than guesswork...

The only certain thing was that I had killed a man who bore no relation to this me.

Part Two: Snowbound Pasture

When the festival ended, the town was enveloped in thick fog. The booming sound of a steam whistle could be heard coming from the depths of the mist. It was a ship's whistle heading out to open sea. It felt like something was calling out to me. You—there in that place—smoldering away, what're you doing? You too—how about it—won't you come out? Come out already. "Samishii," I muttered. It had to be "samishii," not "sabishii"—otherwise my true feelings wouldn't emerge. The whistle sounded lonely, the fog-shrouded town felt lonely too, but when I said "samishii," I meant myself.

I who had so desperately wanted to live, who had resolved to live—now living felt lonely. Was this what it meant to have put down roots in life? Was this truly what such loneliness entailed? If Namiko hadn't been by my side, I could never have endured this loneliness. Which meant that by dragging her into my mess, I was making Namiko feel this loneliness too. My self-imposed exile (though from my perspective, I was the one who'd exiled myself)—Namiko had been forced to accompany me on this path, and now she even carried my child...

“I’m really sorry.” “Oh, come on.” “I’m sorry, Namiko.” “What’re you saying?”

It wasn't that Namiko resonated with my ideology or anything like that. She hadn't joined me through some ideological sympathy either. What made me fond of her was precisely that she wasn't that sort of—how should I put it—impudent woman, but for that very reason, making such a Namiko share my hardships felt wretched. Suddenly at this moment, I found myself recalling—for some reason—the Russian female terrorists. What first came to mind was Maria Spiridonova. When I'd gone to Keijō to target General Ogaki, I'd recalled this Maria too—it was at that inn in Keijō where I first met Namiko. Back then, to steel my own wavering resolve, I'd thought of this brave twenty-one-year-old terrorist.

Maria single-handedly ambushed and sniped the vice governor at the station—the same vice governor who had mercilessly suppressed a peasant uprising. This official had ordered Cossacks to beat rioting farmers to death with whips, rape their wives and daughters, and commit every brutality imaginable. Maria assassinated the vice governor as terrorist retaliation. After completing her mission, she tried to kill herself on the spot but was unsuccessful. The Cossack officer who captured her grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the stone corridor. Then he dragged her by both legs all the way to the police station.

At the police station, Maria was subjected to horrific torture by two officers. As a result, her face had become so altered by the time of the trial that witnesses claimed this was a different person. Later, these two officers were summarily executed by the "Boevaya Organizatsiya" (Combat Organization), of which Maria had been a member. The Combat Organization referred to a terrorist group created by Gershuni as a special detachment of the SR Party (Socialist Revolutionary Party). Another member, Zinaida Konoplyannikova, shot and killed at a railway station the regimental commander who had suppressed Moscow's 1905 rebellion—a man promoted from colonel to major general for this achievement. Though she had prepared a bomb, she reportedly used a pistol instead to avoid harming the wife accompanying him. Condemned to death by court-martial, she ascended the gallows and calmly fastened the noose around her own neck with her hands before meeting her end.

The reason I recalled these terrorists wasn't because I wanted Namiko to share their mentality or understand their convictions. Rather, it must have been my own distance from such revolutionary fervor that conjured those resolute figures in my mind. Twice I'd failed to die. In the end, I committed a meaningless, worthless murder utterly divorced from my professed ideals, fleeing to this northernmost exile.

“Why did you decide to marry someone like me, Namiko?” “What are you talking about now?” “This lonesome, miserable life…” “No, it’s all about perspective. “If you think of it as a fun honeymoon for just us two, isn’t that fine?”

Namiko had lowered an eight-candlepower bulb casting reddish light near her head. She never paused her needle, diligently working at her sewing.

“If it were a short trip, that’d be fine.”

“You don’t plan on living here like this forever either, do you? Before long—you being the gutsy sort—I think you’ll do something tremendous.” “What’s this? Before we got together, you told me to go straight…” “I want no part of dangerous business like before.” “Not that kind—something really big…?” “Let’s stay here till the baby’s born.”

“Yeah.” Once again, I found myself recalling the Russian female terrorists. Did Namiko too have things that came to mind? Namiko, back when she had managed the flophouse, hadn’t batted an eye at seeing my pistol. Namiko, unlike ordinary girls, hadn’t flinched even when hearing my murder stories—

Sophia Perovskaya, renowned for orchestrating the Tsar's assassination, commanded a terrorist group as a woman. She personally oversaw every aspect of the assassination plot and its preparations. The plan targeted Alexander II as he traveled through St. Petersburg's streets toward the Army Cavalry School. They rented a street-facing house, disguised it as a shop, tunneled beneath the roadway, and planted explosives. On the appointed day, the Tsar avoided that route. Yet contingency preparations had included an alternate bomb. Though a male terrorist hurled explosives at the Tsar's Cossack-escorted carriage from the street, this action unfolded under Sophia's composed command.

After the incident, she rejected her comrades' urging to flee abroad and remained in the capital. She attempted to steer the chaos caused by the Tsar's assassination into a riot. She was captured on Nevsky Prospekt in the bustling district and immediately hanged. At that time, Sophia was twenty-seven years old.

They all dedicate their youthful lives to the revolution. It was through these many acts of devotion that the revolutionary wave surged. But after the revolution, when the Bolsheviks seized power—in a manner akin to declaring "If you're not a Bol, you're not human"—the brave actions and achievements of those pre-revolutionary terrorists were disparaged and all but ignored. Did Sophia, Maria, and Zinaida—who gave their young lives for the revolution—die for nothing?

When Zinaida was sentenced to death in court, she cried out asking who had made them terrorists—that they had no choice but to become terrorists. It was the brutal suppression that gave birth to the terrorists. The apathy of the masses, cowed by suppression, was also one cause that gave birth to terrorists, but the extent of the atrocious suppression carried out is detailed in Kropotkin’s *The White Terror in Russia*. This was written by Kropotkin as an appeal to foreign countries, but its preface begins with these words.

“The present state of affairs in Russia being utterly hopeless, it becomes a public duty to lay before the nation this account of existing conditions, and to address a solemn appeal to all lovers of freedom and progress for moral support in behalf of the struggle now being waged for the attainment of political liberty.” This “despair-inducing” White Terror had driven “the struggle being waged for political freedom” into terrorism. The White Terror was none other than what gave birth to the Red Terror. Kropotkin concluded his preface by writing: “History clearly shows us that such White Terror never restored peace to nations—as seen in France after the Bourbon Restoration in the twenties of the previous century, in Italy in 1859, and later in Turkey.” In this way, he prophesied the inevitability of the Russian Revolution while also stating that White Terror “disseminates an absolute contempt for human life” and “induces the habit of violence.” Take Sophia Perovskaya—a nobleman’s daughter whose sensitive heart led her to sympathize with the impoverished. At that time, she had been merely a humanist. Her decision to become a nurse and serve the unfortunate also sprang from this humanism. Yet it was the Tsarist government—arresting her as an “ideologue” and subjecting her to cruel persecution—that drove this humanist to become a terrorist. They found no path but direct action. The same held true for Vera Figner, who had plotted to assassinate the Tsar alongside Sophia during that period—she too could find no other way than terrorism. Surviving photographs reveal Vera to have possessed rare beauty. She was twenty-five when captured through a spy’s betrayal. Though sentenced to death, her punishment was later commuted to life imprisonment, and she was cast into Shlisselburg Fortress Prison. After enduring wretched confinement, when finally released from that terrible “Russian Bastille” in 1904, the once-beautiful woman emerged transformed into a withered crone bearing no resemblance to her former self—

Namiko’s belly gradually began to protrude. By winter, her belly had swollen to where anyone could tell at a glance she was pregnant.

Snow began to fall. Before the snow grew too deep, I decided to meet with Kanehara. That Kanehara Ayako had mentioned—Kanehara being another highly auspicious-sounding surname, but unlike Hyakunari, this was just the family name, and the man himself was a poor peasant. Originally, he had run wild as an anarchist together with Hyakunari Seiichiro in Sapporo (though I only learned this fact long after hearing Kanehara's name from Ayako), and that same Kanehara now worked as a settler farmer in the Konsen wilderness. Kanehara referred to himself as "Vserentsi" (exile).

I wanted to let Kōdō in Tokyo know I was here. It had been nearly a year since I came here. I had wanted to let at least Kōdō know. I thought of having Shasha crawl through Kanehara—that is, sending a letter.

I went out to meet Kanehara and make that request. Unfortunately, a blizzard hit along the way. Though I could have asked Hyakunari—who Ayako said was right-wing—to handle communications with the right-wing Kōdō, that still seemed unwise. That's why I chose Kanehara, who'd been comrades with that Abiru Seiichiro. Thanks to Abiru, I'd told Kanehara when we first met that I'd gone underground here (without giving details, of course), and we'd already become like old acquaintances. But precisely because Kanehara was the leftist Ayako described, I wondered what expression he'd make when I mentioned Kōdō's name.

At that moment, I saw horses huddled together in the forest, sheltering from the blizzard under trees. In this region they pasture horses outdoors through winter snows. I'd long heard about this practice. But seeing it firsthand was different. Unlike mainland breeds, these compact Dosanko—short-legged Hokkaido natives (the term applies to people too)—looked minuscule against the endless wilderness. They stood motionless in the raging storm, small bodies pressed tight, heads bowed low. Among snow-buried shapes moved one tiny form—a foal. When I saw the parent horse shielding its young from the blizzard, my chest tightened. What would happen when the snow grew deeper?

When I met Kanehara and mentioned that, "They stay like that," he said matter-of-factly. "No matter how deep the snow gets, they just leave them out." Wouldn't they get buried in the snow and die? "Those that're gonna die will die." "Those that ain't gonna die ain't gonna die."

When I said with desperate intensity, Kanehara replied flatly, "That's right," then launched into his account: "The ancestors of those Dosanko were horses brought by 'Wajin'—mainland Japanese—who sailed to Hokkaido when it was still called Ezo, to trade with the Ainu. They used them as pack animals." "They'd load up the horses, head deep inland to barter with Ainu tribes, then come back down to port when winter approached." "But when time came to leave Ezo, if they had too much cargo, those Wajin would abandon the horses and sail off alone." "The herds left in the snow—exactly like 'those meant to die died'—" "Only the strongest survived." "The descendants of those desperate survivors became today's Dosanko—"

“Originally being Nanbu horses, their build wasn’t so stunted to begin with. After enduring countless hardships and privations, they ended up as small as they are now. So if you look close, unlike mainland horses—their coats might be rough, but they’ve got themselves a sturdy build.” I silently bit my lower lip—applying too much force with my teeth until it hurt and I had to let go—as I listened to Kanehara’s story.

“The temperature can even drop below minus thirty degrees Celsius. “It’s a wonder they’ve survived this long.” “Precisely because of that, they’re excellent horses.” “In wetlands where regular horses would sink in up to their legs and could never cross, Dosanko pass through nonchalantly.” “They’re something else.” “These Dosanko are still winter pastured—meaning they’re left to graze even in winter—so they continue living in the snow.” “Also called snow pasturing—” Kanehara, who likened himself to the Vserentsi exiled to snowy Siberia, spoke of this snow pasturing as if it were a matter of course and threw what appeared to be tree roots into the Lumpen stove. When I asked how they found food in the snow,

"They dig through the snow with their hooves and eat bamboo grass leaves." "And when even that runs out, they survive by eating each other's tails and manes." "No way..." When I said this, he countered that the existence of tailless horses proved it true. The story felt too brutal to bear, but what struck me harder than its cruelty was my awe for the Dosanko. (What remarkable creatures.) Before I knew it, tears had welled in my eyes. "It's smoky."

I tried to pass it off, but these were not tears caused by smoke. I decided I would tell this story to Namiko when I got home. Would she admire the horses like I did, or would she blame the humans for their cruelty? “Hyakunari’s wife once said that even horses won’t eat skunk cabbage. I see now.” “Horses that eat anything to survive—do they not eat that skunk cabbage?”

“That wife is a woman Mr. Sei met in Sapporo.” “When Mr. Sei came back from Sapporo to Nemuro waving flags, that woman followed along.” “And she became Shinjiro’s wife.”

Kanehara suddenly said that, but he offered nothing more. Other than this, no matter what I asked, he absolutely refused to open his mouth.

Kanehara readily agreed to deliver the letter to Kōdō. He didn't pry into matters as I'd feared. Regarding Ayako-related inquiries—about which Kanehara had maintained complete silence toward me—he accepted my letter without a word, as if this muteness were our unspoken exchange.

Through Kanehara, a letter eventually came from Kōdō to me. The thick rolled-paper letter being in Kōdō’s own hand delighted me, but when I read it, the simplicity of its contents disappointed me. Because the large brush-written characters made the rolled paper needlessly thick. In short, Kōdō was dismissing me, telling me to go my own way. I hadn't particularly expected Kōdō to express what in English they call "miss"—that sentimental confession of absence-induced loneliness—but being so briskly dismissed, even if it was only natural, couldn't help leaving a tinge of loneliness. However, at the end of the letter, Kōdō had written that if I were ever to go to Tokyo, I should be sure to visit him.

The town entered its hibernation period. Namiko, her large belly protruding, heaved her shoulders as she breathed and moved laboriously about the house. The migrant workers had already returned to their hometowns.

In the new year, just before the migrant workers came back here to work again, Namiko gave birth to a girl. Namiko apologized to me that it wasn't a boy.

"I'm sorry." "What’re you talking about? This is—what’re you saying? That’s Namiko’s Hako for you."

"I'm sorry." Namiko said this habitual apology of hers was due to the pregnancy and apologized to me yet again regarding the baby's nickname "O-Hako." She became completely timid, as if disheartened. The fact that Namiko had grown quiet didn't make me happy—rather, it left me with a strangely uneasy feeling,

“That’s just fine,” he snapped. Then Namiko suddenly began spilling tears—large tears like beans. “Who the hell cries?” “I’m crying because I’m happy.” The baby laid beside Namiko suddenly began wailing at that moment, as though I had bullied her mother. With its monkey-like bright red face all scrunched up, it was an ugliness that didn’t resemble a human face at all—but once I realized this was my child, no matter how ugly it was, it became endearing. No—it was that very ugliness I found endearing.

Hyakunari and his wife came with congratulatory gifts, and when they asked me the child’s name, I answered Shinako. “Shina’s Shi…? “That’s good.” “Nonaka, you too are harboring ambitions to make a grand leap to Shina, I take it.” “No—no” When I explained that Shinako’s name came from combining the ‘Shi’ from Shiro and the ‘Na’ from Namiko, “How stylish.” said Ayako. “Don’t go calling it ‘stylish’—that’s a weird thing to say.”

Hyakunari scolded her. “You’re the one saying weird things about Shina’s Shi...” “There’s nothing weird about it. I do have my own dreams.” “Then why don’t you just go to Shina...” The two who had come to celebrate started a marital quarrel.

"Mr. Hyakunari, do you want to go to Shina that badly?" "That much?" Hyakunari said to me. "Why do you want to go to Shina?" "Why?" Once again parroting back, Hyakunari stared intently at my face.

Spring came. They welcomed their second spring here.

Spring has come

*Spring has come* *Where has it come?* *To the mountain it came* *To the village it came* *To the field it came*

The children were singing. The late spring of the northland—that spring came to me as well. The migrant workers who had been friendly with Namiko came to work at the factory again this year. Whenever they found a spare moment, those girls would take turns coming to peek at the baby. They bought a toy rattle and called her their “cutie.” Playing with the baby, “Look, she smiled!” they exclaimed with delight. It was now that I finally understood the ordinary joys of an ordinary life. For the first time, I escaped from myself. I had managed to escape. I thought I had finally escaped from my corpse-like self for the first time.

“That horse must be rejoicing now that spring has come.” I had heard various stories from Kanehara about the Dosanko horses that grazed through the winter cold, and among them was this one.

It was one winter when a heavy snowfall struck. On the morning after three straight days of raging blizzard finally subsided, a herdsman who grew worried about the horses went to check on them at their "gathering spot" (a place where horses congregate), only to find their figures nowhere in sight. Where were they? Where had they gone? While searching through the deep snow, he came upon a depression between two hills. When he looked, steam was rising from a snowdrift there. It looked exactly as if a hot spring had welled up from the ground, its steam blowing up through the thick layer of snow. Finding this strange, he sped his sled toward it.

A gaping hole had opened in the snow's surface. Several round holes dotted the area, steam rising from them. The herdsman parted the snow. The narrow, deep holes continued endlessly into the snowdrift - he dug down deeper than his own height until there, huddled together, several Dosanko horses lay alive. Buried beneath the snow, they lived while burying themselves deeper still.

The breath of the horses had melted the snow, forming a single narrow hole. And through those holes, the horses were breathing the air aboveground. Under the other holes too, there were horses. They were living in the snow. I told Namiko this story about the horses—along with the tale of snow-buried horses surviving by eating each other’s manes and tails. As though I couldn’t bear the weight of these stories alone, I told them to Namiko too.

“That’s incredible.” Namiko said this too. Just like me, she was impressed by the horses. I had brought Namiko to this northern extremity and was in fact forcing upon her a life buried in snow—no different from those who subjected Dosanko horses to cruel winter grazing—but she reserved her admiration for the horses themselves. I too thought I would live like those Dosanko. Like the Dosanko horses enduring hardships and living resiliently. And once again, like that Dosanko horse that had protected its foal from the blizzard—

I had abandoned any intention of doing the sort of "huge job" Namiko talked about. In this northern extremity, living like Dosanko might seem ordinary, but in fact, this must be what counts as a "huge job." I wanted to let my old man and brother in Tokyo know I had a child, but fearing it was too risky, I suppressed that urge. As for the marriage registration with Namiko, since I couldn’t submit it, I hadn’t, making it impossible to register our child’s birth either. To me, that alone was unbearable. I keep thinking things will somehow work out eventually, but as of now, there’s no prospect of resolving anything…

The Japanese military, having occupied Manchuria and established Manchukuo, no sooner took control of Shanhaiguan than they crossed the Great Wall and invaded North China. Are they planning to push into Shina this time? The thought came to me of Sunauma Kouichi, who had long since crossed into Manchuria to scheme who-knows-what. It had been ages since I last saw Sunauma. Could he have shifted his scheming grounds from Manchuria to Shina by now?

It was just as I was remembering Sunauma that an eerie young man claiming to be Yahagi’s messenger appeared before me. “Yahagi-sensei says he wants to meet you—he’s waiting at the inn.” To that unpleasantly raw-faced youth, I asked, “Which inn?” The reason I asked was because I never imagined it could be this inn in Nemuro, but Yahagi had indeed come to Nemuro. For someone of Yahagi-sensei’s stature to come all the way out to the backwaters of Nemuro—what on earth—

“It seems he has business with Mr. Kashiwai.” Shh—I pressed a finger to my mouth. “Here, I go by Nonaka.” “Watch your tongue,” I told him,

“I got no business with Mr. Yahagi.” So when I refused, saying I wouldn’t go—that there was no way I’d go—he simply replied, “I see. Then I’ll tell Mr. Yahagi that.” He was so nonchalant about it that I was left utterly dumbfounded. That nonchalance wasn’t of the solemn sort; rather, its careless quality showed even in his listless movements. It didn’t matter—that was his attitude—but at the same time, he brushed off my refusal as if to say he didn’t care what consequences might befall me. The very fact it went unspoken made its cold audacity palpable. In any case, he was utterly unlike the hot-blooded types commonly found among such people. Unlike those who flew into rages, the fresh-faced man’s cold-blooded demeanor made his ruthlessness all the more palpable.

Finding him an odd fellow, I became interested and had this exchange with the man, who seemed three or four years my junior. “So since it’s a no-go, can I head back?” “If you’re saying no, then there’s nothing to be done.” “Won’t Sensei yell at me?” “Even if he yells at me, there’s nothing to be done—I’ll just let him yell.” I found myself somehow taking a liking to that man. Perhaps it was because I hadn’t encountered this sort of person in some time. Perhaps it was because of this that the long-absent tension had been entertaining me.

Thinking him an interesting man—and with this preface—

“What’s your name?” My tone had changed from before. At this shift in inflection that betrayed my leaning interest toward the man, he responded with visible irritation. After prefacing that he wasn’t worth formally introducing himself, “Name’s Asakura...” It was the voice of one who considered himself mere sanshita—not out of humility or self-deprecation, but one that coldly dismissed even his own existence. “I see.” I’m sanshita too. Had always been treated as sanshita. Yet Asakura, facing me who’d only ever been seen as sanshita, didn’t regard me as such when he spoke.

“If Sensei wants to meet you so badly, he should come himself.” “That ain’t gonna happen.”

I felt my vanity being tickled. He didn’t seem to have any ulterior motive of treating me like a big shot to make me feel good, but— “Nah, he’s gotta come himself.” Asakura said. “Alright, I’ll go.” I said. It was less about putting on airs of importance than it was me wanting to impose a sense of obligation.

“Well then, let me show you the way.” Stating this matter-of-factly, Asakura showed no particular pleasure at my change of heart. I asked Asakura if Yahagi was being followed. If that were true, I thought irritably, “I’d like to say we handled that neatly—but” “Are they following us?” “From the start, there’s been no one tailing us at all.” he spat out, “That’s how much influence he commands, I suppose.”

After informing the clerk, I went outside. The Tamakaze was blowing through town. Unlike the Yamase, this wind brought fair weather, coming inland. The 'ma' in Tama had a pronunciation somewhere between 'ma' and 'ba' that a Tokyoite like me could never quite master.

On the eve of the October Incident, when I'd stayed at a cheap inn in Yotsuya, there was a man who'd mentioned Yahagi's name. When I brought up that name and asked Asakura if he knew it, he said it sounded familiar, then flipped the question back—why did I know such a man? "It's not like I really know him," I said irritably, "He's one of those indignant faction types." "What faction..." "You're different."

I was thinking of something else even as I spoke. I kept wondering why Yahagi had come chasing after me all the way here. He had been tailing me for a while back then, but a year and a half had passed since that time. He'd left me alone for a year and a half before suddenly showing up.

I asked Asakura if he had come from Tokyo with Yahagi. Had Yahagi come all the way here directly from Tokyo? In response to my question, Asakura suddenly switched to a defiant tone and told me not to probe too much. Hmm, this guy’s got his act together. To me, “I’m quite good with pistols, you know.” Nowadays you would call it a “hajiki,” but back then we referred to pistols as “pachinko.” Asakura said evasively,

“My only merit is that…” he pretended to be drunk. I wondered if this guy had tricked me—if I’d been completely taken in. As I clicked my tongue, “You’re quite the intellectual, aren’t you, Nonaka?” “That’s no joke.”

“I’m a fool, though.”

Then, in a tone of muttering to himself, "I wonder what’s become of that Sensei." "As a boss, he doesn’t seem like he’ll amount to much." "He’s the type who works alone." "Small-time." "Thanks." I said playfully. Hearing that much was sufficient—there was no need to probe any further.

The inn Asakura took us to was halfway up the hillside. At the gate, Chishima cherry blossoms were blooming.

Part Three: The Yo-Yo Days

Yahagi, who had taken up position in the largest room at the back of the second floor, said when he saw my face: "It's been a while." Though we'd only met once at Sunauma's house, he spoke to me like we were old acquaintances. The room held one other person besides Yahagi. Next to Yahagi—who wore the inn's padded robe—stood a man in a three-piece suit who seemed familiar, waiting like a proper subordinate. This was the man who had smirked beside me during that meaningless murder.

“Yo.”

I called out to the man—before greeting Yahagi—with deliberate haste. The man nodded silently, but his face showed the bitter resentment of having been preempted. To Yahagi, who wore a similar expression, "Ah."

I bowed and,

"You've come to quite an unexpected place," I said with phrasing that showed deference to Yahagi. "Well, I just stopped by here on my way to Lake Akan." "On your way?" The distance from Lake Akan to Nemuro wasn't what anyone would call 'on the way.' Be that as it may, how he'd discovered I was here—precisely because this was what I wanted to ask first, I couldn't risk voicing it carelessly.

“What brings you to Hokkaido…”

“I just came for fun.” “One reason was to meet Sera Teruko.” Suddenly being told this, I was left speechless—in such situations, this might be an inappropriate way to put it, but that was precisely how it felt.

“You know, Inosawa Ichitaro’s daughter...”

Yahagi added an explanatory note.

"But why would that..." "Inosawa Ichitaro went to China." Had he been asked by that Inosawa? Yahagi's relentless questioning was exasperating, and as I stayed silent,

“She says she wants to see you.” “Teruko? She shouldn’t have the face to meet me.” “I don’t know anything about that.” “Where is she?” “So you’re saying that because you want to see Teruko too?” “So that’s what you meant by business…?” Yahagi chuckled darkly, “Thought you wouldn’t come, but here you are.” “Still got guts after all.” He praised me, though his voice carried an odd gloom for a compliment. “Because I took a liking to this man.”

I said. Asakura, having been praised, swayed his body lethargically from right to left. It looked like a child refusing to obey while also evoking the expression "the sigh of idle muscles."

“Have you taken a liking to Asakura?” “That’s good to hear.” When Yahagi spoke with a look of delight on his darkly sinister face, Asakura stood up abruptly as if he’d been told something offensive. His pale face remained expressionless as he gave a meaningful look to the other man suggesting they should leave. “Right,” the man said, rising too. Yahagi seemed about to say something to them but pressed his lips tightly together. “Going to fetch Teruko?” I said. Even to myself, the teasing tone carried a hint of forced bravado.

“Can’t go all the way to Lake Akan t’fetch her.” Asakura said teasingly and left the room.

Yahagi made a bitter face,

“What part of Asakura did you like?” “Is that what you call nihilistic?” “That’s madness.” “You shouldn’t badmouth your underling. Don’t say that—” “The mad one here is me.” The proof—you’d heard it from the man who left with Asakura, hadn’t you?—was the Ukisu ship incident. I’d brought up my own act of murder because I wanted to know the truth about that night—the night Yahagi had apparently been pulling the strings from behind.

“No, no—far from madness! To go out of your way to show some real guts like that and then just make a run for it— I’ve taken a liking to you.”

With that, Yahagi leaned forward and began shaking one knee of his cross-legged posture in rapid little movements. “With Manchuria settled, next comes Shina, but...”

While intensifying his fidgeting, “For that—we need something like that Zhang Zuolin Incident in Manchuria to happen in Shina too...” “We gotta make it happen…?”

“So you think so too?” The incident where Zhang Zuolin’s special military train was bombed just outside Fengtian City near Shenyang occurred in the third year of Showa (1928). The Japanese military announced that the perpetrators who assassinated Zhang Zuolin were Shina’s plainclothes squad. However, rumors had circulated covertly that it was a provocative incident planned by Japan’s special services. “Were you involved in that incident, Mr. Yahagi?”

The Consul-General's mysterious death incident, which Maruman had suggested pointed to Yahagi as the likely perpetrator, had occurred the year after the Zhang Zuolin Incident. "During the Zhang Zuolin Incident, I was in Fengtian."

Yahagi formed a faint smile. "There were all kinds of bombings in Fengtian too."

That faint smile was undeniably fearsome. In concert with the Zhang Zuolin Assassination Incident, there were frequent bombings and attacks in Fengtian's Japanese quarter at the time, though all were attributed to the plainclothes squad. However, the Chinese side clearly viewed it as Japan's provocative schemes.

“How about it—don’t you want to go to Shina with me? It’ll be fun.” “Thrilling!” To Yahagi I said: “That Mr. Hyakunari wants to go to Shina though.” Wasn’t it possible that Hyakunari—the right-winger Ayako had spoken of—had reported my hiding in Nemuro somewhere? Not directly to Yahagi perhaps, but through channels that brought him here? I nursed these suspicions even as Yahagi brushed aside my words—

“I’m asking about your intentions.” I brushed it off too, “Mr. Sunauma probably went to Shina too, don’t you think?” “He made a killing with Manchurian opium.” “By using the military to seize secret opium fields, Sunauma lined his own pockets while keeping their trust—that bastard’s cunning through and through.” “He’s a cunning bastard.” Cursing Sunauma resentfully, “The military’s probably using him too, but he’s only out for his own profit." “He’s still a leftist at heart.”

“Thinking only of personal gain makes someone a leftist…?” “He doesn’t think about the nation.” This Yahagi was a man of righteous indignation. Finding Asakura more appealing, I coldly said to Yahagi.

“Right now, I’m only thinking about myself too.” “—Who do you think you have to thank for being able to say such things and still live so comfortably?” “Is it thanks to you?” “If you cross over to Shina with me, everything will be wiped clean.” “There’s no need for you to keep hiding in a place like this.” “I’ll wipe everything clean for you.” Could you get the baby registered too? This flashed through my mind. “What’s this about suddenly bringing it up again now…”

Did you come to summon me? After letting me hide all this time, what reason could you have for suddenly approaching me now? “Because now is precisely when we must go to Shina.”

As he spoke these words, Yahagi’s eyes indeed emitted a cunning light. This Yahagi, who had denounced Sunauma as cunning, seemed far more cunning himself—and moreover, his cunning carried a petty squalor. I averted my face, “If you’re heading to Shina and went to the trouble of dragging me all the way out here, does that mean you’re short on decent subordinates these days, Mr. Yahagi?” If you’re gonna blow your top, then blow it already—that’s the sentiment with which I spoke. I also felt like making him angry, but—

“Unfortunately, there aren’t any villains as steel-gutted as you around.” Yahagi buttered me up with those words. “A villain? Then does that make you not one yourself...?” “A villain who serves his country.” “So even your hardline China policy is for the nation’s sake...? Kōdō-sensei cares for Japan too, cares for Shina... But he’s no hardliner like you.” My offhand remark made Yahagi flare up. “Saita Kōdō.”

As if subjected to a terrible insult, his face turned bright red,

“Kōdō has Kōdō’s view of Shina, but Yahagi Ōkura has Yahagi Ōkura’s view of Shina. Anti-Japanese exclusion has now become anti-Japanese resistance—nay, escalated into outright disrespect toward Japan! Can we stand idly by?!” When I returned home, I told Namiko about meeting Yahagi. When I told her that I had been advised to go to Shina, “So, what did you say?”

Urgently, Namiko asked. "I refused." "Oh, what a waste." It had been ages since I last heard Namiko speak like this—in her old assertive tone, "That was our chance!" "What chance?" "We could've left this place... escaped this life..." Namiko kept lamenting the missed opportunity, "I'm certain Mrs. Hyakunari arranged it secretly." "The wife?"

“I heard Mr. Hyakunari’s older brother went to Shina.” “Abiru? Why did you keep that from me all this time?” “But Mrs. Hyakunari told me I had to keep quiet…”

The baby Shinako suddenly started wailing as if a fire had been lit. After that, whenever Namiko spoke, she would reproach me for having wasted an opportunity. Faced with Namiko's tone—now reverted to her former assertive self—even I finally reached my limit,

“Shut it! Why don’t you just drop it already?!”

I shouted. Rather than some "grand work," I wanted to choose the joys of an ordinary life—but even I, looking back later, came to recall that perhaps I needn't have rejected Yahagi's offer so curtly. The very fact that I couldn’t help feeling some regret made Namiko’s "what a waste" grate on my nerves.

There had also been the option to accept the invitation, go to China anyway, and do what Yahagi called the "cancellation." Even if I had gone to China, there was no reason I necessarily had to become Yahagi's underling. But Yahagi struck me as thoroughly repulsive, so I refused his offer. It felt like he was using Teruko as bait to draw me out—no, I couldn't stand his methods that were undoubtedly doing exactly that. This too was one reason I'd refused, though I couldn't tell Namiko. Now that I'd built a life with Namiko and even had a beloved child, it wasn't some sensible reason like wanting to avoid messy entanglements with Teruko. If anything, a violent longing to see Teruko had surged within me. Those thrilling visits to that den came back with painful clarity. Yet meeting Teruko there would have played right into Yahagi's hands.

According to Yahagi, Teruko had become a back-alley prostitute in Lake Akan's entertainment district. I had no inkling she was in the same Hokkaido as me. I couldn't help sensing some strange twist of fate—but that Tokyo-born Teruko would have drifted to such a distant land... Could this too be the work of that 'writer'? Yahagi, who'd claimed ignorance, never revealed how he learned Teruko's whereabouts. As proof he hadn't heard it from her father Inosawa, Yahagi laughed smugly at having outmaneuvered him. When I went to Sunauma's house with Inosawa and first met Yahagi, that's when he'd discovered my obsession with Inosawa's daughter Teruko.

Yahagi said he would retrieve Teruko and take her to China. Then he turned to me: “How about joining me?” he said. What exactly did Yahagi plan to do after bringing Teruko to Shanghai? “I refuse.” I snapped back. Having rejected him so bluntly—and knowing Yahagi’s nature—there was no telling what kind of revenge he might plot against me. But then I realized it was fortuitous that the man who’d been smirking beside me during that murder (had it been a trap? Or a test of nerve?) now appeared before me as Yahagi’s underling. If Yahagi tried to set me up, I’d expose everything. I made sure to drop that hint casually in his ear.

Yahagi's appearance left what might be called a keepsake in my heart. What was it? Though I'd long heard about China from Kōdō-sensei without much interest, meeting Yahagi—who held what you might call a different Shina-view from Kōdō's—abruptly kindled within me a fierce curiosity about China. This was what Yahagi left behind in my heart. Kanehara came to see me unexpectedly. I'd gone to the wharf then because the crab boat had just arrived. The cannery's female workers had been mobilized too.

They unloaded the crab-entangled gillnet from the boat with a long, sliding motion like a tug-of-war at a field day, dragging it onto narrow worktables arranged in rows. By today's standards, it was a conveyor belt-style operation: female workers wearing work gloves stood on both sides of the tables holding the nets, extracting monstrously large red king crabs from the mesh. Using a tool called a "crab remover"—a five-inch nail driven into a wooden block—to pry apart the nets and remove the thorn-covered crabs was no easy task for the uninitiated. If you got injured by the thorns, the wound would immediately fester from the crab’s oils, making it not just difficult but dangerous.

Russian crabs (also called oil crabs) and Hanasaki crabs that couldn't be used for canning also got caught in the nets, so they had to be sorted out as discards. Removing the floats and sinkers attached to the nets was also part of the female factory workers' job. Last year Namiko had done this standing work alongside them, but now she couldn't return to work yet since she couldn't leave the baby. She stayed home muttering, "What a waste." Until the work wrapped up, Kanehara drank ramune at a nearby stall. Being a stall catering to female factory workers, it didn't serve alcohol.

“Hey, kept you waiting.”

I went to the food stall, “I’ll get some daifuku mochi.” The one-armed old man at the food stall—his vital right side missing—responded with a brisk “Right away.” Kanehara poured the small amount of ramune remaining at the bottom of the bottle into a glass. While pouring, he made the glass marble at the bottle’s mouth tinkle with a light clinking sound. “Just now, over there, I met Ayako... No, wait, Ganko’s wife. ‘Do you need something from Nonaka-san?’ ...had the nerve to say.” “She had the nerve to say—it’s not like she actually did, right?”

I said. The former anarchist looked like nothing more than a peasant fresh from the hinterlands now. He bore no resemblance to a townsperson. After burning smoky tree roots instead of coal through the long winter seclusion, his eyes had been completely ruined - red and festering. Sleep crust clung all the way to his eyelids. Even I reeked of fish, the stench seeping deep into my flesh like some fishing boat deckhand. There was probably nobody left who'd recognize this bedraggled shell as the Kashiwai Shiro of old.

“It seems you’ve been mediating letter exchanges between that wife and Mr. Sei at her request.”

When I probed, “You saying that’s no good?” “So it was true after all,” I thought as I took a big bite of the daifuku mochi. Flour dust went up my nose, and I sneezed—“Achoo!” “Is this a problematic place for such talk?” “No, it’s quite all right,” said the old man at the food stall— “I used to work for Mr. Hyakunari.” “That’s… problematic.” “It’s not problematic at all… I’ve just become a cripple like this—no, was made into a cripple and cast aside…”

After the old man said he was a cruel boss, there was a momentary silence there.

“A strange guy came to my place.” When I opened my mouth, Kanehara— “He came to mine too.” “Yahagi…?” “It’s the Special Higher Police. “They had the nerve to come asking what connection I have with Saitō Kōdō.” I asked what he had answered. “I told ’em. “I’m a right-winger myself now. “Handle me rough and it won’t do you any good.” Kanehara said that the detective had suddenly changed his attitude, “Right-wingers have it good, huh. “Even if you commit murder, they’ll turn a blind eye…”

"Who are you talking about…?" “Who’s this ‘strange guy’ you’re talking about? There’s no way Mr. Sei would betray you.” “Mr. Sei seems to have gone to Shanghai.” “He even asked if I wanted him to come by.” What did he go there to do? When I asked, Kanehara instead— “Haven’t you gotten any letters from Mr. Sei?” he asked me.

“The fact that he doesn’t send any is what makes Mr. Sei so reliable, don’t you think?” I said, then hacked out a hollow cough.

“Did you catch a cold or something?” Mr. Sei—Hyakunari Seiichiro—always spoke to me with a certain deference, but Kanehara did not. Nevertheless, I came to like Kanehara—who showed no such deference—in his own way, much like Asakura who conversely went out of his way to humor me.

“It’s just flour got in there, right? The daifuku flour…” he said, but lately I had often been coughing without any clear cause. “You don’t look well.”

Just as Kanehara said this, the women coming to recruit day laborers—not the crab factory girls, but women who had been helping unload other fishing boats—swarmed over to the food stall like flies to carrion. As if preparing to leave, Kanehara stood up from the stool, “Here’s that letter…” Amidst the commotion, he pulled an envelope from his pocket in that same casual manner and slipped it into my hand. I knew it was from Kōdō without needing to read it or ask questions. He’d gone out of his way to deliver it.

"My bad." We emerged onto the coastal street. Mixed in with the Kagome formation, kites swirled low in the sky. Targeting the fish spilled on the ground, they swiftly swooped down. Their wings appeared abnormally large.

“Later, I’ll get some crab fundoshi.” “Yeah, sure thing.”

I nodded. On the crab's shell was attached a triangular-shaped part that cradled the inner side—what was its official name? This was colloquially called the fundoshi, and unlike regular crabs, the red king crab's fundoshi contained delicious meat that when boiled had a kamaboko-like texture. But since it didn't resemble typical crab meat, they didn't use it for canning. "Kunashiri's clearly visible today."

Kanehara cast his eyes toward the sea. I also stopped, “Maybe I should go over to Kunashiri once. I hear they have butterbur there that grows taller than a man’s back. They say horses even get injured there—it’s incredible.” “The thick-stemmed mushrooms in Kunashiri are delicious. This autumn I’ll bring you some shimeji and maitake.”

After such a peaceful conversation, Kanehara— “Even the Communist big shots are bowing out one after another—all this talk of ideological conversion, it’s just disgraceful.” “So you’re still an anarchist, huh?” “What do you mean ‘still’?” Children who had threaded red hamanasu berries (there I learned their proper name was actually hamanashi, but I’ll stick with the common term) onto strings and hung them around their necks like Hawaiian leis in the current fashion were forming a circle and watching something with keen interest. When I peered over from behind, there was a child holding a wooden ball slightly larger than a hamanasu berry, shaped like a daifuku rice cake; just as I thought it had spun down, it slid smoothly back up along the string. It was a yo-yo.

“What becomes popular in Tokyo soon becomes popular here too.” Kanehara said irritably, “Right-wing terrorism may be all the rage in Tokyo, but this is one trend we can’t follow. Terrorism’s become the right-wing’s specialty these days. It’s like we’ve had our trademark stolen by them. Makes me want to go raise hell in China or something. Wonder if Sei went off for that too.” I heard Namiko’s voice calling me and turned around, “Papa. Papa.”

Calling me that, Namiko came running. Holding the baby to her chest and gasping for breath, “A telegram—Papa’s in danger…” Tangled up,

“Am I in danger?”

“What are you talking about?” “Papa in Tokyo is critically ill!” This “Papa” must mean my father, but there was no reason a telegram would come directly to me. My head grew confused. Had Yahagi staged some kind of act? “I heard from that stall vendor it’s over here…” Namiko too was flustered. She kept spouting unnecessary things with the vital telegram still stuffed in her obi. I too had forgotten to demand she show me the telegram,

“Don’t panic,” he scolded Namiko. “Oh no—your father’s dying!” “How do you know that? Whether it’s true is doubtful.”

Kanehara intervened. “Why don’t you open that letter from earlier and see?” The telegram had been sent by Kōdō. Upon reading Kōdō’s letter, I understood everything. I had been corresponding through Kanehara, but through those letters I’d informed Kōdō of my whereabouts and alias. My father had collapsed from a cerebral hemorrhage. Though his life was spared for now, there was no telling when he might take a turn for the worse. That’s why my brother had been scouring the country for me—he’d even gone to Kōdō. Kōdō told him that while he did know where I was, he couldn’t disclose my location yet, not when I’d sworn him to secrecy—not even to family. But he’d promised my brother this: if Father’s condition became dire, he’d send a telegram without fail. He’d written to inform me of that arrangement. Then came the telegram chasing after his letter.

“We’d better go.”

“Best be going,” I said to Namiko in the local dialect. “To Tokyo?” “We’ll leave right away. Just take the essentials for now…” “Once we go to Tokyo, you won’t come back here again, will you?” Namiko sat sprawled in the middle of the room,

“We went through all the trouble to buy these—what should we do?” She looked around restlessly at the household goods. “We can have them sent later.” “Will it be alright?” “Hurry up. We’ll leave on the night train.” Baby Shinako was soundly asleep. I crossed my arms and stomped heavily around the room. Namiko, who had thrust her face into the closet with her round buttocks turned this way, murmured something about all the diapers being there as she rustled around.

I suddenly wanted to hold Namiko. In all this chaos—no, precisely because it was such a time—it was exactly at moments like these that such things happened. That’s how it went. Was it the excitement of going to Tokyo that had stirred up my lust? I abruptly slipped my hand under Namiko’s skirt from behind. When my fingers reached the black culottes—the kind schoolgirls wore at field meets, which I’d jokingly named— “Oh—this was here…”

Namiko brought out a beanbag from the closet. It was the "Ayako" we had found when we first entered the factory girls' dormitory. “You kept it?” “It must have gotten mixed in somewhere,” Namiko said evasively, “Let’s take it for good luck.” “What do you mean?” “It’s fine.” “Hey, Namiko.”

Feeling distracted, I whispered a blatant remark.

“You’re impossible.” “After you rushed me like that,” she said, reaching for the top shelf of the closet. “I don’t need any futon—close the shoji,” I said.

No sooner had I sealed the room than I threw Namiko down on the tatami and hiked up her skirt. I craved an act resembling rape. Father was dying—I wanted to believe that was what made me violent. I felt no shame in treating my wife like some courtesan of old. “That’s rough—” Namiko said, even as she yielded. She brushed back the hair from her face, breathing harshly. Namiko too seemed to have surrendered to the same mood. When I loosened my grip on her pinned wrists, she clung to me fiercely from below.

“Love this…you too, Namiko.” I had said it deliberately, but Namiko silently accepted it. Namiko wasn't like this before. Namiko had also changed. Though I had been with Namiko in Tokyo, it was after coming to Nemuro that she truly became a woman. "Oh, how strange," Namiko had said. “It’s not strange. That’s natural.”

“Oh, no—how embarrassing. No—no.” I, who had only known whores like Ran and their fake moans, had never heard anything but those counterfeit cries. This wasn’t technique; it was the first time I’d known such a genuine voice. The exceptions were that courtesan and Teruko that one time—though that was definitely not a counterfeit voice... “I’ve grown fond of you, Namiko.” “Whose doing is that?” Namiko went and said something cute—truly, there was no other way to describe it but ‘went and said’—

“You—I love you.” “I want you... I need you...” Namiko said. This wasn’t her “going and saying” it—this was her genuinely saying it. At that voice, I— “Even if I go to Tokyo, I ain’t gonna just get nabbed like some fool.” Had I said that out of fear of getting arrested? If I got caught, I wouldn’t be able to hold Namiko like this anymore. “I don’t want you getting caught.” The Namiko who said this had changed considerably between before she’d had a child and now that she had one. Her words also sounded like some ominous prophecy.—

“Not yet. Still…” This didn’t mean that getting arrested was still forbidden. “Namiko. Hey, Namiko.” When Namiko was the first to recoil, “Hello…”

A woman’s voice could be heard from the garden entrance. It was Ayako. Oh no. If she opened the shoji—the damn sliding door—it’d be unbearable.

“Wait a moment.” I barked. And grabbing Namiko, who was hurriedly trying to sit up, I said it was no good this time. If you’re going to open the shoji, then go ahead and open it—I thought, objectively observing my own indecency there as I savored that brief moment of ecstasy. It was somewhat unexpected that Ayako had obediently waited as I told her to. While tidying myself up, I deliberately made a clattering noise as I put things away,

“I’ve made a bit of a mess here because…”

Opening the shoji, “It’s just that we suddenly had to go to Tokyo…” Ayako, who said “I also came because of that,” had an unusually makeup-free face. That face, too, was unexpectedly beautiful. I had convinced myself that her usual thick makeup was merely a means to make an unattractive face appear beautiful. Whether she had discerned our actions or not, her flushed face bore an expression of bashfulness. That made her face appear all the more beautiful, while at the same time, that very beauty filled me with a heartrending ache. Ayako said she wanted to go to Tokyo with us. She asked to be taken along.

“You’ll go to Tokyo, and then on to Shanghai, won’t you?”

With Ayako’s words, I—ah, right—conceived the idea of going to Shanghai, "If I go, I’ll pass along your regards to Sei-san." "Oh, you know about going to Shanghai?" Namiko gave me a look that said You chatterbox! [She] had given me a look that said You chatterbox!, but Ayako pretended not to notice, "I want to go to Shanghai too…" "It’d be dangerous for you to come with me, Mrs. You should know that yourself, Mrs. If you’re going to go, then maybe with that Mr. Kanehara or…"

Ayako lowered her eyes and remained silent.

“There was a man who came urging me to go to Shanghai the other day—was that your doing, Mrs.?” At my loose tongue, Namiko seemed unable to endure it— “You shouldn’t say such odd things to Mrs.” Ayako ignored this and continued, “No, surely that was my husband’s—” “Why would your husband do such a—” “Because they want Mr. Kashiwai—no, Mr. Nonaka—to leave here quickly, I suppose. It’s only natural for my husband.”

“Even so, he was never a cruel master to me in the slightest.” “There’s a duty to Sei-san.” Ayako then defiantly switched gears, “You’re planning to leave me here, aren’t you?” “Leaving you behind?” said Namiko. Ayako ignored this as well,

“Very well then. Later on, if you regret that it would’ve been better had I been with you, don’t expect me to care.”

Was she planning to write Seiichiro in Shanghai telling him to stop hounding me? I sank into an unpleasant fatigue. This had less to do with Ayako's unreasonable demands than with how I always felt after being with Namiko. My body had grown alarmingly frail. The ordinary, tension-free life seemed instead to have eaten away at my flesh. For someone like me who'd staked his very body to survive, this indolent existence must be poison. If that were true, then returning to my former self should let me reclaim my health.

After Ayako left,

“Hyakunari-san’s boy…” Namiko stated casually. “It’s actually Hyakunari-san’s brother’s child, they say.” “Sei-san’s child?”

Shinako slept soundly throughout. Unaware of anything, unaware that she would be taken to Tokyo...

Part Four: Running Dogs

From Nemuro to Sapporo, from Sapporo to Hakodate, crossing to Aomori via the Seikan Ferry, then on to Ueno—on such a long train journey, even by express, I couldn't make it in time to see Father before he died. When I arrived in Tokyo, Father had long since turned to bones. Unlike Hokkaido, Tokyo was fiercely hot—they say corpses don't keep here. I met Brother's wife for the first time. Brother Gorō had married long before I fled to Hokkaido—married long before that even—but this was my first encounter with his wife Shizue. They had a three-year-old boy who showed peculiar interest in our baby. To say he "showed interest" felt strange—this wasn't some girlish fondness for infants. The boy himself was practically still a baby at three years old, yet he clung persistently to Shinako's side, drawn by her smaller size. Poking at her cheeks with his finger led inevitably to him sticking it in her mouth—making her wail—

“You mustn’t do that, Jirō.” He was scolded by Shizue. Jirō must have been Father’s naming choice, I thought. Had Shinako been born in Tokyo, Father would likely have named her something like Ichiko.

“This child is so rough…” With a face that seemed more amused than troubled, Shizue said to me, “Today’s so lively that we’re keeping him indoors, but really, with the river right out back...” “It’s too dangerous—I can’t take my eyes off him for a second.” “Maybe it’s a trait inherited from his parents,” Shizue said to Brother. “The roughness comes more from… than me.” Brother seemed about to say it must be the mother’s fault, but— “It comes from Shiro.”

he said to me. At first when scolded, Jirō behaved himself, but soon began teasing Shinako again, “No, no!” Shizue scolded. “It’s all right, Sister.” said Namiko. Her voice sounded all too eager to please my sister-in-law—something I found distinctly unpleasant—yet I also felt a certain relief recognizing how adept Namiko was at navigating such situations. Father had died, making this house Brother’s. Though Stepmother had shrunk into herself knowing she’d have to rely on Brother and his wife from now on—

“For little Jirō, she’s just the right toy…” She had the nerve to treat my child like a toy. Determined not to let Namiko gain ground over her, she laid it on thick with compliments for Shizue. Shizue was the daughter of a Kawaguchi foundry famous for its “kakaa tenka” (wife-ruled households). The term “kakaa tenka” in Kawaguchi is said to have originated from craftsmen husbands devoting themselves exclusively to foundry work while naturally leaving external dealings to their wives. Though not every household in Kawaguchi operated this way, such social customs had gradually become its defining characteristic. Shizue, hailing from that Kawaguchi, had already turned this household into something of a “kakaa tenka.”

Pushing Brother aside like that,

“There’s something strange, you see. Just before Father passed away, the cat he doted on so much suddenly vanished.”

Shizue said such a thing to me. Cats were something I disliked; I grimaced.

“They say cats disappear when they’re about to die.” Brother grimaced too, as if dismissing it as mere superstition. His contorted face seemed to rebuke the pretentious phrasing.

“So, along with Father, the cat also…” To Shizue, who regarded it as having died along with him,

“Would you call it following one’s lord in death? That sort of thing.”

Namiko said ingratiatingly to Shizue. “Don’t go throwing around words like ‘following someone in death’—that’s too dramatic,” I shouted. Shizue’s behavior reminded me unpleasantly of Hyakunari Ayako’s meddling ways, making me lash out my anger indirectly at Namiko. Shizue fell silent, cowed by my fierce glare. This isn’t like Ayako. In the corner of the room, my half-brother Saburō sat smirking through his pimply face at some private amusement. Brother, attempting to mend the strained atmosphere,

“I wish Father could’ve seen Shiro’s child just once.”

I felt somewhat dejected,

“Before Father died, I too wanted to apologize for being an unfilial son.” “Don’t act so righteous,” Brother said, though his face showed no such reproach. “Are you going back to Hokkaido again?” “I’m not going back.”

I said abruptly. A silence fell. “I wanted to meet Father too.”

“I wanted to meet Father too,” Namiko said in a reserved voice. Brother gave a small nod and took out a thin Makimoya cigarette from a Golden Bat box,

“If you’re not going back, how about working at our place?” He offered me a cigarette too, but I shook my head. “It’s not that simple.” It wasn’t that I disliked helping at the foundry. I feared that if something happened to me, it would cause trouble for Brother. I turned to face Namiko, “This one still isn’t in the family registry. Now that we’ve come to Tokyo, I mean to finally register her properly—” “Finally?”

Shizue said in disbelief, “At Namiko-san’s place, how you’ve managed all this time without…” Namiko, holding Shinako, kept her face lowered. Brother shot a glance, “Don’t make things harder than they need to be.”

A sewage-reeking river wind blew in. The smell of casting that was familiar to me since childhood came nostalgically to my nostrils.

I went to Kōdō-sensei's house. After confessing even my meaningless killings to him, I wanted to consult about how to live my life. The house remained as shabby as ever, with Lieutenant Kitatsuki and several young officers present. There were one or two unfamiliar faces among them, but a heated debate was already underway between these officers and Kōdō-sensei. When I offered formal greetings after our long separation, Kōdō-sensei and Lieutenant Kitatsuki's group gave casual acknowledgments but immediately resumed the debate they'd apparently been engaged in since before my arrival.

“Minami-sensei, you hold that all Japanese subjects are His Majesty’s children—is this your view?” This came from a young officer I didn’t recognize. “Kōdō-sensei—do you regard His Majesty as the Emperor of the Japanese people? An Emperor who exists through the people?” “Minami” here referred to Minami Ikko, a right-wing magnate close to Kōdō. But unlike Yahagi’s blunt “Minami is Minami, I am I” approach, Kōdō deflected: “In the military’s upper echelons—there are those who seem to view His Majesty solely as their personal Emperor. That’s how I perceive it.”

[Kōdō-sensei] deflected his opponent's pointed arguments.

“Therefore, they must be overthrown.” To his straining opponents, “I do not use His Majesty the Emperor for our own purposes like they do...” “That’s unthinkable…” “...It’s not the idea.” “It’s not that I do, but our views may differ slightly from yours.” “If that difference leads you to part ways with me, so be it.” “You are Imperial military personnel serving His Majesty the Emperor.” “That’s correct. Our army belongs to the authorities—it’s not the Japanese people’s army.”

I listened with wide, unblinking eyes. I’d never been in the military—or rather, I’d been denied entry—but if I had joined, would they have drilled this kind of thinking into me? "But you—that army’s made up of soldiers conscripted from the people," [Kōdō-sensei continued]. "You officers are the ones entrusted with them." I found myself wondering again how Kōdō managed to put food on his table. This line of thought came because I’d been considering going somewhere to do some racketeering. I had to go—otherwise I wouldn’t eat. Where could I go? The company I used to shake down probably wouldn’t give me the time of day anymore. Maybe I should try hitting up Tamatsuka Hidenobu for a loan first.

“You are entrusted with the lives of soldiers and make them offer those lives for the country, but…” Interrupting Kōdō’s words, “For the country?” “Are you saying we should make them offer their lives for the people instead of His Majesty the Emperor?”

The officer flew into a rage. He also declared it to be a thought of disrespect and high treason. Kōdō said calmly, “To dedicate one’s life for His Majesty the Emperor—that is to say, to dedicate one’s life for the people, His Majesty’s children—isn’t that how it should be?” “You’re mistaken. It’s fundamentally different.” “We are His Majesty the Emperor’s people—not His Majesty belonging to the people.” the officer pressing in, “Now, wait.”

Lieutenant Kitatsuki restrained him, “What Kōdō-sensei means is this—under the current circumstances, His Majesty’s soldiers will be made to die for the military cliques’ power lust and financial conglomerates’ greed. Is that acceptable? If we, who have been entrusted with His Majesty’s army, were to needlessly make those soldiers sacrifice their lives for the personal gain and ambitions of self-serving opportunists, then even we would—” “That’s precisely why we’re gnashing our teeth and wringing our hands—this cannot stand!”

“If we let His Majesty’s army be slaughtered for capitalist bastards’ sake, that would hardly serve His August Heart.” Kōdō tucked a hand towel into his open collar and wiped his sweat, “This very contradiction makes domestic reform our most urgent priority.” From downstairs, the old servant brought up a cup of tea-brown liquid. Not sake—barley tea. What had become of that middle-aged maid who’d reminded me of my dead mother? “What happened to the previous maid?” When I asked, Kōdō,

“She quit because her son was discharged from the military.”

“That’s good to hear.” “But I heard he’s been conscripted again.” “Poor thing—maybe they sent him off to China or something.”

In front of the officers, I deliberately used those words, "I believe you're aware of this, Sensei, but Mr. Yahagi Ōkura—he made the long journey to visit me the other day." "'...asking if I wouldn't go to China with him...'"

Kōdō was silently using a paper fan. "But I refused."

“You refused?” Without asking why, Kōdō continued, “The Japanese military entering mainland China requires careful deliberation.” “Yahagi Ōkura might be dancing with joy, but I disapprove—I oppose it.” “Reach for that continent, and you’ll be dragged inch by inch into a bottomless quagmire.”

The enemy would likely put up some resistance initially but would undoubtedly resort to tactical retreat. The Japanese military would advance and advance again; they might rejoice in their unbroken string of victories, but in reality, the expansion of occupied territories became an immense burden. The other side was aiming for precisely that. That was their scheme—to deplete Japan’s military power and financial resources through such means. Cunning—or perhaps clever.

“Moreover, the Anglo-American powers will inevitably intervene. China will provoke them into intervening. If that happens, even after going through all the trouble to secure Manchuria, we risk losing everything—both principal and interest.” “Then we should attack the Anglo-Americans too!” The young officer squared his shoulders. “That’s precisely why civilians denounce you as military cliques.” “The civilians again?” Suddenly, I caught the metallic tang of blood. At first I thought it came from our violent talk, but no—the stench seeped from my own breath. I cupped my hands before my mouth, panting shallowly to test the air. The iron scent lingered unmistakably. There I stood in midsummer heat, mimicking children who warm frostbitten hands with their breath come winter. Kōdō shot me a look that said What childishness is this? before turning his hawkish gaze back toward the officers.

“The notion that waging war will bring about domestic reform—that’s exactly the logic of those military cliques you claim must be overthrown.” “Wasn’t your position that domestic reform through unification under His Majesty the Emperor should take precedence above all else?” “Are you opposed to striking China, Sensei?” “You yourself stated previously that Japan’s assistance was indispensable for the Chinese Revolution’s success.” “Didn’t you say it was precisely because Tokyo hosted the headquarters of that Chinese Revolutionary Alliance—the group that raised banners declaring ‘Overthrow the Qing and Revive Han’—that they could operate securely and achieve their great dynastic overthrow?” “Yet in return for this, they engage in anti-Japanese exclusion and resistance—what sort of repayment is this?”

It was an officer I recognized. "You have no idea how much more furious I am than any of you. No—the torment I've suffered!" Kōdō wore a sullen expression,

“Our comrades risked their lives to aid them.” “To them, Japan should have remained an unforgettable benefactor.” “And now those very people engage in anti-Japanese exclusion and resistance against Japan—” “Truly an unforgivable act of ingratitude.” “But when it comes to that anti-Japanese exclusion and resistance—China too has its justifications.” “The root cause lies in—how shall I put it—Japan’s approach being fundamentally flawed.” “Disastrously so.” “We’re merely incurring China’s bitter resentment.”

“Sensei remains sympathetic toward China after all.” “No matter how much you’re betrayed, it’s because you once loved it as your own child, isn’t it?” “Even so, why were you sympathetic to the Republican Revolution?”

This was another question from an officer I didn’t know. “Before the Russo-Japanese War, there existed a doctrine called Fusei Kyakuro—Support the Qing and Expel the Russians.” “It meant propping up the Qing dynasty while repelling Russia’s imperial ambitions in the East.” “That was precisely our predecessors’ stance.” “They sought to uphold the Qing and establish peace across Asia.” “The reason we ultimately aligned ourselves with China’s anti-Qing revolution was because dealing with the Qing court offered no path to Eastern stability.” “When Japan emerged victorious in the Russo-Japanese War, the Russian threat was temporarily neutralized—yet Western powers still loomed over Asia.” “With the Qing government proving incompetent, we threw our support behind the Xinghan movement.” “This ‘Overthrow the Manchus and Revive the Han’ began as a demand for ethnic autonomy against Manchu tyranny.” “It became the first tenet of Sun Yat-sen’s Three Principles, though that nationalism has since evolved into the Five Races Under One Union.” “The Han, Manchu, Hui, Mongol, and Tibetan peoples.”

“Isn’t China now the one disrupting peace in the East?” “Because their attitude toward Japan goes beyond mere anti-Japanese exclusion—it’s outright disrespect toward Japan.”

“So we must resort to military force against disrespect toward Japan?” “Unlike domestic matters, when it comes to China issues, I cannot condone using military force that might be seen as aggression.” “When you say our approach is flawed, are you referring to that?” “We cannot blame only the government.” “Blaming individuals alone won’t suffice.” “Those who were once our comrades—who once loved China with pure passion—now chase profits madly; yesterday’s friends of China have become today’s enemies.” “Those who aided China’s revolution now stand—from China’s perspective—as central figures in treasonous plots.” “They are what you call Shina rōnin—that rabble.” “This has become what China terms ‘silkworm-eating’—the vanguard of Japan’s aggression.” “Yahagi Okura, whom Mr. Kashiwai mentioned earlier, exemplifies this.” “Because of such Shina rōnin, who can measure how much they’ve inflamed anti-Japanese exclusion and resistance?” “The anti-Japanese movement engulfed all China—the Jinan Incident sparked it. Consider that example: Japan’s official account states this.” “Upon reports of Japanese residents being looted in Jinan, our military mobilized.” “When deploying to protect citizens, Chinese forces suddenly opened fire, forcing our troops to return fire.” “Thus began hostilities that escalated into Japan’s occupation of Jinan City.” “Japan’s official version states this, but China views it as Japan having provoked Sino-Japanese clashes.” “They deem it Japan’s scheme.” “Regrettably, that appears factual.”

As if to invite any objections, Kōdō fixed his eyes on Lieutenant Kitatsuki. The lieutenant remained silent. “This is what I mean by ‘flawed.’” “Because of this Jinan Incident, a wave of anti-Japanese exclusion swept across all of China.” “They call it the May 3rd Jinan Massacre Incident and still have not forgotten their fury.”

“Mr. Yahagi, during the Zhang Zuolin Incident…” I said to Kōdō. “It seems they were carrying out provocations like what you just described here in Fengtian, Sensei. This time, they came trying to get us to do that in China too, but...”

Kōdō turned away. Ignoring my unnecessary chatter,

“Mr. Kashiwai. Have you met Sunauma Kouichi?”

"No, not yet."

“Mr. Sunauma’s raking in an enormous profit,” “He came offering to supply me with military funds.” “Military funds?” “I flatly refused.”

Well then, maybe I should go get it myself. No—how undignified. As if I’d spoken my inner debate aloud, I panicked,

“Um, why is Japan so eager to meddle in China?”

“Meddle?”

“You want to invade them, don’t you?” When I told Kôdô,

“It’s not aggression.” I was countered by one of the officers. Then another officer retorted: “For the peace of the Orient.” “How do they view that in Shina, I wonder?” “In Shina...”

Kōdō interjected, "In Shina, they view it as Japan’s government and military having become the running dogs of capitalists who want to make money there, obediently following their every command." “Outrageous!” To the officers who protested in unison, Kōdō— “Japan absolutely must carry out domestic reform.” “If we die as capitalists’ running dogs, we cannot die in peace.” In a low but strong voice, Lieutenant Kitatsuki— “To have soldiers die as capitalists’ running dogs is absolutely impermissible.”

“—Running dogs.” Kōdō said in Chinese, “That’s exactly right. I too will be sixty next year. I lost my wife and have no children. I will devote my entire being to Japan.”

Since I couldn't just keep freeloading at my brother's place as Gonpachi the lodger, I decided to rent a small apartment nearby and went to Tamatsuka Hidenobu's place for fundraising—no—rather, for a scheme.

Tamatsuka’s house stood on a hill in Ōmori. It was one of those modern-style homes that had become fashionable in early Shōwa—a cheap Oxis (Western-style house)—but to me, it felt like that bastard Tamatsuka resented living in such a pretentious place. He’d moved there after becoming a bestselling novelist. When I rang the bell, Aichi the maid cracked the door open slightly. “May I ask who’s calling?” I threw my full weight against the door and shoved my way inside. “Tell him Kashiwai Shiro’s here.”

The maid flustered at my pushiness, "He’s still resting." Got him—I rejoiced that he wasn’t out, "I’ll wait until he wakes up, so you’ll let me in." While saying this, I took off my shoes and briskly entered alone.

A large sofa sat in the narrow reception room. Hot, so hot—I flicked on the fan without permission and plopped down onto the sofa. My body was so exhausted that I had no choice but to lie down, but I wondered if it was heatstroke. Kōshita (his wife) and a woman who appeared to be a maid brought tea. When they saw my poor manners, their faces registered shock, but hers was like a peeled boiled egg with features sketched on—an oddly smooth, perfectly round face. Her petite, plump body also had a round, bouncy quality like an egg, yet I found myself smiling,

“Are you his wife?” “Yes.” Her nervous demeanor made me speak more politely. “My name is Kashiwai Shiro. I’m an old friend of Mr. Tamatsuka.” Being addressed in a coaxing voice by a man who was not only ill-mannered but also had a disreputable face and demeanor, the wife grew even more flustered. “Might you be a poet?” “Ah…”

I touched my cheek, but its hollowness made even me uneasy. The contrast between her egg-smooth face and my dried-fish visage must have been grotesque. "Last night, my husband worked through the night..." "He needn't rush to wake." Cicadas shrilled relentlessly. Their drone merged with the tinnitus in my skull. The wife withdrew, and soon Tamatsuka emerged bleary-eyed. I'd told her not to disturb him, but she'd likely roused him whispering about some unsavory visitor.

“Oh, it’s been a while.” His amiable tone only made me more wary. “This is some fancy setup.” I said. It was the prelude to the scheme. “What…” “Everything. “And your novels have been a total hit too.” Even though I said that, I had never actually read any of his novels. I had seen Tamatsuka’s name in magazine advertisements in the newspapers, but since I hadn’t read them, I didn’t know what kind of novels he wrote. “The house (saya) is lavish too…”

“The truly extravagant one is Sunauma Kouichi.” “Why?”

“He built an incredible house—don’t you know?”

“I haven’t been there yet.” “It’s an enormous mansion. Of course, with so many underlings loafing around, it has to be a big house.” “That many underlings…” “Maruman Tomekichi must be his number-one underling.” “Maruman, that guy…” “The wife is something else again.” “Did he get himself a ‘bashita’—a wife?” “She’s a film actress named Ariake Teruko.”

“Teruko?” That was Clara’s name too. “Shit. Damn it.” Disgust washed over me instantly. Sunauma’s extravagant circumstances didn’t just unsettle me mentally. My very guts twisted with physical revulsion. “You look pale, Shiro.”

“Don’t say such unpleasant things.” “You’ve gotten terribly thin.” “That’s none of your damn business.” “I’m just stating the facts.” "Speaking of facts—" Tamatsuka stared at me from behind his thick-lensed glasses,

“The other day, I went to Asakusa.” “What about Asakusa?” “I met a man called Roku the Okama.” “So what?” “A former actor, you say…?” “So what’s your point about that?”

“It’s a small world,” “He said he knew Shiro.” And suddenly switching to yakuza-like speech: “Shiro and I crossed some dangerous bridge together or something.”

“Hey, Tama-san. What’s with that bullshit—you trying to muscle me? Or maybe pull a fast one?”

From my chest to my throat, something like a hot lump suddenly surged up. What—what is this? I hunched over and cleared my throat. Then bright red blood gushed out of my mouth.

Part Five: The Warmongers

I experienced a truly massive hemoptysis. I had thought my physical condition wasn't right, but I hadn't known my lungs had deteriorated so badly. So this is it—am I done for? I was carried into the hospital, "You stupid bastard." I berated myself as though berating someone else. You're such a goddamn fool.

Namiko, who had rushed to the hospital, stoically held back her tears. I'm sorry, Namiko. Forgive this fool of me. I'm leaving Shinako to you.

Since moping around wouldn't change anything, I, half-dead as I was, put on a cheerful front. Even if this was my reckoning - though I hadn't done anything worth noting - I was frustrated too, but I stopped thrashing about. I didn't want to die, but if I had to die, then there was no help for it - I'd just die. If dying was what I needed to do, then I'd die - thinking this, I casually removed my helmet, and Death itself seemed impressed by my composure (though it feels strange to boast about it) - or perhaps more bewildered than impressed - before saying "I'll be back" and leaving. I truly felt I'd heard Death's voice with my own ears. A bedridden life awaited me, but at least for now, I'd escaped death.

This was my third botched death. When I realized it was the third time, memories of my first failed death and second failed death surfaced in my mind. I recalled that cat from my second time in Keijō. The story of my father disappearing right before his death intertwined with the tale of the cat I'd heard from my sister-in-law and rose in my thoughts. The cat poem I'd shared earlier was something I wrote during this period. I scribbled several such poems—or things resembling poems—on my sickbed. Though I wrote them to pass the lonely hours, this wasn't mere time-wasting or venting frustration. Nor did I write them intending to create poetry; they were attempts to manifest my heart through these brief poetic forms. This didn't mean I'd discovered a poet within myself, as Tamatsuka had once been a poet. I had always wanted to move through "action." I wanted to live through deeds, but laid low by illness, I couldn't act. In that state, I wrote poems like this:

Like a clam sticking out its tongue, I stuck my shin out from the futon and lay. Cool-like, hot-like, good mood-like, exhausted-like, lukewarm-like, like murky saltwater, rank-like, in the evening like a clam steeped in pine resin. When I showed these poems to Tamatsuka once, he said, "These are interesting—let's sell them to a magazine." I told him they wouldn't sell—truth was I didn't want to—but he insisted they would and took my manuscript away. Right, this happened after I left the hospital—the story's jumped too far ahead.

From Tamatsuka's house where I'd gone for the Ryak job, I was carried straight to the hospital. I collapsed before handling the Ryak business. Though it feels strange to say this, Tamatsuka covered my hospital fees. For Tamatsuka, this must have been quite the expense. I felt guilty about burdening him so much, and once my life was secured—though several months had passed in a flash—I was discharged from the hospital at year's end. The doctor told me to either enter a sanatorium or move somewhere with clean air, but where did I end up after discharge? My brother's house—a place thick with foundry dust. With nowhere else to go, and sand being unavoidable at a casting factory, there was no choice.

When I went to my brother’s house, a detective from the "local precinct" soon arrived. "Where have you been hiding all this time?" he said.

“It’s the hospital.” “No—before that,” the detective pressed, “where had you been hiding?” I chuckled softly— “China, I tell you.” The detective took this at face value, but his voice already showed hesitation as he asked what I had gone to China to do. “Ask the military about that.” “The military?” To the flustered detective— “The Army, I tell you.” I pressed further. The detective had come to investigate me as a Person Under Surveillance (Hinzuki), so his visit was unrelated to that murder.

“During your absence, headquarters kept hounding me—drove me up the wall. They’re acting like your vanishing off somewhere is all my fault… Truth is, you’re headquarters’ direct responsibility anyway.” They treat me like some big shot, buttering me up, “If you could move to some other jurisdiction, it’d be a real help to us.”

Eventually, a detective from headquarters whom I'd known beforehand came too. Seeing how I couldn't even walk outside alone in my exhausted state, he put on a sympathetic face while muttering "What a pity," his expression relaxing with relief that at least for now I wouldn't be giving him any trouble—yet still, "From now on, when you go somewhere, could you secretly let me know?" "If you go missing, it'd be my responsibility." "I won't make trouble for you, so I'd like you to at least tell me where you're going."

With that, he left a box of sweets behind.

The detectives' comings and goings frayed my sister-in-law's nerves. In my brother's wife-dominated household, I grew ill at ease. I too began yearning to move somewhere with cleaner air where the sand dust wasn't as thick. We'd originally meant to rent an apartment, but my illness had derailed those plans. After discussing it with Namiko, I rented a small apartment to convalesce in. To cover the medical expenses—or rather, our living costs—Namiko

“I’ll go out to work,” she said. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “What’re you talking about?” Namiko had apparently planned this all along—despite her abundant milk supply, she’d weaned Shinako early and completely stopped breastfeeding. She entrusted Shinako to Brother’s wife and began working evenings at a small Ginza restaurant. Brother insisted keeping the baby near me risked infection, preventing his wife from protesting about childcare duties.

Namiko stayed at my brother’s house and came to the apartment during the day to take care of my daily needs. Back then, unlike now, there were no effective drugs, so even in the cold, I had no choice but to resort to primitive methods like open-air therapy—leaving the room’s window wide open—and I lay alone in my apartment room. One time, as I lay alone drifting in and out of consciousness, a scene like that shown in Figure (1) on the following page formed in my mind. I was walking alone through the wilderness. To say I was walking through the wilderness sounded embarrassingly Christ-like, but this wilderness was somehow marked with a grid-like pattern, completely different from Christ’s wilderness.

Figure (1)

I watched from here the small figure of myself walking through the distant wilderness. In other words, I had split into two selves—the me who walked and the me who watched that walking me. To call it splitting might be overstating it—this sort of thing, seeing one's own form in dreams or such, happens to everyone. Even when fully awake, such occurrences exist. To view oneself objectively must mean precisely this.

Even though it was neither unusual nor strange, I panicked then, thinking how odd it was that there were two of me—one walking and one watching. Panicking itself was what seemed strange, but I panicked anyway, thinking "This is bad." Something bad was going to happen. Thinking that way, I panicked.

In a flurry—the watching me dashed toward the walking me. Then the other me also began running simultaneously. "This won't do!" This me grew flustered yet gave chase, breath coming ragged. Pursuing with single-minded intensity, I finally caught up to that distant me and let out a weary sigh of relief. The me and I had become one. The moment this thought formed, something peculiar occurred. Though the me who had walked the wilderness's far reaches and the me who had observed from here now merged, the wilderness still stretched endlessly before me. Or rather, from this unified me, an entirely new wilderness was beginning. This should have been satisfactory, yet the wilderness unfolding before me—originating from myself—proved disturbingly unnatural. It resembled that prior wilderness where I'd watched my distant self walking, but flipped along its horizon line like paper folded at the crease—a disorienting landscape now spreading before me. Though this wilderness emanated from my very being, as shown in Figure (2), its spatial perspective stood utterly inverted.

Figure (2)

This won't do. This has gotten out of hand. When I panicked, a phenomenon occurred that only intensified my disarray. The wilderness had been marked with a grid-like pattern, but now it began unraveling chaotically. It resembled Figure (3), though being no artist, my forced attempt at drawing ended up depicting me as if skiing across snow. Figure (3) Darkness closed in around me. Darkness descended upon the wilderness. Startled, I resolved to separate from myself. The watching me flew away from the walking me. The me observing this and I had to remain distinct.

Darkness enveloped me. The darkness, as it were, impartially enveloped both the me watching and the me walking. I saw the me walking through the darkness. In the midst of being unable to see anything, only the walking me was visible. Is it because the walking me and the me watching it are actually one person after all? I thought so, but far ahead in the distance of the watching me, there was indeed the walking me. From here, I was watching the me enveloped in darkness. The walking me appeared white and floating in the darkness.

I saw myself in the darkness like in Figure (4). I had been staring intently when I suddenly noticed—that pale figure of me floating in the darkness had no physical body. Like a mold cleanly pulled from black sand, it lacked substance. And yet that was me. I was nothing but a white hollow space, yet despite this emptiness, it walked through the darkness as me.

Figure (4) It was just a white space with no substance. And yet, that was me. That this could be me was because the surrounding darkness enveloping the white hollow possessed some thorough substantiality. Rather than darkness, it was that which had substance. I, who lacked substance, was sustained by the substance around me. Gazing at such a me, I now felt entranced. Having forgotten my panic, I remained entranced.

The rainy season had arrived.

I wrote the following poem. The rain falls While asleep While awake Across both The rain falls In two worlds The rain falls I don't know if this can be called a poem, but to me, this was poetry. When I was asleep, when I was awake, the external world did not objectively change. Whether I was awake or asleep, the world remained the same. But for me, it was two worlds. I couldn't quite articulate it properly, but it wasn't that they were objectively the same while being subjectively two different worlds.

As there were two selves—the me walking and the me watching—the world when I slept and the world when I stayed awake became two different worlds. These poems—or whatever resembled poetry—I wrote from my sickbed. Lying down, I wrote them in large pencil strokes on straw paper.

One day, when they lay scattered by my pillow, Tamatsuka came to visit. When I showed Tamatsuka the straw paper manuscripts I’d been scribbling on, “Hoh.” “This is interesting.” “May I take these?” Tamatsuka said he would sell them to a magazine. I said there was no way these could be marketable, but Tamatsuka insisted they would sell, “As for the name—is Kashiwai Shiro acceptable?”

“No, that’s no good.”

I wanted to keep the name Kashiwai Shiro strictly as a terrorist. “Nonaka—let’s make it Kaoru.” I said. The poem by Nonaka Kaoru was published in a magazine through Tamatsuka’s introduction. I never thought what I wrote would sell, but sell it did.

When I looked through the magazine, that poem titled "Like a Clam Sticking Out Its Tongue" wasn't there. "That one was... a bit..." Tamatsuka said. Did he mean it wasn't marketable? But to me, that had been my favorite poem. Tamatsuka brought the manuscript fee. I hadn't realized the magazine was practically a coterie publication that didn't normally pay fees. Had they made an exception for me? Or had Tamatsuka given me money disguised as payment?

I continued publishing poems under the name Nonaka Kaoru. The visitors to my apartment weren't limited to Tamatsuka—even Kōdō-sensei had made a special visit—but now I'll recount Maruman Tomekichi's coming. It happened when Namiko had come to my apartment to tend to my daily needs. But when I ushered Maruman into that filthy room, Namiko had already gone downstairs. Having only known Maruman as a street vendor fully immersed in his trade, I was gaping at his splendid suit—a dapper outfit indeed—when Namiko returned from washing the bedpan, swinging that misshapen, disgraceful glass bottle. "Disgusting," I grimaced,

“This is my wife,” I told Maruman, then turned to Namiko about him: “He’s my comrade.” I started to say—then stopped short. Both Namiko and Maruman already wore expressions that seemed to say “Oh?” “Well now...” Maruman began first, at which point Namiko turned to me: “He often visits the restaurant.” “Not exactly often,” Maruman interjected with a shrug, “but... sometimes.” He continued in that manner: “I didn’t know Kaoru was your wife, Shiro.”

“I see. “After all, I was just so worn out…”

To me, who had inadvertently blurted out something that sounded like an excuse, Maruman— “Mr. Sunauma was supposed to come visit, but he’s been stuck in Manchuria all this time...” “Isn’t Shanghai Boss Sunauma’s base?” I said “Boss Sunauma” with deliberate sarcasm. Maruman wedged a finger into his constricting dress shirt collar, “There’ve been... complications.” “Word is Boss Sunauma’s living like royalty these days.” “Mr. Sunauma mentions you constantly, Shiro. Why won’t you show your face at his place?”

Show my face…? Don’t mock me—stop looking down on me! I wanted to shout, but—

“What’s this about ‘complications’?” “The military has these complicated factions—you’d know more about that than me—and because of them, the work’s been pretty damn tough.” Maruman, who viewed me as having connections to the military, looked at me with eyes that seemed to say my wretched room didn’t match that status, “You’re with the National Principle Faction, then. Or the young officers who aren’t much involved with money? We’re with the Control Faction.” Maruman, who was saying things very much like Sunauma’s “top subordinate,” seemed more knowledgeable than me about the military’s inner workings.

“What’s the Control Faction?”

Maruman explained that the Control Faction was a group advocating the elimination of internal military conflicts—such as those with the Imperial Way Faction and Seigun Faction—to align the entire army under unified command through centralized control. A single control? I figured that "single" meant the military central command. Under this centralized control—were they trying to implement their own version of domestic reforms? "Was General Maki part of that Control Faction?"

“No—General Maki’s Imperial Way Faction.”

Maruman looked surprised at my ignorance. "The Imperial Way Faction denounces the Control and Seigun Factions as fascist derivatives," he said. "They insist they alone embody the true Imperial Army." "But doesn't the Seigun Faction claim to represent the authentic Imperial Army?" I countered. I knew that much. "The Seigunists do advocate restoring the Army's original form—which is precisely why they reject the young officers' movements as insubordinate gekokujō." Maruman adjusted his collar. "They're diametrically opposed to your Imperial Way cronies from the National Principle camp, Mr. Shiro. The Seigun faction believes those idealists are exploiting the junior officers' rebellious energy."

"I’m not part of the National Principle Faction at all," I said. “Which faction holds real power in the military?” “That’s the Control Faction. After all, the Army Minister is from the Control Faction. When he was Education Inspector-General, that General Ekkyo apparently belonged to the Imperial Way Faction—no—that’s not right—he’d already been shifting to the Control Faction before becoming Army Minister. It would be more accurate to say he became Army Minister precisely because of that shift."

“Who is this General Ekkyo?” “Before coming to the Education Inspectorate General, he was Commander of the Korean Army. Right around that time, the Manchurian Incident broke out.” “The current Army Minister—seizing the moment—deployed Korean forces into Manchuria without waiting for central orders.” That’s how he earned the name General Ekkyo. His promotion from Korean Army Commander to Inspector-General of the Education Inspectorate General likely stemmed from that very achievement. What a bizarre accomplishment, I thought. “The border crossing was probably forced on him by subordinates rather than his own initiative. Yet thanks to that, he climbed smoothly from Inspector-General to become Army Minister.”

Maruman the peddler had not only dressed more formally but had even changed his manner of speech. Seeing that I wasn’t very knowledgeable about the military’s inner workings, Maruman continued his explanation: “When he became Army Minister, General Ekkyo dismissed the Imperial Way Faction’s vice-minister and brought in someone from the Control Faction instead. The Director of the Military Affairs Bureau was also replaced with Nagata Tetsuzan, a shrewd operator within the Control Faction. This too was likely less his own initiative than him acting as an agent embodying the Control Faction’s intentions, but in any case, through these means, the Control Faction had seized key positions in the military’s central command. They had firmly established their footing, but the Imperial Way Faction still retained considerable influence. One of the Army’s three senior commanders—the Inspector-General of the Education Inspectorate General—is General Maki of the Imperial Way Faction, and their former vice-minister remains in Tokyo as commander of the 1st Division. So in terms of actual power, the Imperial Way Faction still possesses considerable influence. The confrontation will likely intensify further.”

I never imagined I’d be hearing such an explanation from Maruman. Though Maruman wasn’t flaunting this information boastfully—it seemed more like an old comrade’s consideration, trying to fill the gaps from my time away in the interior—I found it nearly impossible to suppress my humiliation.

The fact that Namiko was listening intently to Maruman’s explanation while pretending nonchalance only stirred up my emotions more. "What do you mean when you say you're with the Control Faction, Maru-san?" My voice carried mockery. "Business reasons."

Maruman laughed, exposing his black gums. The business Maruman was referring to was none other than Sunauma Kouichi’s business. When I asked what kind of business it was, “We have to get close to the military’s inner circles, but with all these factions inside, it’s hopelessly complicated.” “But generally speaking, many military personnel stationed out there are war-hungry—makes them ideal for business.” “If by any chance the Imperial Way Faction comes out to Manchuria, we’d be in trouble.” Maruman said something strange with a smirk. When I asked what was troublesome,

“The Imperial Way Faction has domestic reform through emperor-centric unity as their primary objective.” “That would be troublesome.” Maruman, who had been an anarchist, was saying something like a status quo-seeking capitalist would. “Does domestic reform interfere with business operations?” “Even the Control Faction is considering domestic reform, right?” “They’re aiming for a military dictatorship, I suppose.” “For the Control Faction, that’s not the purpose—it’s a means.” “What’s the purpose?”

“War.” Maruman boasted, “Even the Imperial Way Faction, being military men, are undoubtedly fond of war—but they regard domestic reform as their primary objective. If they wage war, it would be war for domestic reform… The Control Faction conversely conducts domestic reform for the sake of waging war…” “Maru-san, are you on the side of that Control Faction?” When I stared in disbelief, Maruman said something that left me even more dumbfounded.

“We should start a war.” “The biggest, most colossal war possible…” “Maru-san, to think you’ve become so fond of war…” “Because it’s good for business?”

Maruman wore a defiant smile and chuckled lowly, “It’s not just that, you know. If they start a colossal war, Japan will surely end up defeated in the end—a colossal defeat without question. Given the military’s current internal state, even if they realize mid-war they’re losing, they can’t make a smart retreat. Factional strife and glory-seeking will drive them to fight to annihilation. There’s not a single politician in Japan who can control such a military into strategic withdrawal. If by chance the Navy tried restraining the Army to stop it? Impossible—their rivalry’s too bitter for persuasion. Not even His Majesty could rein in an Army gone wild. Seen this way? Total defeat’s inevitable.” His blackened gums glistened as he leaned closer. “And when that happens—revolution comes to Japan.”

As I gasped, Maruman said, "We've got a gari (child) now too—at my place."

He said sheepishly that he'd become Sunauma's underling because he had to feed his wife and kids. It wasn't clear whether he was embarrassed about having a child or about becoming Sunauma's underling.

After Maruman left, I said to Namiko: “Change shops.” “Stop putting on airs and playing customer with that guy.” “I’m not putting on any airs.” “Even so… I’m begging you, Namiko.” Namiko nodded yes—a reluctant nod. “That man was your comrade, wasn’t he?” “That’s exactly why I hate this.” The image of my wife serving Maruman made me grind my teeth—I couldn’t bear it.

“You must hate it too.” “No—what I mean is, if he was your comrade, you should join his group too… They’re doing important work, aren’t they?” Maruman’s words about having to feed a wife and kids pierced my heart like a thorn. Feeling it throb, “You can’t work if you just lie there.” “Why not at least join them even from bed?” “Doesn’t it sound like interesting work?”

“Seems interesting?” I glared at her,

“That person left money.” “As a get-well gift… he slipped it to me quietly.” “What the hell did he give it to you for—” “He probably thought you’d just throw it back if he handed it to you directly.”

I recalled how Kōdō had refused the military funds from Sunauma. "Return that money." "What's wrong with keeping it?" "There's no need for pride," Namiko said. —The relapse had begun again. The tuberculosis bacteria lying dormant had resumed their destructive work. Was it Maruman's agitation or this unseasonable heat poisoning my lungs? One year since taking to my sickbed, I was back where I started.

In November of that year, young officers of the National Principle Faction plotted a coup d'état. Just before I collapsed, the officers I had met at Kōdō’s house were the masterminds. Captain Kitatsuki (he had been promoted to captain by then) was of course believed to have been involved as well, but his name never surfaced publicly. The plan—which targeted the parliamentary session period to attack senior statesmen and stage a coup d'état to "reveal the true form of the national polity"—shared the same nature as the March and October Incidents I had been involved in, but like those events, it was discovered immediately before execution and ended in failure.

As a result of the court-martial investigation, the case was once again easily disposed of due to insufficient evidence. It was likely meant to avoid chaos, but the young officer ringleaders were merely ordered suspended from duty. However, the young officers were enraged by this disciplinary action. They claimed that this incident had been fabricated by the Control Faction to bring down the Imperial Way Faction. They clamored that the Control Faction had fabricated this so-called November Incident in an attempt to completely seize military leadership by distancing the Imperial Way Faction—including General Maki, whom they supported—from real power within the army.

The young officers who had received suspensions from duty were thereupon ordered to resign. Thus, the factional strife within the military became narrowed down to the conflict between the Control Faction and the Imperial Way Faction.

It was around this time that Hyakunari Ayako came up from Hokkaido and visited my apartment. Having heard about my illness from Kanehara, she said, she brought a great quantity of Hokkaido butter.

“Mr. Kanehara has gone to Shanghai.”

Ayako said with a distant look in her eyes. Kanehara hadn't told me anything about that.

“I seriously wondered if I should go along with him...” I found it too bothersome to speak and kept silent. “What about your wife?”

Ayako said something strange.

“Did you part ways?” “No—why do you ask?”

If I were to transcribe my conversation with Ayako in full, the narrative might veer off track indefinitely, so I will cut it short here and hurry to recount the main thread of the military faction conflict. In July of the following year, General Maki of the Imperial Way Faction was expelled from the Education Inspectorate General. General Maki refused to resign, but under pressure from the Control Faction, he was ultimately forced to step down. This dismissal enraged the Imperial Way Faction.

The following month saw Chief Nagata of the Military Affairs Bureau from the Control Faction openly assassinated in broad daylight within the Army Ministry. The culprit was naturally an Imperial Way Faction officer. Due to his Imperial Way affiliation, he had been slated for transfer during August's personnel reshuffle to become a military instructor at a commercial school in Taiwan. This transfer became the direct catalyst that drove him to resolve to assassinate Chief Nagata. After committing the act, he exchanged handshakes with Imperial Way officers inside the Army Ministry and attempted to calmly depart for his new post in Taiwan. When newspapers reported this conduct, it left people with the impression of madness. That one could murder a man and then serenely proceed to his assignment defies comprehension as sane human behavior.

But that was indeed an act of sanity. The assassin held no sense of criminality. There existed only opposition - merely repaying the Control Faction's brutality with brutality. He had simply done what was necessary. He must have thought this way. This demonstrates how intense and grave their conflict had become. Due to this feud, they likely believed even this atrocity would vanish into obscurity. Being apprehended by the military police must have been utterly unexpected.

The assassin was court-martialed. The Control Faction took this incident seriously. Seizing this opportunity, they became determined to drive the remaining Imperial Way Faction elements within the military's central command into a corner while simultaneously eradicating the forces of young officers supporting them. The means devised by the Control Faction was to transfer the young officers of the National Principle Faction to Manchuria's Kwantung Army. Under the noble pretext of dispatching promising young officers to crucial front lines, they planned their overseas exile.

Captain Kitatsuki and his men finally rose up in rebellion. This was the so-called February 26 Incident.

Part Six: Before and After the Execution by Firing Squad

Learning about the Uprising from my sickbed, I thought, Damn it! I shouted. Had I not fallen ill, I would naturally have been acting alongside them. I resented my illness—no, my misfortune—that I should have joined them.

Misfortune? —To me, it truly did feel like misfortune. For though I had participated in those abortive attempts—the March Incident and October Incident that ended in failure—the fact that this February 26 Incident, finally brought to fruition rather than ending in failure, this incident centered around Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his men, should have left me completely disconnected—no matter how I looked at it, this was utterly regrettable. Beyond all reason, the frustration was unbearable.

I wanted to meet Captain Kitatsuki. But where should I go to meet him? The rebel forces had attacked and occupied the Prime Minister's Official Residence, the official residences of the Army Minister and Grand Chamberlain, the private homes of the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal and Finance Minister, as well as the Army Ministry and Metropolitan Police Department—but I couldn't determine at which of these locations the Captain might be.

I tried calling Kōdō-sensei’s house, but he wasn’t in. It seemed only natural he wouldn’t be home. He must be participating in the uprising. Without telling Namiko, I left the apartment. My days had been spent alternating between sleep and wakefulness, occasionally venturing out for short walks nearby, but venturing far was something entirely new. My legs, atrophied from long confinement to bed, sank into the piled snow with the unreliability of walking through clouds. I moved not through leg strength, but sheer force of will.

First I went to the Metropolitan Police Department. Approaching the rebel troops encircling it on guard duty, I called out "Keep at it!" and inquired about Lieutenant Kitatsuki's whereabouts, but they didn't know either. They understood nothing—merely participating in the uprising by following their superiors' orders. Gasping through heaving shoulders as I stumbled through snowdrifts, I finally learned the captain's regiment was likely at the Prime Minister's Official Residence. Though there was a road leading there from the Imperial Palace direction, rebel forces had sealed it off. I detoured instead toward Akasaka. This was before suppression units mobilized; gawkers already swarmed thickly. Despite no police presence visible, people instinctively kept their distance as if barred by invisible officers. They clustered along the lower tramway—service suspended—without venturing up the slope to the residence.

I broke away from that line alone and began climbing the slope where snow blew straight into my face.

“Halt!” A sentry holding his rifle at the ready barked from the top of the slope. Ignoring this, I kept walking, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” “Identify yourself!”

“Kashiwai Shiro...” I had announced my name as if I were someone of consequence whose name everyone should know—but there on the slope, my voice came out weak and gasping, utterly mismatched to that boastful introduction. Once more, I mustered all my strength to shout. “I want to see Captain Kitatsuki!”

Mentioning the Captain’s name had effect. Having somehow reached the sentry’s position, I—

“Tell Captain Kitatsuki that Kashiwai Shiro has come to see him,” I said imperiously. The sentry, overwhelmed by the force of will, asked, “Do you not have a pass?”

he said, softening his tone. With my pallid face sporting unkempt stubble and shabby attire besides, I must have paradoxically appeared to the sentry as some sort of right-wing stalwart. There had been a secret arrangement where postage stamps affixed inside one's jacket would serve as passes. I hadn't known this—later, when arrested under suspicion of involvement in the incident, my ignorance of both passwords and pass protocols at sentry lines became proof of my non-participation in the affair.—

I managed to meet Lieutenant Kitatsuki at the official residence. To the lieutenant who had come out to the entrance, I said, “Congratulations.” The lieutenant remained silent, his lips pursed tighter instead. “If there’s anything needing done—let me do it. I want to help,” I said. My non-participation was a source of shame, and the lack of any invitation to join left me deeply dissatisfied.

“Thank you,” the lieutenant said, “Now we await only the issuance of the imperial edict.” They might as well have declared they’d done all they could, but their posture of idly waiting with folded arms struck me as incomprehensible. Why not enter the Imperial Palace instead of waiting? The lieutenant said they couldn’t possibly commit such sacrilege, “We have no intention of interfering in political matters.” That lay beyond their mission. The uprising had already reached the Emperor’s attention, and the military itself had affirmed their actions were approved. He said they’d entrusted everything thereafter to General Maki and his cohort.

However, it was not that General Maki and his group had been informed of the uprising in advance. If they had contacted senior officers—as could be seen from the examples of the March and October Incidents—there was a risk that the plan would fail; therefore, Lieutenant Kitatsuki and his group of young officers carried out the action entirely on their own. Their sole purpose was the uprising itself; they seemed to have given no thought to what would follow or what might become of it. It could almost be taken as a completely unplanned uprising.

“How about acting more proactively?” Even as I said this, I hadn’t actually brought any concrete proposals about what should be done in this situation. My coming to see the Captain wasn’t out of some belated rush to join this uprising in panicked desperation. It wasn’t that I’d harbored ambitions to exploit this coup myself. But still, their fastidiousness—or perhaps their naivety—exasperated me. To leave the resolution entirely to others could only be called irresponsible.

The assassination of senior statesmen was meant to be a means for domestic reform, not the uprising's purpose—yet now that means seemed to have become the end itself. To demonstrate their purpose lay in domestic reform, they ought to have taken concrete measures to resolve the situation. What did it mean to shun this under the banner of politics? Given their solemn vow for domestic reform, shouldn't they have refrained from avoiding politics? "Politics isn't something we should meddle in."

The lieutenant said flatly.

“On this point, Kōdō-sensei holds the same opinion.” “Is Kōdō-sensei here…?” “No—he’s at home.” “When I called his home, he was out though.” Could he be here? When I said this, the lieutenant shook his head, “For this uprising, we acted on our own without consulting Sensei.” “After the uprising began, we’ve been calling Sensei’s home to seek his opinions and instructions, but…”

There, in a tone as if he had just thought of something, “Sunauma Kouichi brought in a straw hood.” “You should thank him too.” The sake was appreciated, but through implication, he made it clear that the giver’s gesture displeased him.

"I have no connection with Sunauma now." I could scarcely contain my bitterness at why Sunauma—who supposedly supported the Control Faction—would be casting amorous glances toward the Imperial Way-aligned young officers. The uprising force had initially been designated by military central command as the regional force. This meant it was considered part of the regular army. It hadn't yet been branded a rebel army. If anything, numerous high-ranking officers within military central command had proactively offered words of encouragement and praise to the uprising's young officers.

From the moment this regional force was renamed the occupation force, the situation took a turn for the worse. Before long, it was renamed the riot force.

The uprising force was designated as a rebel army. An imperial command issued by the military recommended the uprising force's surrender. The young officers refused it. There, the uprising force was branded as renegades defying imperial command. They had been completely outmaneuvered by the Control Faction controlling military headquarters. First skillfully flattering them to lower their guard, buying time before finally branding them as renegades in one decisive move.

The young officers' last hope, General Maki and his group, were defeated. This must have shown just how unreliable the Imperial Way Faction truly was. The suppression force was deployed. They surrounded the uprising force—now branded renegades—in layer upon layer. The tragedy of the Imperial Army turning against itself was about to unfold. The young officers swallowed their tears and surrendered.

February 29. The February 26 uprising collapsed pitifully after merely four days.

Captain Kitatsuki and his men were court-martialed. The punishments for the March and October Incidents had ended ambiguously, as previously mentioned, even though they had ended in failure. I thought this February 26 Incident would... but the verdict handed down that July was extremely harsh. Nearly twenty individuals were sentenced to death. The execution was carried out one week after the verdict. Starting with Captain Kitatsuki, all those young officers I had come to know at Kōdō’s house were executed by firing squad.

(Ah...) There’s no need for me to describe here what I felt. If I were to put it into words, there would be no sorrow or lamentation to speak of. In my heart, I secretly vowed revenge for Captain Kitatsuki and the others who had been killed.

Kōdō had been arrested and was still imprisoned. I waited for the day when Kōdō would be released from prison... I would consult with Kōdō and take revenge on those bastards who killed Captain Kitatsuki. Kōdō, who had no direct connection to the incident, had never even dreamed that he would receive the death penalty.

With the new year, the imperial command to form a cabinet was issued to that General Oogaki. The general had resigned as Governor-General of Korea in August of the previous year and returned to the home islands. This cabinet formation ended in failure. This was because the military refused to provide an active-duty Army Minister to the Oogaki cabinet.

The revision of the official system, which limited ministers to active-duty generals and lieutenant generals, had been carried out the previous year. It was more a revival than a change. Originally, this had been the case, but when political party influence expanded during the Taisho period, the official system was revised to allow even reserve officers to become ministers. It had been reverted back to the active-duty system. The military's power had grown to such an extent. General Oogaki was viewed as the root cause of disarmament and was disliked by the military central command for having temporarily colluded with reformist young officers. The military central command had firmly resolved not to provide an active-duty Army Minister to the cabinet headed by Oogaki. Under those circumstances, forming a cabinet was impossible.

This military tyranny was ultimately due to the February 26 Incident. The Imperial Way Faction had been purged from the military central command, and seizing this opportunity, the other factions dissolved as well—thereby achieving the control envisioned by the Control Faction. Around that time, I was summoned by Sunauma and went to his house. He said there was something he wanted to discuss face-to-face. When I arrived, the residence could have been mistaken for a nobleman's estate—a veritable mabudoba (mansion). In truth, Sunauma had purchased it from a fallen former daimyo family, but the presence of his underlings—unsavory-looking men loitering about the grand mansion—utterly ruined its dignity.

“How’s your health?” Sunauma, leaning against a large sofa, had fully acquired the dignified bearing of a boss. I sat back uncomfortably on some extravagant sofa that wouldn’t let me settle in, “You look much better now.” “My body has recovered, but…”

"I said."

During the February 26 Incident, I forced myself to go out despite my condition; perhaps because it was winter, my illness didn't relapse—on the contrary, I even felt like I'd built up some physical strength because of it. The shock of Captain Kitatsuki and the others' execution didn't aggravate my illness; on the contrary, my weakened body actually straightened up. Or rather, it was as though the deaths of Captain Kitatsuki and the others had expelled the death lurking within my body. Or perhaps I should say—or rather—it was as though they had taken away the death within my body along with their own deaths.

“My body has recovered,” I said. “But—and this might sound affected—now my heart’s the sick one.” “Neurasthenia?” Sunauma dismissed it outright.

Sunauma said bluntly. His mocking tone rankled me, but—

"I can't help but feel terribly sorry for Captain Kitatsuki." Sunauma too said something like "How unfortunate," then continued: "But—'Don't let the February 26 sacrifices die in vain'—that's become the military's slogan these days." "That's no joke. Wasn't it the military itself that killed those young officers?" "You're still breathing fire, I see." Sunauma opened a box of imported cigars, casually plucked one out, and offered it to me: "The military's breathing fire too. There's no Control Faction or Imperial Way Faction anymore—now they've united into one, breathing fire."

"I suppose the Control Faction has taken control of the country." "It’s not about factional problems. The military will take control of the country before long." "That’s quite convenient for you, Mr. Sunauma." My rough breathing—my bluster—seemed to stem from not wanting to be outdone by Sunauma’s boss-like demeanor. "Shiro." Sunauma slowly exhaled cigar smoke from his mouth, "It’s about time you grew up, Shiro. You can’t stay an eternal complainer forever. When you’re young, that’s fine—but how old’s your kid now, Shiro?"

“Five.” The cigar smell was too harsh for me. That too made my face contort,

“Isn’t Maru-san here today?” “He’s in Shanghai.” Sunauma immediately continued, “There are all sorts of acquaintances of yours in Shanghai, Shiro.” “Seems so.” “Did you hear that from Maru-san?” “Maru-san didn’t say anything.” “Inosawa Ichitaro’s daughter is in Shanghai.” “Is that so?” I snorted dismissively. “She’s running a lavish café, I tell you.” “Did Inosawa Ichitaro make a fortune through shady dealings?”

“Inosawa died.”

“Where?” “He was killed in Shanghai.” Sunauma said nonchalantly. “Who by?” To my question, Sunauma didn’t answer. “Inosawa’s daughter apparently came to Shanghai some time ago, but she only recently started the café.” “So this matter you wanted to discuss—is that all?” “It’s not a woman—there’s a man in Shanghai I want you to meet.” “Abiru, maybe?”

At that moment, Sunauma's wife herself brought tea. A woman whose stage name was Ariake Teruko—a former film actress who had retired but still carried the radiant elegance of an actress about her, a yake-mabu (beautiful wife). I exchanged greetings with her while— (That bastard Sunauma landed himself quite the woman.) I was seized by envy, but—

(Oh well, it's all about the money.) He cursed inwardly. But it was infuriating that she didn't seem like some empty-headed woman who'd been dazzled by Sunauma's money alone. "A delivery of pickles has just arrived from Shanghai." She said and showed Sunauma a paper with the sender's name written on it. It was a Chinese name, but Sunauma tilted his head and said he didn't recognize it. "Pickles...?" "It's a large barrel." "It was sent by sea from Shanghai, but it gives off such a foul odor - I thought it might be Chinese pickles."

"Why would they go out of their way to send pickles?" Sunauma wore a skeptical expression, but

“Just open it up. “Have them try opening it. “If they’re pickles, Chinese ones are tasty. “We’ll share some with Shiro too.” After his wife bowed to me and left the room, “What a pity for Kōdō-sensei too.”

Sunauma said to me. "He probably won't survive." "What do you mean?" "Doesn't look promising at all."

Sunauma said it would probably be the death penalty. Even at his cold tone, I flared up, "What are you talking about? Kōdō-sensei has no direct connection to the February 26 Incident!" "Even if he wasn't involved, that wouldn't matter. Since he was a leader of the young officers..." "Are you saying execution is justified? Don't talk nonsense!" As I indignantly rose from my seat,

“This is bad!”

A subordinate came clattering down the hallway with loud footsteps and burst in,

“Sensei.” “The pickles—they’re terrible!” “It’s a salt-preserved human corpse!” “What the hell?”

Sunauma flared his large "March" (nose) and, “What kind of kompira (pickles) is this? Speak clearly!” “It’s a salt-preserved human…” “Was the contents of the barrel a human?” “That’s correct. "They had the nerve to send a salt-preserved human."

“That person—who is it?” “Well, Sensei, it... it seems to be Asakura’s older brother...” “Asakura…?”

Me too... Asakura? I pricked up my ears. “Alright, I’ll take a look.” With the cigar still clenched between his teeth, Sunauma rose from the sofa. “There was a man called Asakura among Yahagi Daihō’s subordinates,”

“Isn’t that the man?” When I asked, “He got fed up with Yahagi and came to me, but—”

Sunauma’s voice was laced with a complex expression. “That Asakura… salt-preserved…?”

I too followed after Sunauma. In Nemuro, I had met Asakura as one of Yahagi’s subordinates, but there was something about that nihilistic Asakura I’d taken a liking to. Asakura had said he was good at pachinko—yet he’d been killed, salt-preserved, and sent all the way from Shanghai to Sunauma’s house…? When I entered the kitchen, a putrid stench immediately assaulted my nostrils. I’d always hated how harsh Sunauma’s cigar smoke was, but now its acridness helped mask the reek.

The barrel sat imposingly on the gleaming polished wooden floor of the kitchen, surrounded at a distance by pale-faced subordinates forming a wide circle. His wife was nowhere to be seen. She must have fled in shock. I approached the opened barrel alongside Sunauma. Inside lay a completely naked man arranged like a corpse in a coffin. His face hung limply forward, knees forced upright as they'd crammed him into the barrel. Sunauma leaned in to examine the face—

“As I thought, this is Asakura.” Cigar ash plopped onto the corpse’s shoulder. A chill ran through me. Though ash falling on a corpse meant nothing, that chill forced me to examine Asakura’s body again. Asakura’s face had been pale—his body must have been equally white before—but now salt-preserved, it resembled the filthy hue of an over-pickled takuan radish, his skin shriveled and wrinkled. The young man whose flesh should have been taut had become a corpse like some ugly old man—pitiful, yet...

The hitman Asakura had sharp eyes that were his most distinctive feature. Those eyes were now gently closed, and the long eyelashes lying evenly against the skin possessed a beauty as if drawn with a fine paintbrush. This single feature redeemed the ugliness. Had his eyelashes always been this long, this beautiful? As beautiful and long as a doll's false lashes—cute enough to call cute—yet that very cuteness made the cruelty feel all the more intense.

“Just as I thought—it’s you, Shiro.” Sunauma said. He stared at me with a sharpness reminiscent of Asakura’s eyes when he was alive. “What is it?” “That’s some nerve.” “Did you think I’d lose my nerve?”

However, finding the stench unbearable, I lowered my eyes to Asakura’s corpse, "This has turned into one hell of a mess." When I said that, Sunauma—as if disliking my words and wanting to correct them— “They’ve done some damn awful thing.” “What’s this supposed to mean? A warning?” “Well, that’s about the size of it.” He said it was likely the work of the Anti-Japanese Traitor Elimination Corps. “They’re sending a message: any Japanese who act as the military’s lackeys and scurry around in China—we’ll make sure they all end up like this. That’s why they sent this salt-preserved corpse as a warning.”

“With this going on—can’t get to Shanghai much anymore.” “When they pull shit like this—makes it impossible—so don’t tell me even Mr. Shirō doesn’t wanna go back?” Sunauma had said this to me, but what I’d meant by “warning” was slightly different.

“Couldn’t this be Yahagi Daihō’s handiwork?”

Sunauma silently watched me. "I'll pass on these pickled leftovers." I said.

The flames of war reached Shanghai. It was the summer of the year when Asakura’s salt-preserved corpse had been sent from Shanghai to Sunauma’s house.

In the sweltering peak of mid-August that year, verdicts were handed down to the civilian defendants of the February 26 Incident. Kōdō-sensei and Minami Ikko were sentenced to death together. It had turned out exactly as Sunauma predicted. Though I found it unthinkable, the closed-door kangaroo court imposed capital punishment on Kōdō-sensei and others who bore no direct connection to the incident. After the verdicts—immediately, if five days later could be called immediate—the sentences were carried out. By firing squad. This fell precisely on the first anniversary of Captain Kitatsuki and his men's execution. The officers reportedly went to their deaths chanting "Long live His Majesty the Emperor" three times, but Kōdō was said to have stood silent before the rifle muzzles. There had been someone pressing for the triple cheer of imperial loyalty, but—

“That won’t be necessary.”

It’s said he shook his head. The complex emotions searing through those words pierced me to the core. On the day Kōdō’s emaciated body was riddled with bullets like a beehive, Japan’s overseas bombers were conducting blind raids from the skies over China, the land he had loved. Shanghai had become a hellish battleground of screams and carnage. It was the outbreak of the China Incident.

Around that time, I had actually been leisurely escaping the heat at Chiba's coast. No—it wasn't some stylish summer retreat. Fearing a relapse of my illness in Tokyo's scorching heat, I'd sought connections to stay at a fisherman's house in Sotobōshū. To outsiders, it must have looked like quite the privileged life—a husband idling alone while leaving his wife to work. In that place where I heard the verdict, blood rushed to my head, and for a moment I thought to immediately bolt for Tokyo. But even if I went, it wouldn't change anything. I probably couldn't meet Kōdō-sensei. If refused entry, I might lose control—I couldn't predict what I'd do. I resolved to sit staring down the sea.

The Pacific-facing coast of Sotobōshū, even on windless calm days, had tremendous waves surging in, crashing against the rocks as if in a storm. Exhilarating. Whether to call it violent exhilaration or exhilarating violence—that’s how it felt to me. Because inside my heart swirled a savage mix of anger, frustration, and tears. Yet, the external violence was exhilarating precisely because it crushed the violence within my heart.

On the day I learned of Kōdō's execution, I sat perched on a rock. Occasional spray would reach me, but even the raging waves never made it this far. Around the rock where I sat, small sea snails clustered densely. Most were about the size of azuki beans, clinging tight to the stone. They resembled scabs, making the rock look like it had contracted some skin disease.

The fishermen called these snails Isodama. When they grow to about the size of a beigoma top, people salt them and eat them. I tried some of those Isodama that had been shared with me—the phrase made me think of the salt-preserved corpse—and found them surprisingly tasty. I pried open their tightly sealed lids with a needle, scooped out the contents, and slurped them down smoothly. They're harvested at low tide—even a child could fill a bucket quickly. If they hid deeper in the sea, they wouldn't be so easily caught, yet there they clung to rocks in places where anyone could gather them effortlessly.

The baby shellfish, still too small to harvest, clustered densely around the rocks surrounding me. Under the scorching sun, the rock burned hot enough to sear one's hand upon touch. Those shellfish clinging to the stone must find this relentless glare unbearable, I thought. Wouldn't they get parched to death like this? They'd be better off clinging to rocks in colder waters instead. Why do they stay in such a place? Why persist in living through this hardship?

At high tide, they were submerged in seawater. At that time, they found food. Or rather, perhaps the plentiful food on the ocean’s surface had been easier to gather this way than if they had remained submerged at all times. In other words, for these small shellfish, this kind of place was actually better for gathering food. But even so, what a trial of hardship and suffering this was. "Damn impressive." Muttering that, I immediately clicked my tongue with a tsk. I clicked my tongue at myself for immediately thinking in terms of hardship and suffering. I felt bitter resentment toward myself for praising such hardship.

"Hardships and suffering? Hell no." "Maybe I should become Maruman's Daikyou - sworn brothers - and take on that 'big job' Namiko kept pushing." "I don't wanna end up like these Isodama - grinding through misery just to get ripped apart easy in the end."

I plucked the Isodama from the rock and hurled them into the sea. The small shellfish clung tenaciously to the rock in their own way despite their size—their struggle carried a desperate quality—but they were no match for human hands. As I kept plucking them by feel—they came off easily in the end, rolling away—I continued hurling them into the sea. Then I stared at the sea. Gradually, I shifted my gaze toward the distant sea.

“Daaad!”

Shinako's voice snapped me back to awareness. Though distant, my child's voice cut keenly through the wave sounds to reach my ears.

“Daaad!”

Namiko also raised her hand and called out to me. She had come from Tokyo bringing the child. "Hey!"

I also raised my hand. Like an Isodama shellfish, tiny (chai-chii) Shinako came running single-mindedly across the sandy beach.

That night, I said to Namiko.

“Maybe I’ll go to Shanghai too.” Taken aback by the suddenness, Namiko stared blankly. But for me, this desire to go to Shanghai had already taken root in my heart just before we moved back from Hokkaido to Tokyo, when I met Hyakunari Ayako. This was no spur-of-the-moment notion.

“To Shanghai…?”

This Namiko had endured her share of hardships and now ran a small bar, albeit a modest one. It was little more than a step up from a food stall, but a shop was still a shop.

“Maybe I’ll go earn some money in Shanghai.” I said. Namiko silently watched my face. “I want revenge too, but…” I had wanted to consult with Kōdō-sensei and exact tatari against those who killed Captain Kitatsuki, but Kōdō-sensei was also killed. “I can’t do a damn thing like this.” “To take our minds off things… well, if we go to Shanghai…” Before I knew it, Namiko—who had taken up smoking—said with an Asahi cigarette between her lips.

Chapter Four

Part One: Exhilarating Destruction

Thus I crossed over to Shanghai shortly after the new year began. As for this crossing, there had indeed been a catalyst, but as far as I was concerned, I felt determined to go to Shanghai of my own volition and by my own will. Within that resolve lay no guilt over betraying Kōdō-sensei—who had been killed—or Captain Kitatsuki through this act.

The catalyst for my going to Shanghai was Maruman’s invitation—

"Why don't you come with me?" Maruman, who was in Tokyo at the time, had suggested we go have some fun. He made it sound casual, but going with Maruman would mean becoming a subordinate to Sunauma just like he was—something I found deeply unappealing. "Shanghai is now ruled by the Five Establishments." "It's wild," Maruman said. "The Five Establishments are gambling dens, opium dens, restaurants, dance halls, and mortuaries." According to his explanation, most restaurants doubled as brothels—

“You get to eat killer Chinese grub, plus they throw in women at the hotel—how could anyone say no?” I had also heard about the mortuaries from Maruman at that time, but decided to save that for later.

“Yahagi Okura’s got his gambling den and is damn well raking it in.” "But even though opium dens are more lucrative, they took notice of that and started encroaching on our turf." “Our...? “Is Sunauma’s boss running an opium den in Shanghai?” “He may be an opium den operator, but—” Maruman, who spoke thus, had evidently gorged himself on extravagant Chinese cuisine in Shanghai, for he had grown plump all over. The surname Maruman had become perfectly round, as if it were a nickname, and naturally his tone grew more leisurely,

“We don’t deal in penny-ante stuff like opium dens—no small-time operations like that.” “Putting it another way, we’re wholesalers.” “Come to think of it, it’s been quite some time since Sunauma’s boss went to Manchuria and infiltrated those secret opium cultivation sites.” “So he was a pioneer after all.” “Well, I’ll be damned.” “I never imagined his ambitions were so grand... that the boss could foresee so far into the future.” “Direct procurement from the source regions, huh?” “This is a clever idea.”

“You say that, but in reality, it’s not so simple.” “Even so—direct dealings? I see, that’s one hell of a profit.” “In between, the military—that troublesome bunch—is meddling.” “Are they keeping a close eye on opium smuggling?” “That may be the official stance, but...” Speaking as if something were stuck between his teeth, “Shiro, I’ve kept this from you until now, but between us—let’s get it out in the open.” “But this is top-secret, you hear?” “If you carelessly let it slip...”

“You’ll get killed, won’t you?” “Well, you’d better believe it.”

Maruman stared at me with eyes that seemed incongruously sharp for his perfectly round body, “Under the pretense of strictly prohibiting opium, it’s the military that’s sucking up the sweetest profits.” “Because they have to pay through the nose to get people to turn a blind eye...?” “No.” “Don’t they have to spend money on Kaki (bribes)?” “Bribes won’t turn a profit. They’re making a killing.” Maruman grinned slyly and, “On the surface there’s strict prohibition, but behind the scenes it’s completely the opposite. They’re protecting clandestine cultivation through the military. Under the guise of secret farms, they’re actively encouraging growth. The harvested opium gets transported out openly under military protection.”

"Hmm."

The military's shrewd methods left me not just indignant but genuinely impressed. "This protection fee is killing us. They take a massive cut." "Well, of course they would." Before I knew it, I'd said it, and seeing Maruman's disgruntled expression, I realized my mistake, "That much?" "It must be contributing significantly to their war chest. Substantially padding the local military expenses."

“Hmm.” When I showed admiration again, Maruman said, “But trying to destroy China through black soil using an underhanded approach—that’s despicable.” “Black soil…?”

"In China, they call opium 'black soil.' We Japanese pronounce it as kurotsuchi." "If Boss Sunauma's making money off that kurotsuchi too, then it's not just the military that's underhanded."

"Well, that's true—but hell, it's one hell of a yōroku (profit)." Maruman laughed, baring his trademark black gums, "And anyway—China won't get destroyed by that kinda thing."

“Might look like they keep losing,” I said. “It’s a retreat tactic. Even if they take some losses now, that vast China ain’t gonna get beaten by Japan completely.” “So what if we make money off kurotsuchi?”

I laughed, "So since there's profit in it, Yahagi's after it too, I suppose?"

“There’s something about Yahagi I need to tell you, Mr. Shiro. It’s a bit difficult to say, but—” Maruman said with a serious face. “What is it?” “In a turf war over gambling dens, Yahagi killed Inosawa Ichitaro.”

“So Asakura’s killer was Yahagi too then,” I said. “Is Boss Sunauma next?” “Hey now, don’t go inviting bad omens.” Boss Sunauma had once mentioned there was a man in Shanghai he wanted me to meet—that must’ve been Yahagi. He’d meant for me to expose Yahagi. “Mr. Maruman—this difficult matter you wanted to discuss...is that it?”

"That's not it." "Then what?" "Yahagi exposed Inosawa and now patronizes his daughter Teruko." Even I was left speechless at this. "Hmm."

I couldn’t say that. Maruman wore a face that seemed to say, “How about that? Are you impressed?” but— “Mr. Shiro, why don’t you go to Shanghai and meet Yahagi?” “Are you going to pick a fight over Teruko?” “Nah.” “Are you telling me to avenge Asakura?”

“That’s not it.” “Do you want to stop the turf invasions?” “That’s not it. Yahagi wants reckless fools like you, Mr. Shiro. If you go meet him, he’ll surely be delighted and offer a large sum to make you one of his own.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” He had tried to recruit me once before—I cut him off mid-sentence and refused—

"If our boss hears about this, he’ll pile up a fortune to pull you to his side, Mr. Shiro." "You’ll be tugged at from both ends." "You could milk them dry forever."

To Maruman’s way of speaking, which made him sound like a complete villain, “Is it really okay for someone who’s Sunauma’s top subordinate to say such things?” “It’s because it’s you, Mr. Shiro.” “So you’d flip sides depending on the money? That’s amusing.” “How about it, Mr. Shiro? Why not go to Shanghai...”

“What’s the situation with the war?” “I’d rather not get dragged into this war mess.” “Seems things have gotten pretty heated—any sign they’ll calm down?”

“It’s not going to settle down—that’s perfect. Though Shanghai’s already... well, it’s the Five Establishments’ domain now.” “I’ve come to want to go. But if my luck runs out, it’ll be a one-way trip to the funeral parlor you mentioned, Mr. Maruman.”

This eerie enterprise of corpse-storage facilities flourished in Shanghai alongside glamorous dance halls.

I had heard this explanation from Maruman: when Chinese people die, they all wish to return to their native soil. Therefore, when someone died in Shanghai, their bereaved families went to great lengths to send the remains all the way back to their hometowns, no matter the cost. However, due to the war, it had now become impossible to do so; therefore, a business emerged where they would take custody of the remains for a fee until transportation became possible. Wanting to send remains back to their hometowns was of course something only the wealthy could afford; therefore, this storage business could charge exorbitant fees and became quite a lucrative enterprise. That was the funeral parlor. However, this was a business catering to Chinese people; for Japanese people, there was no such need,

“If I carelessly side with Yahagi, will Sunauma’s boss turn me into a salt-preserved corpse like Asakura this time?” “I’d like to say ‘No way’—but…” Maruman said in a suggestive tone. “Anyway, then, let’s have Maru-san arrange the funds for the Shanghai trip." “Since I want to leave some money (gold) at home too, the amount will be a bit hefty.”

I resolved to go to Shanghai. To Maruman, who would be crossing over to Shanghai ahead of me, I said I would send a telegram when I was ready to go and asked him to arrange my reception.

Not long after that, Roku the Okama abruptly appeared before me. "It's been so long since we last met..." Though Roku no longer twisted his body like before as he spoke, traces of his effeminate mannerisms lingered in his speech. "What are you doing here?" I barked. Roku calmly brushed off my tone and said, "In Shanghai... there's a lady who knows you quite well, Mr. Kashiwai..."

“So you’re heading to Shanghai too?” It was my exasperated voice. The Roku before me now was a far cry from his former shabby self—from his brand-new Western suit to his composed demeanor, it seemed he was living quite comfortably in Shanghai. They’re all making a killing in Shanghai.

“Did you hear about this apartment from that lady?” “The duck of Hyoutan Pond—have you forgotten, I wonder?” “Is that Naosuke (woman) acquainted with Ahiru? So, it’s about Hyakunari Ayako then.” Roku smiled but remained silent, his hands moving to his necktie. Over these past few years, he seemed to have aged abruptly—his pallid face had yellowed and withered, with elderly-like wrinkles now prominent on his neck. I suddenly felt an impulse to strangle him with that necktie while—

“I was also thinking of heading to Shanghai myself.” “That’s not good.” To Roku, who spoke in such a manner, “My trip to Shanghai has nothing to do with that lady.” “No. Well…” Roku explained the problematic reason as follows. The boss of that man I killed on the boat had come to Shanghai and taken refuge with a certain boss. That boss had recently, through some chance occurrence, informed him of my crime.

“So that man’s threatening to expose you, see? There’s a chance he might come gunning for you in Tokyo—that’s why I came to warn you first.” Roku rattled off the words in his rapid-fire way. “Then I’ll just have to go meet him in Shanghai myself,” I blustered. To Roku’s shocked face,

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” I said, “you shouldn’t be shocked by something like that. When I go to Shanghai, I’ll tell that man you were in on it too back then.” “Don’t be absurd! I don’t want that!” “You don’t want to? Then hand over the hush money.” I grabbed Roku by the lapels,

“Hand it over now.” “Money?” Roku played dumb. I grabbed Roku’s necktie and started strangling him, “The money you brought from Shanghai—it’s not like you earned it through anything decent anyway. Hurry up and hand it over!” “Murderer!” In a mocking voice, Roku said,

“Don’t be so rough.” “I’ll hand it over.” “Understood.” “If it can be settled with money…” “What the hell?”

“If it’s money you want, it’s right here...” He inserted his hand into his Uchi-paa (inner pocket),

“The preparation funds are properly...” he said, slipping up. “No, see—knowing you, I figured if I told you this, you’d insist on going to Shanghai instead. That’s why I brought the money.” “What the hell, you bastard? You’re the one who said Shanghai was dangerous...”

When he took out and examined the money—neatly wrapped in paper as "preparation funds"—it turned out to be a furi-bako (two thousand yen).

“Such measly money!” At the time it was hardly chump change, but when I declared this trifling sum wouldn’t do, “How marvelous. Simply divine.” his voice slipping back into that old pansy lilt,

“See? There’s a reason I fell for you after all.” “Shut up!” I barked. “That boss of mine who blabbered all that unnecessary crap—you’re just his lackey.” “You catch on quick...” “Course I do. When it comes to bosses who know me? That’d be Yahagi Daihachi.” “Impressive... Sharp eyes you got there.” “Hey Roku! Get back to Shanghai—shake twenty grand outta Yahagi—and wire it straight to me.”

“Twenty thousand yen?” To Roku, whose eyes had widened in surprise, “That’s right. “If you don’t send it, consider your life over. “After all, I’m planning to head into Shanghai myself.” Roku was unexpectedly brazen, “Mr. Yahagi would gladly hand over that kind of money if you don’t take off your sandals at Mr. Sunauma’s place in Shanghai.” “Is that so?” “In that case, let’s get the money first then,” I said, and

“If we do that, Yahagi Daihachi would be even happier.”

“Well, who can say?” Roku replied with a faint smile,

“If you’re going to become part of the boss’s inner circle, we can’t move forward without clarifying that point...”

“You think I’d sell myself out for a measly twenty thousand in cash? Whether I’ll exchange the Yai-tsuki—the cup ritual to become a subordinate—or not, that’s something to discuss once we’re in Shanghai.”

Having wrested money from both Maruman and Roku—that is, from either Sunauma or Yahagi—my departure to Shanghai was finally decided. When Namiko saw the hin'yama (cash), she was so startled she nearly collapsed.

“Where did you get all this money?” “Change how you think, and you’ll get about this much.”

“I don't like this. Hey, what's going on with this money?” “You don’t need to worry.” “I’ll earn more in Shanghai.” “Quit that stingy bar already.”

Sunauma, who had connections with the military, seemed to be making round trips by plane, but I couldn’t do the same and had to go by ship. I boarded a Shanghai-bound ship from Nagasaki.

Even I, who had crossed over to Korea before, grew tense at the thought of Shanghai. The voyage to Shanghai took merely a day and night by ship, yet it felt like journeying to some terribly distant realm. But among that ship's third-class passengers sat a woman dressed as if for neighborhood errands, and seeing her nonchalantly slip into worn koma-geta sandals made my tension seem—

"What a joke," I thought.

I couldn't help but think. At the outbreak of the China Incident, people who had temporarily evacuated to the home islands were now returning to Shanghai, so the ship was packed.

My cabin was also packed with six people. One of them was a middle-aged man chattering incessantly in Osaka dialect; from his manner of speaking, he appeared to be a scrap metal dealer. He wasn't a Japanese resident in Shanghai—this trip marked his first time going there, same as me. He claimed there must've been abundant scrap metal generated from the urban warfare, which he intended to purchase. He seemed fired up to buy low and turn a shady profit. I thought him no better than a looter.

The beds were two-tiered. The upper bunk held him; the lower one held me. As I changed into sleepwear and began removing my jacket, a delicate sound came from the pocket. Inside was one of those Nemuro beanbags. Namiko had told me I absolutely had to take it for good luck. When I asked why it was auspicious, she refused to explain—she simply insisted I carry it as a charm. When I tried stowing it in my trunk, she demanded I keep it on my person.

The azuki beans and metal pellets inside the beanbag touched each other, making a small sound. Though it must have been too faint for anyone else in the cabin to hear, to my ears it rang cool and sweet. That night, the sea was rough, and the ship rocked violently. I’d heard from Maruman that the seas were often rough, but indeed, the shaking was tremendous. The scrap-metal dealer from the upper bunk clambered down noisily, and the moment he rushed to the washbasin in the corner of the room, he started retching violently. I too was affected and began to feel nauseous; thinking this wouldn’t do, I plugged my ears with my fingers.

After expelling what needed to be expelled, the scrap-metal dealer clambered noisily back up to the upper bunk. But soon, he came back down and retched violently. The scrap-metal dealer did not return to bed and remained clinging to the washbasin. Though there was nothing left to expel, only the severe nausea persisted. It looked like the kind of agony that might force him to vomit up every last one of his internal organs. With groans so exaggerated they seemed almost theatrical, when it became that severe, he found that hearing those sounds no longer induced nausea in him.

Given that he'd been so gung-ho about going to Shanghai to make easy money, seeing him suffer seasickness more miserably and cruelly than anyone struck me as bitterly ironic—I felt something other than sympathy there. Then from the neighboring bunk,

“Ugh…” It was a voice that all but said, “How annoying.” (Later, I would learn it belonged to a newspaper correspondent.)

The man suffering was pitiable, but his condition certainly troubled everyone else. It was too noisy to sleep. Feeling sorry for him, I couldn't bring myself to say it outright—but in that same tone once more— “Ugh...” The scrap-metal dealer, at this moment— “Terribly sorry.”

he apologized. That struck me as oddly comical. Not only did his Osaka dialect sound ridiculous to me, but there was genuine theatricality in his voice. He was trying to deflect people's irritation with that performance—a stubborn determination to keep up the charade even while suffering. Even making shady profits isn't easy, huh—I wanted to taunt him. But I might be no less unscrupulous than that scrap-metal dealer. The hardship wasn't easy—and it wasn't just someone else's burden anymore. Going to Shanghai—what exactly awaited me there? The one truly facing difficulty might rather have been me.

The next day, the sea lay calm as if in a lie, and around noon, the ship entered the Yangtze River. It was only when someone informed me that we had entered it that I realized this for the first time.

The Yangtze River was of such scale that it defied all notions of rivers we Japanese had ever known. Our very concept—our common sense—of what constituted a river proved utterly inadequate here; even after being told we'd entered its estuary, it still felt as though we remained at sea. When speaking of rivers in Japan, no matter how grand the waterway or how broad its mouth might be, the presence of both banks declaring its riverine nature would immediately catch the eye. But this Yangtze resembled nothing so much as viewing Shikoku from the midst of the Seto Inland Sea—except here the shores stood not only impossibly distant but low and flat, completely vanishing from sight. Several more hours would be required to reach Shanghai by sailing up that vast estuary.

The Yangtze River—that damn colossal river—was what first impressed upon me China’s sheer immensity: a country whose scale defied our island nation of Japan. (We’d gone and started a war with such a formidable country.)

After lunch, I avoided the cabin where I would have to breathe the same air as my fellow passengers and went to the salon next to the dining room. There, a young man with binoculars conspicuously slung across his chest approached me. He was the man who had sighed, "Ugh..." in the cabin the previous night. He spoke in a tone suggesting our shared torment from the scrap-metal dealer's retching had already forged some secret camaraderie between us, declaring himself a newspaper correspondent and introducing his name as Fukamaki. That he appeared around my age seemed to foster a sense of familiarity in me, but in truth, I sensed he'd taken an interest through professional intuition—having pegged me as someone not of legitimate standing.

“I’ll stay in Shanghai briefly before heading straight to the front lines.”

Fukamaki said there was a friend he absolutely wanted to meet once we reached Shanghai. According to him, this friend was what you might call a lapsed leftist—he’d fled to Shanghai because the Tokko back in Japan proper were breathing down his neck. Was he making this sudden confession because he saw me as part of some lapsed leftist faction? Even if he was just a journalist, I kept my guard up and stayed silent. “With the new Protective Surveillance Law,” he continued, “anyone who’d ever been snared by the Peace Preservation Law had their ideological leanings re-examined... Some converts even wound up in military propaganda units, but my friend never sank that low...”

“He hasn’t debased himself…?” I interjected preemptively. "They’re lenient with the right-wing but truly harsh on the left-wing," I muttered under my breath, “Are you part of that lapsed leftist group too?” “I was just a sympathizer, you see.” Fukamaki said,

“You’re being rude, but may I ask who you are?”

It seemed Fukamaki had checked the passenger list and knew my name. He said it was a name he’d seen somewhere before. Acting like a damn spy. I kept this to myself, "I—I am a poet." A sudden, almost unconscious reply—or rather, a brilliant answer. "But for poetry, I use a pen name. Nonaka Kaoru." "Nonaka Kaoru." I had thought there was no way he would know that name when I said it, "You’re that Nonaka Kaoru…" I was surprised that Fukamaki knew.

“You—do you like poetry?” “I really like your poetry.”

Fukamaki raised the glasses he had been holding between both hands to his chest and cradled them there as though they were my poems. "I love Nonaka Kaoru’s poetry." "Those poems are truly wonderful."

I felt a wave of disgust. Though Fukamaki's words weren't flattery but sincere praise—something that shouldn't have offended—for some reason a sickening feeling churned in my gut. A sudden nausea surged through me. Last night's retching hadn't triggered it, yet having my poetry complimented made me want to vomit. "That garbage can't be helped. They're worthless trash." "Worthless trash?" "They're idiotic." "Why would you say that?"

Fukamaki’s voice sounded offended. “Why…? When we’re about to head to a murder scene, getting impressed by my poems—like some invalid’s ravings—isn’t right.” I said it like vomiting bile—or rather, instead of vomiting, that’s how the words came out. Fukamaki turned pale and fell silent. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen your poetry at all lately.” “Come to think of it?” “You’ve stopped writing poetry, haven’t you?”

“Maybe it’s because the illness healed.”

“A sickness of the mind…?” Fukamaki said. I thought to myself that he was spouting such impudent nonsense, but

“Yeah. Poetry’s like a scab over heart wounds. Or maybe that pus from rin-teki—y’know, gonorrhea?”

I—I too had been saying this in earnest.

From the estuary that resembled the sea, the ship eventually entered the tributary Huangpu River. The river narrowed, and the banks gradually came into close view. By that time, all the passengers came out onto the deck and, while being exposed to the cold river wind,

“I wonder if that’s around where the Imperial Army made their amphibious assault.”

I found myself among the crowd of people pointing at the opposite shore.

I was captivated by how the water of Shilomen (River) had turned turbid yellow, like a flow of mud. I wondered if perhaps heavy rains had caused the turbidity, but “It’s always like this.” said the Japanese man returning to Shanghai. Speaking in a Kyushu accent about how rivers in China retained this color unless one traveled deep inland, the man told me he had sent his wife and children to Japan when the Incident erupted and was now returning alone. He volunteered the information without being asked.

This man, who ran a sundries store in Hongkou, Shanghai, said that during his absence he had entrusted his business to a Chinese manager. He had left his important store with what amounted to enemy nationals—the very people we were fighting against. Chinese who valued integrity were far more trustworthy than Japanese, he claimed. "They’re much safer than Japanese." He went on: the Shanghai Chinese saw this war not as one between Chinese and Japanese peoples, but rather as a conflict between Japan’s military and China’s Chiang Kai-shek regime. To ordinary citizens, it had nothing to do with them.

For the most part, when it came to things like wars and political strife— “—‘We don’t care’—” feigning ignorance was a Chinese tradition,

“The idea is that common people—human beings—should get along with each other,” said the old Shanghai sundries merchant. Voices expressing views completely opposed to this perception of the Chinese could also be heard from the deck. They claimed Chinese anti-Japanese resistance and contempt had birthed this war. They insisted the tyrannical China must be thoroughly chastised. “In fact”—here someone who appeared to be a first-time traveler to Shanghai interjected with anger—“the Chinese call Japanese goods ‘enemy products,’ you know. What country seizes foreign merchandise and labels it ‘enemy goods’ or ‘hostile wares’? And mind you, this didn’t start with the war. The anti-Japanese movement began back in Taisho—twenty years ago now. Anyone’s patience would snap under such circumstances.”

Beside them, Fukamaki, holding a map, kept peering at the opposite shore through binoculars,

“Wusongzhen,” Fukamaki said. “It’s been ravaged.” I recognized the name from newspaper reports describing it as a fierce battleground. The Japanese military had launched their amphibious assault from the Huangpu River to push toward Shanghai, suffering heavy casualties here—yet the Chinese side’s devastation proved far worse. From our ship, the opposite shore’s horrific destruction stood clear at a glance. Naval bombardment had reduced every building to rubble, visible even without binoculars.

For me, who had experienced the Great Kanto Earthquake, this devastating view was not something I was seeing for the first time in my life, but,

"This is incredible." As I watched, my chest began pounding with inexplicable excitement. This particular kind of visceral thrill had been absent from my life for so long. Let me be clear - this wasn't endorsement of the punitive expedition rhetoric. Stripped of political justifications, it was the pure form itself - destruction's very countenance - that abstractly exhilarated me. Emotion would be the plain term for it. Or perhaps more accurately, an artistic rapture - that irrational, or rather supra-rational, fervor. Had proclaiming myself a poet somehow awakened this dormant excitation within?

The devastating scene before my eyes spoke of exhilarating destruction—utterly divorced from any meaning or relevance—exciting me and bringing both a strange sense of liberation and, simultaneously, an undeniable sense of fulfillment. As for this sense of liberation—it felt exactly like someone confined in a dark dungeon looking up at the blue sky and feeling their heart leap—or so I felt. But then, what about the sense of fulfillment? This was no metaphor—to speak of myself directly, I, lying sick in bed, had felt a white void within myself, but that void had been filled with something.

What lay before my eyes now—to reiterate—was neither a specific Chinese town nor a former battleground; it was destruction itself. That made me remember how, just before the October Incident, I had looked down on nighttime Tokyo with Maruman and dreamed of a riot. Had that riot been realized back then, the streets of Tokyo might have ended up like this. It wasn't that I was glad it hadn't turned out this way. I regretted that it hadn't turned out this way. It was regrettable that I couldn't witness the explosion of the people's revolutionary energy.

For me, the destruction before my eyes finally took on meaning at this moment. The February 26 Incident had failed to channel the masses' revolutionary energy into riots. They'd tried resolving matters through high-level negotiations. That very arrogance had contributed to their downfall. The people's energy remained pent-up. I thought this explosion of frustration might be manifesting as that destruction across the river. The suppressed energy and warped discontent of Japan's populace—conscripted as soldiers—were detonating throughout China.—

“Back in August when Shanghai was besieged by the Chinese army, Japan’s naval landing force had barely over two thousand men total.” Carried by the wind, such voices reached my ears. “Until Army units landed, they only had that pitiful force.” “Miraculous how they held out.” “They say it’s few against many—the Chinese started with forty thousand troops but ended up with two hundred thousand...” “Even Nagasaki Prefecture’s Shanghai—I thought it was finished at one point.”

Around me, such conversations were being exchanged.

“When we Japanese residents barricaded ourselves in Hongkou, we truly thought it was the final chapter.”

“But look how things turned out.” “Now Shanghai has become an isolated island… The Japanese military has instead surrounded that city.”

“Not only that—they even captured Nanjing in no time.” “It was good there were Japanese warships in the Huangpu River back then.” “That’s what saved us, you know.”

“The fact that my wife and children could evacuate to the mainland back then was thanks to the warships being there.” This was the voice of the sundries merchant. “Because China has no navy.”

“Even though they say the war’s still raging inland, us being able to casually tour battlefields from the ship like this is all because Japan holds naval supremacy.” “At the outbreak of the Incident, there were quite a number of Japanese warships in the Huangpu River.” “Twenty-seven ships...”

“Why were there so many…?” The one who spoke reproachfully was a man in a russet soft cap who looked like a modern boy. “They must have thought it dangerous and stationed them there beforehand.” When the sundries merchant answered, “Even so, it’s excessive.” “Why so many…?” The modern boy-esque man pressed in an accusatory tone,

“Then it’s as if Japan started the war themselves.” “That’s not true.”

To the sundries merchant who denied this, “Well, there’s also a theory that the China Incident was a war Japan started to invade China.”

“In China, they certainly do say that.”

Fukamaki nodded in agreement. “It seems they did engage in quite a few provocative acts.” I brought Yahagi to mind but didn’t recklessly voice it. “The Chinese turn everything into anti-Japanese propaganda.”

The China-leaning sundries merchant also seemed unable to stand the modern boy-esque man and said, “At the outbreak of the China Incident, Chinese planes tried to attack the flagship Izumo by dropping bombs, but they didn’t hit it at all. Instead, a bomb fell in front of the Cathay Hotel in the International Settlement, killing a hundred and fifty people instantly.” “They’re turning that around to use as anti-Japanese propaganda.”

“If there hadn’t been a war, there wouldn’t have been such victims.”

the man shot back. Taking over from the sundries merchant, another passenger interjected, "They say they dropped nearly a hundred bombs on the Naval Landing Force headquarters too, but not a single one hit." "Didn't do a damn thing." Just then, the scrap metal dealer popped his head in. "They used so many cannon shells and bullets—what a waste!" The dealer—who'd stayed holed up in his bunk without even showing his face in the dining hall—gawked at the ruined "battlefield relics" across the shore, "What a godawful waste they made!"

"What a waste," he said. This observation amused me. Last night’s puke too—he must have thought it was such a waste to vomit up all that food he’d managed to eat. “If it’s such a waste, why don’t you go over there and collect the rounds?” “That’d make a decent business, don’t you think?” “Don’t talk nonsense.” The scrap metal dealer glared at me,

“Brr… so cold…” He hunched his neck and left the deck.

Part Two: Public Assassination

The ship arrived at Huishan Wharf a little past four in the afternoon. Maruman had come to the wharf to meet me, bringing along a single young man. Having descended the gangplank, “Hey, sorry to trouble you.”

I said to Maruman. While wearing a knowing smile that seemed to say "You finally came—", Maruman nevertheless remained silent. "You actually came—" he seemed on the verge of saying, but Maruman did not voice those words. Maruman was rubbing his hands clad in black leather gloves as if giving himself a massage. Maruman remained silent, yet his hands alone seemed to speak volumes. That told my eyes something opposite to a smile. At that moment, Maruman—

“Hey.” When he finally spoke, it was to the young man accompanying him. He ordered him to take my trunk. It was his voice, angry as if demanding what they were dawdling for. The lumbering young man stood rooted in place,

“Right away.”

With forced politeness, he took the trunk from me, whirled around, and hurriedly pushed through the crowd. Following suit, Maruman hurriedly shuffled his short legs. The overcoat was what one might call Chinese-style, resembling a changshan with sleeves so long that the hands were completely hidden. When standing with the young man in tow, Maruman had appeared dignified, but now, swinging his long sleeves that hid his hands, he looked somewhat comical.

Maruman looked somewhat embarrassed and, as if to distract from it, asked, “How was the sea?” “Pretty rough,” I replied. “Any seasickness?” “Some were suffering, but I just slept through it.”

Maruman said something next, but I couldn’t make it out. I was surrounded by such commotion that Maruman’s voice became inaudible. Rickshaw pullers shouted at the top of their lungs, vying to snag disembarking passengers. The din arose not just from their cries—coolies pushing small carts and large wagons exhaled white breaths as they too bellowed in unison. Coolies wearing padded jackets blackened and gleaming with grime swarmed about like a teeming mass, all clamoring as if to ward off the cold, transforming the entire wharf into an arena hosting some feverish boxing match. A thick wave of heat enveloped my face.

“What’s all this racket?” “They’re not making a racket. Shina-san are just loud. They’re like this everywhere.”

“They’re not making a racket,” said Maruman.

An unearthly commotion—that was my first impression upon setting foot on land. The ferocious din conveyed to me the unfathomable energy of the Chinese people. This abruptly contrasted with my memory of stepping off the train in winter Nemuro. Nemuro hadn't been quiet so much as permeated by a loneliness that seeped into one's bones, accompanied by the cold. Here, a tremendous force threatened to overwhelm me. Refusing to be crushed, I squared my shoulders as—

“I’ve had the car waiting, so get in and let’s just go get some grub.”

said Maruman. I raised my voice against the commotion, "That's impressive. Shall we go for Ōmakurē?" The female workers at the Nemuro crab factory used to call gluttonous eating Ōmakurē—perhaps a dialect term from around Aomori.

A large, splendid automobile was waiting. The oval license plate had a D before the numbers. Next to that car was another bearing a newspaper company's flag, where Fukamaki stood. The reporter who had come to meet them was pointing at the D on Maruman's car while saying something to Fukamaki.

Just as I was about to call out to Fukamaki, Maruman— “You’ve brought along a strange horse.” Maruman said something that sounded like a morning-after remark from Onijiri’s brothel district. When I thought he meant Fukamaki, “Dog—though saying it outright might be misleading. You didn’t bring that along yourself, did you?” Maruman signaled with his eyes—that thing. Those eyes spoke not of Fukamaki, but of the soft-capped man with modern-boy affectations. The same man who’d been spouting leftist-sounding talk at me.

The man was surrounded by those who had come to meet him. Maruman singled out one of the men who had come to meet him, “A plainclothes MP (military police).” Maruman whispered in my ear.

“That man—is he about to be taken in?”

When I said this, Maruman— "Nah. He's a comrade—though that one's no MP."

Was this the reason for Maruman’s silence?

“Well then, Mr. Nonaka.” Fukamaki came over from his side and said, “Let’s meet again somewhere. Take care...” Take care? —The phrase stuck in my mind,

“You’re the one who should take care…”

After saying this, I—having ordered the Chinese driver to put my trunk in the back of the car—saw on the young man’s face an expression that seemed to ask, (Nonaka…? Is he using that name too?)

If written out, that’s how I’d describe the expression I saw. Even with three people side by side, there would’ve been plenty of room, but Maruman and I took the back seats while the young man got into the driver’s seat. “This is the car Boss Sunauma uses for special occasions. “He specifically had us use this to pick you up, Mr. Shiro. “Ride in this Hayaguru (automobile), and you can go anywhere.” Maruman said this and,

“Let’s head to the river district.” We used to call the unlicensed prostitution district across the Sumida River where Clara—Teruko—had been “the river district.”

“There’s a good Chinese restaurant in the French Concession.” “This car can make it there.” Maruman said that Sunauma would come there later too. The car drove through Broadway Road, where the scars of war were still fresh. “I thought Yahagi’s men might come to the wharf to snatch you away, Mr. Shiro…” Maruman said in a low voice,

“We made it through safely.”

“Still not certain.” “Still not certain,” said the young man in the driver’s seat. He clearly held a grudge against me. He made no attempt to hide it from me or from Maruman. Why had Maruman brought such a man along? “Don’t know?” Irritated, I teased, “You part of Yahagi’s crew?” The man remained silent. “Was it Asakura’s tip?” “Mr. Shiro.” With that, Maruman silenced me and reached into his inner pocket. He quietly took something out and placed it on my thigh. It was a small bean—a pistol—so tiny it might fit in one’s hand.

"Hmm." It felt as though Maruman had given me the pistol with the implication that if I were to get into a fight with the driver, I’d need this. He had slipped it to me secretly. "For self-defense?" I said, making Maruman frown. I wanted to say it was a lady’s piece. So my voice inadvertently took on a dissatisfied tone. It was a small Colt, the kind a woman would hide in her handbag. "For you, Mr. Shiro, this should do just fine…" "No—I’m no good with a pistol."

I think I once explained this jargon before—back then, pistols were called pachinko. “Courage matters more than skill.”

When Maruman said this, from the driver's seat,

"If you don't want it, I'll take it off your hands," the young man said brazenly. "No need to force ya if you don't like it. Hey big bro, why don't I take that instead?" "Roku! Watch your damn mouth!"

Maruman said. “Roku?” I raised my eyebrows and put the Colt into my soto-paa (outer pocket), when Maruman—

"This Mr. Shiro Kashiwai was sworn brothers with our boss back in the day," Maruman said, rebuking the young driver. "If you keep mouthing off to Mr. Shiro—who we invited to Shanghai as our honored guest—I won't be able to face the boss." The man retorted coolly, "Don't care how precious your guest is. You won't even let a foot soldier like me carry iron," he jabbed a thumb at the pistol, "but hand one over just like that—" "Dangerous trusting Roku with heat. Never know what he'll pop off doing."

“You don’t even know which way to point that grip?” “That’s what I’d like to say myself.”

“Hey. “Mr. Roku.” I called out to the driver’s seat. (This bastard knew I’d taken money from Yahagi too. That meant Sunauma had already caught wind of it—the secret was out. Had Maruman brought this man here to warn me?) “What?” Roku answered rudely. “If you want it, I’ll give you this pistol.”

I silenced Maruman with a gesture while, “However, that’ll only be after taking out one of Yahagi’s men.” “We need to make Nishi face us soon...” “Who the hell is that?” At the same time as Maruman, the young man also,

“Who the hell are you talking about?” “Hmm, I wonder who?” I deliberately feigned ignorance. “For a test of skill, why don’t I use this pistol to put him to sleep right away?” “Who the hell is that?” To Roku, who had said that: “We won’t know unless we ask Mr. Roku.” This wasn’t me feigning ignorance when I said it. I had told the truth, but

“The hell you say?” The young man snapped. “Hey now, no need to get so worked up.” “Or is there some reason you gotta rush?” “The Roku I’m talking about ain’t you—it’s that pansy Roku.”

“I am Four-Five-Six Roku.”

“I am Four-Five-Six Roku,” said the young man. In Shanghai, dice gambling was called “Four-Five-Six”—a game using three dice where rolling four, five, and six meant victory. “Four-Five-Six Roku, you seem familiar with that pansy Roku.” I spoke these words while suppressing the truth—that I hadn’t fully believed pansy Roku’s claim about some man targeting me. Yet now, it struck me that this very man before me might be who he’d meant.

“Four-Five-Six Roku, you better be careful not to follow in Asakura’s footsteps.” “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” “Still KAIWAI (green), aren’t you? At times like this, you should be telling me—‘You’re the one who oughta watch your back.’” Maruman kept smirking to himself.

The car arrived at Garden Bridge. Under the bridge, Suzhou Creek was packed with sampans. This side of the river was the Hongkou district where Japanese residents lived, and the other side was the International Settlement (formerly the British Concession) and the French Concession. At the base of the bridge, sandbags were piled up, and Japanese soldiers wearing steel helmets stood holding rifles with fixed bayonets. This was a pedestrian checkpoint. Japanese soldiers were interrogating those crossing the bridge to the other side and those coming from the other side.

Our car passed through thanks to what might be called the authority of the D attached to it. Sunauma—who should have been entrenched with the military—under what pretext he had obtained this car, that D on the oval license plate was an emblem denoting it belonged to the diplomatic service (Diplomatic Service). The other side of the bridge was guarded by Municipal Police officers, but we passed through there without stopping too.

At that time, the Japanese military had not yet entered Across the River, making it an extremely perilous period, but I—having just arrived in Shanghai—remained oblivious to this fact. *Whisky? What could that be?* I casually surveyed the street advertisements. My half-competence with Chinese characters proved troublesome—I could decipher them but couldn't grasp their meanings. *Does 'ishi' mean something detestable...?* Might 'ishi' signify an important person? Though accompanied by an illustration resembling a liquor bottle... "What's that?"

“Whisky.” “It’s a phonetic loan.” Maruman said, “There are even more interesting phonetic loans,” then added, “Look—that Frit.” The insecticide Frit was written as ‘飛力脱’. The illustration showed someone spraying medicine with a whoosh while bugs dropped dead—‘飛力脱’ being an ingenious phonetic rendering of ‘Frit’. It perfectly captured how using Frit made insects shed their ability to fly. According to Maruman’s explanation, Chinese translations of foreign terms took two approaches: some conveyed meanings through native expressions (like ‘明星’ [Bright Star] for movie stars or ‘声片’ [Sound Film] for talkies), while others directly approximated sounds with characters—he cited ‘威士忌’ [Weishiji/Whisky] and ‘飛力脱’ [Feilituo/Frit] as examples of this phonetic method,

“Shigeno seems to have come to Shanghai.” Maruman didn’t seem particularly interested in things like phonetic loan characters. “Did you know *Boru* no Shigeno, Maru-san? Why would that guy come to Shanghai...” “Who knows?”

I didn't ask anything further. It wasn't so much that I had no interest in Shigeno; rather, I was more interested in those other outsiders who'd come to this same Shanghai. No—this wasn't some tepid interest, nor anything half-hearted like that. I wanted to meet Clara—Teruko—right away. I tried to tell Maruman about it, but with Four-Five-Six Roku present, I felt hesitant to bring it up.

My eyes were drawn to the large advertising sign. At the top were the English letters "Coca-Cola," and below them, written horizontally in parallel, were the characters "楽可口可." Was this another phonetic approximation, or perhaps a semantic translation? "What's Coca-Cola?" Though postwar Japan would come to know it universally, at that time the drink hadn't yet been imported. My ignorance wasn't unique. "American-made—an American sweet water," Maruman explained, using the term for soft drink.

Maruman said.

I realized that since Chinese characters were written right to left, it was *Kǒukělè* rather than "Lèkěkǒu." "Should the mouth be closed? Should it be made happy? They came up with a clever phonetic loan."

In other words, I was utterly carefree like that. Perhaps because Shanghai's street scenes differed so completely from Korea's that they struck me as novel. I watched a double-decker public bus (basu), something unseen in Japan, pass by,

"Hmm…" I found myself marveling like some greenhorn on his first Western tour, and being astonished at how both sides of the street were densely packed with vividly colored signboards (kanban) and advertising flags (hata-kanban). But what surprised me most was the sheer size of the crowd filling the sidewalk—the swarming mass of people creating such chaos, and the same commotion that had struck me during my first impression at that wharf. When I first saw China from the ship, that devastating view had indeed left a painful reality settling deep in my heart alongside the aforementioned thrill, but this energy overflowing through Shanghai’s streets blew away all such misery and left me feeling utterly carefree.

My acting in such a manner must have appeared to Roku of Four-Five-Six as feigned nonchalance, for he seemed increasingly irritated. His sullenly silent back radiated bitter resentment. The car moving along Nanjing Road passed the racecourse and neared the pool beside Jing'an Temple Road. Then suddenly—screech!—it slammed to a halt, nearly rear-ending the vehicle ahead. My blood turned to ice. As I tried to right my thrown-forward body, another earsplitting pistol shot jolted me anew.

“Damn it!” Maruman, who had shouted—perhaps thinking they were under attack by the Yahagi faction—slid his upper body with a swiftness belying his corpulent frame and hid beneath the seat in one fluid motion. It was over in the blink of an eye—a blur of motion. Roku, too, was frantically panicking and had burrowed under the driver’s seat.

The car that was attacked was two or three vehicles ahead. Two Chinese men were firing pistols at the car. They stood defiantly in front of it, pumping bullets into the vehicle. It felt exactly like a play staged to test my courage, leaving me staring blankly. Even the deafening gunfire carried an air of unreality.

This was because it was still bright outside. In broad daylight, an assassination was being carried out openly. It was, so to speak, terrorism in broad daylight.

It was like a daydream, but outside the car window unfolded a hellish uproar—a commotion so intense that even calling it such wouldn’t be an exaggeration. After all, it was a sudden killing in a street packed with people. The already noisy crowd erupted in unison with loud shouts, screamed in panic, and scrambled to flee. Rickshaw bodies were thrown out and overturned; were they the puller or the passenger crawling along the ground as they fled? Amid the crowd’s screams, I— “Traitor!”

I heard a voice say. In that moment, I didn’t understand its meaning, but that single word struck my ears sharply (later, upon asking Maruman, I learned it meant “traitor”). The one who was attacked was a traitor. The next day’s newspaper carried an article stating that a pro-Japanese dignitary had been shot. Those killed were the tax bureau chief and a certain bureau member, and their names had been listed as well).

In the very midst of this hellish uproar, I saw something strange. Across the street stood a single Indian traffic officer. He stood motionless. In Japan, they would have rushed to the scene immediately, but here he was, looking this way with an expression that practically said, "None of my business." The Indian’s imposing turban and large frame made his bystander status all the more bizarre (the constable remained passive because interfering in traitor elimination would invite complications).

As Maruman slowly heaved himself up, "You were talking so casually about the Five Establishments ruling the world, but this is something else." "You're really something yourself," I retorted. "Despite all this commotion, you're so composed..." "No—utterly bewildered." As I said this, I realized I was clenching the beanbag charm in my pocket. I hadn't laid a hand on the crucial pistol. "Didn't happen." "Didn't happen," I muttered to myself. I had been speaking to myself, but Roku, from the driver's seat, turned only his face around in a manner reminiscent of a snake raising its head,

“Didn’t happen?”

He glared at me as if mocking my disgrace.

“It’s not about you.” I said this, but Roku—through the very act of exposing his disgraceful panic to my eyes—had already begun harboring resentment toward me. He was transmuting his shame into anger directed at me. His gaze burned with vindictive intensity, screaming Remember this, you bastard. “You talking about me? ‘Spineless’—that’s me you mean?” “‘Spineless’—me?” Maruman stated this neither angrily nor dejectedly, but with flat neutrality.

“No…” My calm demeanor stemmed purely from inexperience with such situations. Roku and Maruman had panicked because they understood public murder all too well. I tried to say this, but my mouth stayed shut. Memories of my own killings resurfaced and sealed my lips. Murder? Instead of assassinating General Ogaki, I’d slaughtered stray dogs. Then came murder—a senseless shipboard killing lured into by that Okama Roku. What had I become? What wretchedness. I should’ve committed more meaningful murders.

The place we went to—I’ve forgotten the restaurant’s name—served Chinese cuisine of incomparable deliciousness. I believe it was a renowned Sichuan establishment on Xiafei Road (Avenue Joffre), though Sichuan food’s characteristic spiciness should have overwhelmed an unaccustomed palate—perhaps it was another type of restaurant altogether. How exquisite it tasted.

But if I kept marveling at every little thing like this, there'd be no end to it. With this, my story wasn't making any progress at all.

Sunauma, arriving late with a single subordinate bodyguard in tow,

“You made it, Shiro.” “Well, for now I’ll let you take it easy.”

Maruman had told Roku that I had once been like brothers with Sunauma, and his tone carried the weight of irrefutable truth. Then, turning to Roku,

“Were you with them too?” Sunauma said and cast a glance at Maruman. Why did you bring such a man along? Sunauma’s eyes were indeed saying that.

That was something I too had long questioned myself. I thought perhaps Sunauma had grown distrustful of just Maruman and me, and had assigned Roku to watch us—but if so, someone this erratic would be useless. If meant to surveil, he should've acted discreetly—yet this Roku was utterly inept. Maruman had actually brought Roku for my sake. This Roku abruptly adopted a servile manner before Sunauma. In a voice like rickshaw drivers hailing fares, he called attendants to replace Sunauma's dish with fresh ones—a garish display of loyalty. This was an inner private dining room—one of those secluded chambers.

From Roku's manner of speaking in the car, I realized Sunauma had discovered I'd taken money from Yahagi too. It was through Maruman's consideration in bringing Roku that I came to understand this. But Sunauma himself said nothing about it,

“Kōdō-sensei died.” “When?” “About a week ago...” It had been just before I left Tokyo. Damn it, I thought. I should’ve met him once before he died. Hearing he was dead only deepened my regret. When I lost Kōdō, why hadn’t I thought of Hitō? Why hadn’t I gone to see Hitō back then? Hitō, who had once thrown himself into the Chinese Revolution as Kōdō’s senior, had later become a mere Chinese restaurant owner. My notion of it being natural erosion must’ve kept me from remembering him. But precisely because he’d become that ordinary cook—because he’d turned into a man living a mundane life—that was exactly why I should’ve recalled Hitō. This grief over his death had planted such thoughts in me.

More than having wanted to meet Hitō before he died, I should have met him for my own sake. Yes, if I had done that, I wouldn’t have come to Shanghai, and my fate might not have veered off into such a strange direction.

Part Three: Age of Evil

A room had been reserved at an inn on Haining Road in Hongkou. Maruman guided me there, though of course this was arranged by Sunauma. Sunauma did not live on the Hongkou side but kept a house in the French Concession across the river. He still hadn't told me where exactly. Maruman said I should stay at this inn for now and find a comfortable place of my own—an apartment or boarding house—once I grew accustomed to Shanghai. As temporary lodgings, I checked into that Japanese inn.

Temporary lodging—the character 仮 (kari) here means "temporary" in Japanese, but in China, writing 仮契約 (provisional contract) means a false contract, and 仮事務所 (temporary office) becomes a fake office. A provisional note meant a counterfeit bill.

In China, a ryokan room is called a fangjian. The temporary fangjian I had rented as lodging—this provisional room where I was staying—would soon become, quite literally, a false room for me. It’s ironic when you think about it. Or rather, whether one could call it ironic was another matter.

They called it a Japanese inn because it was Japanese-run, but the building itself was Western-style. Like a hotel, you could keep your shoes on all the way to your room. The space had been made into a Japanese-style room with tatami mats laid across the floor.

It was a three-story building, but there was no elevator. The first floor was done up like a hotel lobby.

Having heard from Maruman where Teruko was running her café, I descended from my third-floor room down the stairs to the lobby, deciding I would go there the next day. Behind a pillar, a figure slipped into hiding. Someone had apparently been lying in wait behind that pillar, watching for me to emerge. I slid my hand into my inner pocket where I kept my concealed pistol. A person came around the opposite side of the pillar and approached me with a grinning face. It was Roku the queen.

Having both a Roku from 4-5-6 and a Roku the queen was admittedly confusing, but that wasn't my fault. Since there actually was someone causing confusion, it couldn't be helped. If he had come to see me, he should have told the front desk—no, the counter—but he had waited for me to come out. To that Roku, I said abruptly: "You've come here on orders from Yahagi's boss."

“Whenever you see my face, Shiro-san, you get angry right away.” Roku said obsequiously. “I figured you could just get angry.” “The boss must be angry.” “He isn’t angry at all.”

Roku kept glancing around restlessly with darting eyes. He seemed to be waiting for someone while simultaneously guarding against others seeing us together. "So then, is he happy about it?" "He's not happy." "That figures."

When I came to Shanghai, I had effectively taken off my traveling sandals at Sunauma’s place.

“I’ll go pay my respects soon—tell him that.” Before meeting Yahagi, I wanted to meet Teruko first. When I stepped outside, Roku followed me and—

“Where are you headed?” “You’d know already without me saying.”

A modern young lady wearing a qipao with a deep slit caught my eye. Her thighs were nearly exposed, and my gaze inevitably drifted there. Despite it being winter, she wasn't wearing an overcoat like any ordinary girl. "Right—the man you mentioned who's trying to expose me—that's Roku from 4-5-6, isn't it?"

“Oh my, you caught on quick!” Roku rejoiced. It was strange he should feel pleased about this, but Roku was rejoicing—or perhaps when he rejoiced, that’s just how it came out—in a feminine tone, “Do take care now.” “Thanks.” “Then won’t you hear me out? The wife asked me to.” “The wife? “Ah—that Hyakunari Ayako.” “She’s most eager to meet you—asked me to relay the request.” “Does she know I’m here?”

“Well, that’ll be… soon enough…”

Roku gave a heh heh heh laugh and then, “Won’t you stop by for just a bit? Are you in a hurry somewhere? It won’t take up too much of your time. Come on, what’s the harm? I’ll show you the way.” “Alright, let’s go check it out.” Teruko’s café really did seem better at night. “Well then, let’s get in the rickshaw.” Immediately, Roku raised his hand and hailed a rickshaw, then stated the destination in Chinese. But instead of getting in right away, Roku asked about the fare, declared it too expensive—that price wouldn’t do—and haggled with the old rickshaw driver who was as thin as a skeleton. I felt sympathy for the old driver who was as thin as a skeleton and wanted to suggest settling on a reasonable price, but Roku persistently forced him to lower it. Eventually, the rickshaw driver said in a pitiful voice,

“Alright, alright.” Roku said in a triumphant voice, “Well then, let’s get in.”

He suggested we both ride in the same rickshaw. For a single passenger, it was rather spacious—perhaps meant for couples? But sharing a ride with a queer wasn’t exactly pleasant.

The old man's legs seemed too thin to pull and run with the heavy rickshaw carrying us two bundled in overcoats. Roku, however, "Faster! Faster!" urged repeatedly, like cracking a whip.

“You made him lower it quite a bit, huh?” Before I could even say “How pitiful—” Roku cut in, “If they see us as Tōshiro, they’ll try to charge exorbitant fares.”

“We’re the ones who made him lower it outrageously, aren’t we?”

“Heh heh heh.”

“How do you say ‘How much does it cost?’ in Chinese?”

“Chide a. If it’s too pricey, say ‘Ala pu yo.’ Just tell ’em you don’t need this one and’ll take another rickshaw—they’ll drop the price as much as you want.”

A truck came speeding from behind. Our shambling rickshaw seemed about to be struck by it,

“That was dangerous.” “Dangxin! (Be careful!)” “Dangxin!” Roku said to the rickshaw driver. The truck loaded with bulging bags of unknown contents passed our car with a whoosh. No sooner had this happened than it suddenly reduced its speed. It was turning right. At that moment, several boys who looked like street urchins—crouching by the roadside, each holding a bamboo tube with a sharpened tip—dashed out into the roadway. They suddenly leapt onto the back of the truck like grasshoppers. About two of them succeeded in clinging onto the tall truck. The boys thrust the sharpened tips of their bamboo tubes into the bags below.

A white stream poured onto the road. It was rice. It was a truck loaded with rice bags. A coolie sat atop the rice sacks but showed complete indifference. “Ala wu guan,” he said—none of my business. From both sides of the street, a swarm of beggars (or so I thought) surged toward the spilled rice. They jostled to scoop up the mud-caked grains first. “Holy shit.”

It was broad daylight robbery. I stood dumbfounded.

“They’re refugees.” Roku said nonchalantly.

“Now this is real plunder.”

When I said this in an admiring tone, Roku— "This doesn’t happen much on the Hongkou side, though. Across the river, whether it’s coal, sugar, or anything else—they do everything this way." "There was a coolie who looked like a lookout on board, but he didn’t say anything." "They’re used to it." In a tone suggesting such scenes weren’t uncommon even for him, "Sometimes there are those who wave whips or sticks around to drive them away. But the refugees don’t care how much they’re beaten—they cling to the truck, blood streaming down their faces, and keep stealing."

“Are the ones doing the beating Japanese?” “No, they’re Chinese.” “So Chinese beating Chinese?” “So I suppose some of them are actually colluding. I also get the feeling that someone might be informing them in advance about which route the truck will take and where it’ll slow down. Today’s incident might be something like that too.” “That act of ignoring things—it’s shocking, isn’t it?” “If they didn’t turn a blind eye to this sort of thing, there’d be so many people starving to death it’d be a disaster. Even so, Shanghai winters are cold—every night there are people freezing to death.”

“Is it because of the war?” “Shanghai’s always been like this, I hear. Refugees aren’t anything new.” “China’s been in constant civil war, you see.” “So they’ve got no homes—sleep in the streets and freeze to death?” “Go to Liu Malu across the river at dawn, you’ll see ’em by the roadside any morning—limbs curled up like dead spiders.” “Frozen stiffs ain’t nothing special here.” “Wanna go take a look sometime?”

Buildings riddled with bullet holes like beehives stood out conspicuously. There were also houses where a large hole had been torn through the thick expanse of a brick wall, covered over with planks to form a makeshift—wait—a stopgap wall. Right, since it's a fake wall, this temporary one will do. The fierce urban combat was evoked. The people who had evacuated had now returned, and daily life was already being carried on.

“Turn at that road.” Roku instructed the rickshaw puller using a jumbled mix of Japanese and Chinese. Japanese soldiers wearing white armbands marked “Official Duty” were walking.

Unlike across the river, the lack of severe commotion was perhaps because this was a Japanese settlement. However, Chinese people could also be seen. White people were also walking about, but Roku said those were Jews who had fled Europe after being driven out by the Nazis. Before long, the rickshaw entered a narrow alley. In the middle of that dead-end alley, “Daola, haola (We’ve arrived, that’s fine).”

“We’ve arrived,” Roku said. The rickshaw couldn’t be stopped abruptly—the puller let his scrawny, turtle-like neck stretch forward limply, urging the vehicle onward a few more steps with wrinkled determination. “Xiàqù! Get down now!” Roku barked.

Roku barked. Despite it being midwinter, sweat beaded on the old rickshaw puller’s face. There stood oddly elongated buildings arranged like children’s building blocks. Each floor had been converted into separate rental units. I would later learn—or rather, it was a small apartment building with just one room per floor. Roku took the lead up the narrow staircase of one such building. Was the deathly quiet enveloping not just this structure but the entire neighborhood due to residents being away at work? I suspected it might instead stem from numerous vacancies and absent occupants.

Roku knocked on the door of the second-floor room. From inside came a man's voice: “Who—?” “It’s Roku.”

The door was opened slightly. It was at this moment—in such a manner—that Roku spoke.

“Mr. Kashiwai is with me.” Judging from what this Roku had been saying to me while guiding me here, it seemed more appropriate in this case to say he had brought me. A voice came from inside, but I couldn’t make out what it said. As for the source of that voice, “Who’s that?”

I brought my mouth close to Roku’s ear and tried to ask. “That Aby from Hyoutan Pond...”

Roku said. Aby—Hyakunari Seiichiro—and I had reunited here for the first time in several years. "It's been a while..." said Aby. He carried himself with a composure as though he'd known I would come—or rather, as though he'd been waiting for me to arrive today. Yet I couldn't believe Roku had informed him beforehand about this visit.

"Well... about that matter..."

I was the one who seemed slightly flustered. “Where’s your wife?” As for Roku’s question, Aby— (It’s obvious she’s out if you’d just look.) With a face that said exactly that, he ignored him and turned to me, “You’ve come all this way. Well, come inside...” Beyond the Western-style room with its carpet lay a Japanese-style room. The Western-style room—resembling a foreign parlor (though I’d only seen such things in movies)—had a stove where coal burned vigorously, and the room being cozily warm truly gave the impression of a luxurious lifestyle. It was utterly different from the shabby impression the apartment building gave from the outside.

Aby led me further inside while,

"When did you come to Shanghai, Mr. Kashiwai?"

As if to silence me—who had thought Huh?—Roku, “No matter when I come, this room is—quite impressive.”

Accordingly, we stepped up into the Japanese-style room and sat facing each other.

“How about your impression of Shanghai?” Aby smiled, revealing a neat row of teeth. I doubted my own eyes—they had once been dirty, crooked teeth. His pale, swollen-looking face had changed so much I could hardly believe he was the same Aby from before. The Aby I first met in the detention cell—that glossy arhat-like Aby, that rundown old man by Hyoutan Pond yet somehow mystical Aby—this wasn’t merely a change in his rassage (facial features). Rather than my impressions of Shanghai, I wanted to talk about this Aby’s strange transformation, but—

“I’d heard Shanghai was under Five Establishments’ control, yet it remains so turbulent.” “That’s exactly why it works. That’s how everyone profits. Even you must be making plenty, Roku.” Aby—no, he was no longer Aby—Hyakunari Seiichiro spoke with vulgar familiarity. “You flatter me.” Roku knocked his forehead and replied, “I could never match your success, sir.” “Such modesty...” Hyakunari maintained his serious expression, “Which stream feeds you now...?”

“Are there really that many ways to make money?”

I said to Roku, but Hyakunari—

“Oh, there’s plenty—easy pickings, I tell ya.”

He said something vulgar. When this Hyakunari had helped me escape to Nemuro, he had told me I should live among ordinary people. It had also meant becoming someone leading a mundane life. That seemed to have been his own wish too. Had Hyakunari come to Shanghai to become such a person living an ordinary life himself? And was this Hyakunari before me now what he had meant by a person living a mundane life?

“I hear Mr. Kanehara from Nemuro has also come to Shanghai. I wonder if he’s into that dirty profiteering too.” “Of course…” Hyakunari said. And without me even asking what kind of shady schemes they were running, he launched into his explanation. "During the recent Incident, the Shanghai Chinese figured keeping supplies in the city was too risky, so they hauled everything out to the countryside." "They scrambled to move it all." "Went through hell spending fortunes to evacuate their goods, only to have those rural areas get occupied by our military. Now they can’t bring a damn thing back to Shanghai." "Supplies ain’t just rice and cloth—we’re talking factory materials here. Vital stuff stuck rotting in the boondocks." "The brass banned all transport—total lockdown." “Whole operation turned into a clusterfuck.”

Hyakunari said while smoking a slender Ruby Queen cigarette. In Chinese, that Ruby Queen was called Hong Xibao and belonged to the category of popular, inexpensive incense cigarettes. "There, an interesting business opportunity arose." "A shoddy profiteering scheme only Japanese could pull off, perfect for them—easy pickings..." Hyakunari, speaking such words, appeared like a monster that had shed its skin when compared to his former self from the Aby days. But even so, it was not that someone had stripped his skin from him; he had stripped it off himself.

“As for that money-making scheme—bringing supplies into Shanghai requires permission from the Japanese military.” “You need permission to transport them.” “They’d say, ‘I’ll get you the permit if you pay tens of thousands of yuan,’ then sell those permits at exorbitant prices—that’s how this new business cropped up.” “Those shoddy money-making schemes are thriving splendidly.” “If you’ve got connections with the military, getting permits is a cinch.”

"Interesting business."

"I said," paying mere lip service while my true intentions differed. As if seeing through this, Hyakunari grinned, "From the Chinese side, no matter how much they pay, they're desperate to get those export permits for their supplies." "They'll move heaven and earth to retrieve materials stranded in the countryside." "That's why they'll cough up tens of thousands of yuan." "What do you think?" "It's a racket where fortunes roll in from a single scrap of paper." This could be interpreted as him deliberately using vulgar phrasing. With an inflection that invited such perceptions,

“There are plenty more money-making schemes like this.” Hyakunari threw a sly grin at Roku, “During the Incident, the Chinese packed up their homes and evacuated. Vacant houses popped up everywhere. They’d snatch ’em up while the owners were away and sell ’em off. Some made a killing that way. But flipping properties is just quick cash—the real money’s in holding onto ’em and renting ’em out. Shanghai’s got such a housing crunch that even a closet-sized room turns profit. Refugees who lost homes to the fighting end up sleeping roadside in this freezing cold. That’s how desperate things are…”

“That’s some shameless disaster scavenging—looting during a fire! Just plain fire looting, that’s what it is.” “That’s just fire looting, plain and simple.”

The old Shanghai sundries merchant I'd met on the ship had said he left his house in a Chinese manager's care. His claim that this was safer than entrusting it to Japanese was now being met with knowing nods here. "What if the Chinese owners return to their homes...?" "They demand an exorbitant buyback sum," he said. "We seized these houses for free, but invent repair costs and storage fees - calmly propose to return them if they pay up. The amount's so outrageous they could never afford it."

If it were robbery, those on "the other side" could file a complaint with the Public Works Bureau or such, but here they had no choice but to endure in silence.

“I’m surprised.” I thought scrap metal dealers were practically saints compared to this. Roku checked his wristwatch. “I’ve got other business to handle—but if I duck out now, who knows what accusations might follow…” “Worried?” Hyakunari sneered. “We’re all in the same sinking boat here.”

Hyakunari teased. "I haven't said a single bad word about you, Mr. Hyakunari." Roku hooked his thumbnail against the tip of his index finger and poised to flick it sharply,

“Hey.”

Roku sought my agreement. I ignored it, “Are all Japanese people preying on the Chinese like that?” I recalled Hirado and Kōdō-sensei, who had devoted themselves to the Shina Revolution. What a difference from the Japanese of today. “They’re not just exploiting the Chinese—they’re preying on Japanese soldiers too. “They’re even swindling money out of soldiers who’ve come to Shanghai from the front lines. “They’re taking away the soldiers’ meager pay—that fiat currency they risked their lives for—in one fell swoop.”

In a tone that flaunted his own cynicism, Hyakunari said, "I'm not necessarily condemning that. Humans are just like that." "You one of those humans too?" Hyakunari turned to me with mock formality, as if making an official inquiry: "Mr. Kashiwai, why did you come to Shanghai?" Roku stared at my face as if trying to bore through it with his gaze, waiting to see how I'd answer.

"Maybe I should get you to show me some money-making schemes too." I played dumb, "In the February 26 Incident, everyone — they were all wiped from this world." Hyakunari’s eyes alone glinted sharply in his silent face before— "Ogawa Akiaki survived." "He slipped through the net." "That one wasn’t implicated." "Mr. Sunauma wasn’t caught either…" Roku said. "He has no connection."

When I said, "That one is malicious. That one is a villain." Hyakunari denounced Sunauma. "You shouldn’t say such things in front of Mr. Kashiwai. That’s not acceptable, you know." Roku said teasingly.

Hyakunari said in a fierce tone,

"No—that one is unforgivable. That one is outrageous. Compared to that one, things like seizing empty houses and profiting from moving supplies are trivial. That one is trying to destroy the entire Shina nation." "With opium...?" I said. Hyakunari seemed momentarily thrown off balance, but— "That won't do. Even if that one was your former comrade, Mr. Kashiwai—a man like that must be annihilated... eradicated..." "This talk's gotten damn scary, huh?"

Roku hunched his neck, yet pressed on as if fanning flames, "But through that—though we shouldn't say it too loud—the army's covering a good chunk of their war expenses, ain't they?" He spoke with uncharacteristic formality. Having already heard this from Maruman myself, I kept silent and let the words wash over me. "So...the army's the real villain here?" This Hyakunari who'd once branded Roku a death god during their Abiru days now addressed him with the ease of comrades,

“Are you trying to say Mr. Sunauma isn’t at fault here, Mr. Roku?” “No way! "I have no connection with Mr. Sunauma." “Well then, I’ll take my leave here…” With an air of having fulfilled his duty by feeding me criticisms of Sunauma,

“I’ll take my leave now.” He inserted both hands between his knees, performed an effeminate bow toward Hyakunari, and—

"Give my regards to your wife. Are you heading out shopping? What a shame I couldn't meet her." While glancing at Ayako's belongings in the room and muttering these words, Roku left.

When Hyakunari and I were left alone together, it felt as if the glue had been removed—an abrupt awkwardness arose between us. “Shanghai—Shina-san is brimming with energy.”

Only now did I state the impression of Shanghai that Hyakunari had asked for. Hyakunari also seemed perplexed by us facing each other,

“It’s a clash of energies, isn’t it?” “This war…?” “Japanese people do have energy, but…” “Are they unleashing that here in Shina?” “I despise such Japanese people—excuse me, I despise them. Fundamentally, I hate Japanese people.” As if declaring his hatred even for me—a Japanese—he abruptly stood up and retrieved a purely Japanese-style tea chest from the Japanese-made tea cabinet in the corner of the room. When opened, it doubled as a tray—a design commonly seen in Japanese inns—and inside were small tea utensils for gyokuro: a compact teapot, tea bowl, tea stand, and tea caddy, all miniature in size.

“Why on earth did you come to Shanghai?”

And I said to Hyakunari the words that had been asked of me. Hyakunari handled the tea caddy as if it contained precious items, took out the gyokuro, and placed it into the teapot. "I grew sick of Japan and came to Shanghai intending to escape it—but..." "Not just Japan—I wonder if I thought of escaping from myself too." "Trying to escape from my Japanese self... Oh right, I did say this to you too, Mr. Kashiwai." “Just before I left for Hokkaido… You helped me back then…”

As if to cut off my words, "But Japan has come this far. It chased me all the way to this very place I fled to." Hyakunari poured hot water into a teacup to cool it. "The Japanese military? Or Ms. Ayako?"

After consciously delivering that sarcastic remark, I adopted a solemn—no, an overly polite—demeanor. "I was looked after by Ms. Ayako in Nemuro." I thanked him again. Hyakunari remained silent as he poured water he had cooled to the right temperature into the teapot. He then cradled the teapot between both hands and sat motionless for a moment before tilting it over a small teacup like a bird's feed trough. "Here you go." He served me fragrant gyokuro tea.

“Oh, thank you…” I took into my mouth this tea that hadn’t been served to Roku and thought I had never drunk such delicious uji—tea—like this in Japan before. I’d always believed tea should be served piping hot, but that only applied to coarse varieties like bancha. This was lukewarm, yet within its viscous texture lay an indescribable sweetness. Hyakunari’s tea-serving skills were impressive. It felt strange that this man who claimed to hate Japanese people excelled at the most quintessentially Japanese method of preparing tea.

“I didn’t…”

Hyakunari had now addressed me. While drinking elegant gyokuro, in a rough tone, "I’m not saying it’s people’s fault or the era’s fault—I hate that sort of thing—but to survive an evil era, unless we too unleash our own evil energy, it just isn’t interesting." “If I were to say every era is an evil era, then yes—but” “Is the current evil era special…?”

“It’s not that I’m saying it’s particularly terrible—for us, the evil era exists only in this present moment.” “The collision between this evil era’s energy and an individual’s wickedness—this has an uncanny allure.” “I wonder if Sunauma too has fallen under that allure’s spell.” “No—that’s different.” “He’s a vulgarian.” “So Abiru of Hyoutan Pond comes to Shanghai and finally turns nihilist, eh?” “That Maru-san—your comrade, or should I say former comrade?” “If you mean Maruman Tomekichi counts as a Communist in that sense, then I too am a nihilist.”

“Maruman is a communist?” “He may not appear communist since he doesn’t show straightforward rebellion, but by adapting to this evil era in his own way, he’s catastrophically amplifying its corruption...”

“Maruman is exactly that.” “Mine isn’t... like Maru-san’s approach of making the era’s evil ever more evil to hasten its ruin—it’s about making this evil, my own evil, ever more evil...”

“And then?” “What remains unspoken is the flower. If I say it, it’ll sound pretentious.” “So... are you saying we should hasten the ruin of these vicious philistines...?” “No—my own ruin. That’s why I said there was a clash. Otherwise, it’s merely exploiting the evil era.” “You know Maruman Tomekichi…” “When you’re in Shanghai, it’s only natural.”

Could this Hyakunari be in league with Yahagi? I had my suspicions. Was his closeness to Roku also because of that? “Not that queer Roku from before—do you know someone called Four-Five-Six Roku?” Hyakunari remained silent, neither affirming nor denying. I told him about the Tohibarashi murder before escaping to Nemuro, “That queer Roku says there’s someone in Shanghai aiming to take revenge on me.” “I think that guy might be Four-Five-Six Roku.”

"That’s just that queer Roku spinning tales." Hyakunari immediately concluded. “Then why would that queer Four-Five-Six Roku spew such nasho (lies) at me?” “Mr. Kashiwai.” "You think I’m part of Yahagi’s gang, don’t you?"

he saw through my thoughts and,

“In this Shanghai, you never know when or by whom you’ll be targeted.” “This is a dangerous place if you’re not careful.” “Tonight might just be when it’s most dangerous.”

“Why tonight?”

“When you first arrive in Shanghai is when it’s most…”

“Dangerous…?” “Given that it’s you, I suppose it won’t be dangerous… but” “Sarcasm?” “People with guts like you…” “Is it really dangerous?” “You must be seen by everyone as a courageous, resolute person, but...” “That’s more like you.” “Don’t twist things around.” Hyakunari had resumed his Abiru-like demeanor, “What isn’t dangerous is dangerous.” “Not feeling fear toward danger is dangerous.” “Because you’re a natural-born terrorist with no sense of danger or fear—that’s what makes you dangerous.”

In the tone of that prophet Abiru holding a candle, he said: “But if you clumsily try to avoid danger, it only becomes more dangerous. In this Shanghai, trying to avoid calamity only makes it more dangerous. If you show your back to the enemy, your back will be struck. Rather, in such moments, if you take the initiative to confront them head-on, they’ll swiftly back down. Mr. Kashiwai, I imagine you’ll have all sorts of interesting things coming your way from now on.”

“I was persuaded by Abiru from Hyoutan Pond and even thought about becoming a civilian for a time.” “I hear you’ve become quite the civilian in Nemuro. I heard it from Ayako, but…” “It’s because Abiru from Hyoutan Pond told me to become a civilian.”

“I might have said it, but Kashiwai Shiro isn’t the type to obediently listen to what others say.” “You do have a civilian side to you, don’t you?” “Abiru—you don’t seem to have even a hint of a civilian side.” “Don’t be ridiculous. I am fundamentally a civilian at heart. Precisely because of that, I can only live a life that’s not civilian-like. Thinking about taking in a child from Nemuro... that’s proof of being a civilian.” Hyakunari made a bitter face. Perhaps because he realized he’d bluttered out something unnecessary. With his bitter face still intact, he suddenly took out a pistol from his coat and placed it in front of me.

“What’s this?” “A pistol.” “I know it’s a pistol.”

“Take this with you.” Hyakunari said gently. He meant to lend it to me. If it was a pistol, I already had one. When I tried to say so, he’d already seen through me, “One’s for self-defense. “You need another for attacks. “They might come around tonight.” Hyakunari formed an eerie smile, “I’ll have you return it when you no longer need it—until then, you’d best keep hold of it.”

Part Four: The Insurance Vest

I encountered Ayako when I left the apartment and was walking through an alley trying to hail a car on the main street. Ayako came from the other end of the alley as if she had been waiting for me to emerge. After exchanging cursory greetings, Ayako said: "I want to run a P-house." "P-house?" "For soldiers... And please keep this secret from Mr. Sei." The term 'P' derived from the initial letter of 'prostitute,' referring to sex workers, but in this context a 'P-house' didn't mean an ordinary brothel—it signified what was called a comfort station catering to soldiers.

"I want to boldly go to the front lines and try this." "Please, I'm begging you." "Could you arrange an introduction with the military?" Ayako said ingratiatingly. "Mr. Nonaka—Mr. Kashiwai, I know you have connections in the military." "I truly wanted to ask this of you." "Mr. Kanehara has connections too, but they're insufficient." "You want to run a P-house...?" "I want to make some money too." I wasn't someone with that kind of influence in the military. But saying that now risked sounding like an excuse.

“There was a time when you said you wanted to go to Shanghai with me, but you went ahead first.” “Back then, you said you’d regret it later if I didn’t come with you…”

“Oh my, you remember well.” That seemed to please Ayako more than expected, and with a beaming expression of satisfaction (goman'etsu),

"I haven't forgotten either." She said this buoyantly, though it seemed my words had actually jogged her memory. "What did that mean?" "You'll understand soon enough." Ayako replied. I brushed off the notion that she was starting to act like Abiru...

Before going to Teruko's café, I met Maruman. But if I recounted every detail in order, the story would never progress, so I'll skip my conversation with Maruman for now - though it was significant. Alone, I went to what Teruko called her café. Sunauma had used the term "café," but by then the word had fallen out of fashion - "bar" had become standard. This bar occupied a basement on North Sichuan Road. A White Russian doorman clad in what resembled an imperial general's uniform deferentially greeted me. Inside lay a cloakroom for coats like hotels had - utterly mundane today but back then radiating an almost comical pretentiousness. Yet stepping through the inner doorway shattered this illusion. By Tokyo standards, it screamed Taisho-era café through and through.

The so-called romance tables—old-fashioned benches with backs as high as walls, facing each other across tabletops in an absurdly spacious arrangement—were lined up like train seats. Customers and waitresses (all Japanese—though given this was Shanghai, I suppose I should note that) had staked out their spots at them and were shouting boisterously. Because the popular song record was blaring with a screeching clamor, their voices naturally grew louder. The ceiling was decorated with ridiculous artificial flowers—cherry blossoms of spring and autumn leaves all jumbled together. This still seemed better called a café after all.

“Are you alone?” The waitress—a Western-dressed Japanese girl bearing no resemblance to Taisho-era café hostesses—asked. Occupying one of those sprawling “romance tables” alone made me feel like an easy mark. What about the madam? Since blurting that out would seem odd, I moved toward the counter instead. A patron called out “Hey” to me. It was Fukamaki. With him sat the reporter from the docks,

"Why don't you take a seat here?" Fukamaki said. While scanning the establishment for Teruko, I settled into the chair. "You're that terrorist Mr. Kashiwai Shiro, aren't you?" he continued unctuously. "The comrade from that infamous Fukui General Assassination Incident?" I exhaled through gritted teeth. "That's what remains of it." As I spoke, my gaze locked on—

I fixed my gaze. A plump woman who looked like the madam was instructing a boy. In Ranmabu (resplendent attire), arching her chest where the obi was tied high, she was issuing sharp commands.

From her imposing figure in kimono, I couldn't immediately recall the slender Clara of years past, but that profile was undeniably Teruko's. Managing the establishment with strict efficiency as madam, this Teruko exuded an authority far surpassing Maruman's—so overwhelming it felt like confronting an entirely different person—yet there was no doubt this remained the Clara I once knew. A decade had slipped by since those days. My chest constricted violently. Though Fukamaki spoke to me, his words dissolved before reaching my ears. Ten years without meeting—no, an eternity since we'd last crossed paths. Yet perversely, this realization resurrected with cruel clarity the memory of her cold skin from when she'd been Clara—the damp sweat clinging to its surface—vivid as yesterday's touch.

That Teruko glanced at my face—because of that, or so I convinced myself—and strode over to me. Against my will, my chest churned. Me, of all people—is this what they call a gutsy man with nerves of steel? My heart was pounding like a rapid bell.

“Welcome.”

Teruko said this not to me, but to Fukamaki’s companion. “Hey—” the man said.

Teruko then turned to Fukamaki and me, “Welcome.” she said. It was a greeting for welcoming new customers. Teruko has forgotten me! I felt my own face flush crimson. Anger or shame—I couldn’t tell. It’s only natural she’d forgotten, I was telling myself—when Fukamaki’s companion, who seemed to be a regular here, “This is the Madam.” Fukamaki’s companion introduced Teruko to Fukamaki and me. and then first introduced Fukamaki to Teruko as the newspaper’s special correspondent,

“He’s not with our group—Mr. Kashiwai Shiro.” “Mr. Kashiwai…?” Her voice hadn’t forgotten my name, but that expression—as if to say “No way…”—made my face flush crimson again. “It’s been a while… Teru-chan.” When I came to my senses—what a fool I was—I’d blurted it out. “Shiro… It’s been a while.” Teruko said it breezily. Damn! Her nerve—it left me disarmed,

“Does the Madam know Mr. Kashiwai?”

When I heard Fukamaki say, “Former terrorist comrades.” I snarled venomously. “Really?” To the surprised Fukamaki, Teruko beamed a smile. And when she turned her face, now devoid of laughter, toward me, a blue light glinted from Teruko’s eyes. It might have been the eye shadow, but I definitely saw a blue flame-like light that pierced my eyes with a sting.

“Well, I’ll head to the stand.”

Having risen from my seat, I now looked around for the first time to see if Yahagi had come. Teruko said in a low voice from behind, “Let’s go to my room in the back.” “Is this okay?” I was annoyed at myself for being so glib. Teruko called a waiter and whispered something to him. The moment I stepped into the private inner room, it gave me the illusion of having been invited into a Chinese home. The furnishings and decorations—everything from top to bottom was authentically Chinese. Vividly embroidered tapestries adorned the walls. From what I could see, there wasn’t a single Japanese item.

On the rosewood desk with its gleaming mother-of-pearl inlay, various bottles of Western liquor were lined up, “What would you like?” “After dinner, this would be best.” Teruko took the brandy bottle with her manicured hand—given the nature of the room, I found myself describing it this way—and placed it before me alongside a brandy glass. It was a five-star premium variety. When she offered it, “I’ll have some too.” She poured whisky—no, whiskey—Johnnie Walker Black straight into a tumbler, casually cutting it with hot water from a thermos. In Shanghai you couldn’t drink untreated water, so even my boarding house kept thermoses stocked.

“Well then…” Teruko offered me the glass and took a sip of hot whiskey, “I was surprised. But I’m happy.” She expressed her thoughts on our unexpected reunion in that manner. Due to her profession, there was an air of artifice, but it seemed to be a fact that no one had been informed of my arrival in Shanghai. “You’ve become quite impressive.” I said. It wasn’t sarcasm, nor was it mere admiration. I was somewhat displeased. It wasn’t just because Teruko had forgotten me. The feeling that I was somewhat overwhelmed by Teruko, who had become “impressive” in many ways, was also part of what was putting me in a bad mood. Teruko brought out Kisi as appetizers for the drinks. And she brought out watermelon seeds and white melon seeds,

“Among my old customers, some might pop into the shop out of nowhere, but none truly understand me.” Depending on how you heard it, this could sound frank—or like she was giving me a retaliatory jab through her phrasing. My words contrasting the Clara from the unlicensed brothel with the present Teruko were indeed cruel. “I didn’t mean—not in the sense of comparing you to before.” “It’s fine. We haven’t seen each other since back then, after all.”

She said, bringing the cup to her lips. The way she pursed her mouth remained unchanged from those Clara days I'd been obsessed with. "How many years has it been, I wonder?" I answered Teruko's question immediately.

“It’s been ten years.” Nostalgic. Could that also be what was putting me in a bad mood? “Did you come to my old man’s house in Azabu?” “Yes. I, back then…” With fingertips adorned with bright red nails, she picked up a white melon seed from the pumpkin seeds and skillfully cracked it open with her teeth. “Back then…?” He urged her to continue, but Teruko picked up another white melon seed and remained silent. “Back then—you had a lover, didn’t you?”

My displeasure made me say such a thing. “Back then, I thought about running away to you, Shiro-san.” “Was your man—a writer?” “At that time, I met your older brother.” “I heard that from my brother too.” “At that time, I caught a glimpse of your mother, Shiro-san... but she looked so young.” “That’s my old man’s second wife. My mom died a long time ago.” “My mother too…” “So that’s why I ended up going there.”

She was talking about the den of iniquity. Teruko, who was confiding these things, certainly had no intention of driving me away—me, who had appeared so unexpectedly. “At that time, didn’t you see my old man?” “The old man died too.” “I heard your father passed away too.”

I picked up a white melon seed and tried to crack it by mimicking what I'd seen, but I couldn't do it as skillfully as Teruko. “Place it vertically between your teeth, then bite down lightly—just ever so lightly—like this.” Teruko showed her white teeth as she demonstrated it herself. She smoothly sucked out the contents from the cracked seed with her tongue. I couldn’t manage that. The brittle white melon seeds snapped right down the middle when bitten, shattering along with their shells. I picked up a hard watermelon seed instead,

"I met your father in Tokyo. I ended up being misunderstood by him—let me call you Teru-chan—as if I'd kidnapped you."

“I’m sorry. “That father abandoned my mother and left us mother and child to fend for ourselves...” “He’s still your father—you can’t talk about him like that to others, can you? “But still, he must have been worried about you, Teru-chan.” “Is that so?” Teruko said this in a way that pushed aside her father—or rather, pushed me aside. In other words, I was thrust back into a bad mood once more.

“I’d been staying in Nemuro all that time, but I’d once heard Teru-chan had come to Hokkaido.” “No—there was someone who came all the way to tell me that.”

“Who could it be?” “Yahagi-san.” Teruko took a cigarette from the Navy Cut tin and flicked the lighter open with a click to light it. I stared fixedly at Teruko as she did this. If she were a fish, she’d be at the peak of her fattiness—just right for eating… That I saw Teruko this way was perhaps due to my foul mood.

“How did Yahagi-san know I was in Nemuro...” It was a question I hadn’t expected Teruko to answer, but—

“He must have heard it from Sei-san.”

Teruko said. “Sei-san…?”

“Hyakunari Seiichiro-san.”

“No way.”

And saying that, I bitterly recalled how Teruko had looked at me with eyes that seemed to ask, "Could this person really be Shiro-san...?" The memory of those doubtful eyes fixed on me returned with fresh frustration.

“You’d forgotten my face, Teru-chan.” “No.” Teruko said without hesitation. “I thought it might cause complications, so I deliberately pretended not to know.” “Did you know Sei-san, Teru-chan? Hyakunari Seiichiro and Yahagi Daizo were connected after all...” “What do you mean by ‘after all’?” “I hear Teru-chan’s father was killed by Yahagi Daizo.” “That’s a lie. Such a thing... a lie.” “Today, strangely enough, every story I’ve heard has been suketon—lies.”

Was the story about Teruko’s patron being Yahagi also a suketon—a lie? Without voicing this thought, I picked out watermelon seed kernels with my fingertips. Teruko didn’t use both hands, deftly managing it with just one. “How did Yahagi Daizo know you were in Hokkaido, Teru-chan?” “That ‘my Reko’ you mentioned—he was Yahagi-san’s underling.” Saying this smoothly, Teruko poured brandy into my glass. Even though there was still some left, she kept pouring,

“I thought he was just a literary man, but he wasn’t—he was a bad person… but seeing him dead, I can’t help thinking he was pitiful after all.” “He’s dead…?”

I too had passed as a literary man in the brothels of Yoshiwara. "He kept struggling desperately to strike it big... I felt so sorry watching him that I even sold myself to support him—but in the end, he was killed." "You're not saying that's Asakura, are you?" "Shiro-san, you're getting quite deeply involved too, I see."

Ignoring my question, Teruko cast her eyes toward my pocket,

“That would make it stand out. It’ll be spotted right away.”

Teruko said. The pistol I had borrowed from Hyakunari was in my coat pocket, but its large size made the pocket bulge conspicuously outward. “Take off your vest and let me have it.” She explained she would adjust it to better conceal the pistol. That vest contained another small pistol Maruman had given me. While Teruko stood to find a cloth scrap, I moved the pistol from the vest to my discarded jacket, then took off the vest and tossed it onto the table. Teruko,

“Please cut this to fit the pistol’s size.” She handed me the scissors along with a scrap of cloth, hesitating to take the pistol from me as though issuing a disarmament order. “Teru-chan, cut this for me.” Teruko’s intentions were somewhat hard to read, but precisely because of that, I took the large pistol from my pocket and placed it before her. For an instant, Teruko stared at the pistol with sharp eyes, then picked it up, pressed a scrap of cloth against it, and cut it into a V-shape. She said she would sew this cloth under the vest’s armpit to make a hidden pocket for the pistol.

“It’s temporary… just a makeshift fix though.”

Teruko brought a small vermilion-lacquered box and took out a needle and thread from inside. When she threaded the slender needle eye, she swiftly began sewing it on. I watched her deft hands with complicated feelings. From somewhere came the squeal of a huqin. What had grated on my ears yesterday now sounded mournful tonight—less from quick acclimation than from my own state of mind. The vermilion box was unmistakably Japanese. That crimson shade held beauty. By contrast, Teruko’s pristine yokobira tabi socks drew my gaze. Their pure white too held beauty—a sorrowful sort of beauty.

“White tabi socks really are nice after all. Did you have them specially sent from the mainland?” Teruko pulled her feet back slightly, “There are plenty in Shanghai. You can buy anything here in Shanghai.” She said brusquely in that manner and quickened her sewing. I stuffed the exposed pistol into my pants (zubon) pocket. The pistol used in the attempted assassination of General Fukui had been covertly purchased here in Shanghai by comrades, but despite their painstaking efforts to obtain it, this shoddy Renkon-style pistol had proven utterly useless.

Then I recalled myself from when they called me Yachimoro's Shiro-san. What had become of the "Black Flag" that once flew within my chest? Had Maruman driven a "Red Flag" into his own heart to replace that black standard?

“Shiro-san.” “What is it?” “You want to ask me things, Shiro-san, but you won’t say what you most want to know. You’re such a good person too.” “But…?” I said, “There’s no point asking about Yahagi Daizo and Teru-chan now. I’ve got a wife too.” “Isn’t it said that Mr. Yahagi killed Asakura too?” Teruko dropped the honorific when mentioning Asakura,

“Mr. Yahagi is actually a good person, yet he gets misunderstood by others. Is it because he’s naive?”

Teruko, who had said that, didn't seem simple. Having finished sewing, "Here."

she handed me the vest.

“Oh, thanks.” “Actually, a bulletproof vest would be better.” “You should buy one with a pistol hook inside.” Teruko also taught me that in Chinese, a bulletproof vest is written as 保険的背心. “Beixin?” I muttered, “Was it Mr. Yahagi who orchestrated this Incident behind the scenes?”

It was meant to provoke. Teruko understood that provocation, “That’s not the case. If he had, he’d be doing much better for himself.”

He poured whiskey into his own glass. Even though there was still some left in this one，he poured more.

Just then, a boy came over and told Teruko that someone had arrived asking to see Mr. Nonaka. “Nonaka? There’s no such person here.” “It’s me.” “Oh, honestly…”

She said as if addressing me, "I told them not to tell anyone you were here, and yet..."

I thought it might be Fukamaki, but the one who had summoned me was Roku of Four-Five-Six. To distinguish him from the okama Roku, this Roku would henceforth be written simply as Four-Five-Six. In the shadows, Four-Five-Six spoke to me in a threatening tone, demanding that I lend him my face—that I accompany him to a certain place—and said, “Therefore, I’d like to borrow your piece (pistol) for a moment…” “The pistol from yesterday? What happens if I say no?”

Four-Five-Six—his right hand thrust into his coat pocket and pressed right up against me—smirked as he shifted his pocketed hand, pressing the muzzle of the concealed pistol against my side with a sharp jab. Four-Five-Six, who shouldn’t have had a pistol, was carrying one tonight. That Four-Five-Six, “I’ll just take this for now—I’ll give it back later, see,” he said with unnerving politeness. I—I smirked back, took out the pistol I’d received from Maruman, and silently handed it to Four-Five-Six.

“My apologies...”

With that said, he led me to the bar's back entrance with a stride that knew its way around. When we climbed the narrow stairs, a car was waiting outside. It was a splendid Chevrolet.

I had left a coat in the cloakroom but got into the car as I was. It would be more accurate to say I was forced into the car. In form I had followed Hyakunari’s words—but in fact doing as he’d said seemed wiser. Another large pistol lay hidden inside my vest; drawing it here immediately struck me as unwise.

The car sped toward Suzhou Creek. In the car, I was thinking about Teruko. When I left Teruko’s room after being told a man had come to summon me, Teruko remained there and did not come to see me off.… The car passed through Garden Bridge and emerged onto Nanjing Road. "Well, now that we’ve come this far…" Four-Five-Six began in a tone that suggested as much, slowly opening his mouth. “Actually, Mr. Kashiwai—I need you to eliminate someone for me.”

“Wasn’t your plan to sell me out?” “Don’t go jumping to conclusions.” “Is that so? Then Roku-san—you want me to eliminate you?” “Not at all. Unfortunately, you’ve got the wrong man.” “Who’s the target?” “Boss Sunauma.” Four-Five-Six said offhandedly and paused to gauge my reaction. Kill Sunauma? I was surprised, but as I hid my shock, Four-Five-Six—

“This is a job only you can do.” “The boss has approved this job too.” “Boss…?” “Maruman’s boss...”

“Then if Maru-san had told me directly himself, that’d make more sense.” “I suppose so.”

Four-Five-Six feigned nonchalance as he asked, “Will you take the job?” There was no way I could kill Sunauma with my own hands—but—

“What am I supposed to do?” I too played dumb.

“So, you’ll do it for me then?”

Four-Five-Six said roughly. I gave no definite answer about whether I would do it or not. Why are you trying to make me kill Sunauma? I didn't ask Four-Five-Six about his reasons either. Though his tone had been resolute when saying "Kill Sunauma," there was something ambiguous about Four-Five-Six himself. Speaking of ambiguity, Teruko too had maintained an ambiguous air throughout, yet harbored something resolute at her core. I thought I wanted to hold Teruko. No—no need for such refined phrasing. I wanted to rape her.

Now she might be the bar madam, but toward Teruko—whom I'd paid to sleep with countless times during her prostitute days—the word 'rape' felt absurd, yet that was precisely what I felt. Those feelings hadn't stirred at all when facing Teruko in that room earlier, yet now a violent urge to rape her blazed up fiercely within me. Was this abnormal excitement from the murderous intent flooding through me? Though this killing was forced upon me, had I already developed genuine murderous impulse? Did I truly feel no psychological resistance toward killing Sunauma? Or was it that the act of killing itself—regardless of target—blindly excited my heart?

In any case,I wanted to shatter that resolute aspect of Teruko by raping her.Rather than appreciate her kindness in making that pistol hiding spot in my vest,I wanted to trample it underfoot.Ichinrin,huh?The word escaped my lips."Huh?"Four-Five-Six said."Does Mr.Shina's venereal disease medicine work well?"I asked.The previous day,having seen characters reading"Ichinrin"—likely a patent medicine name—in a street ad,I had asked Maruman what it was.Maruman answered it was medicine for venereal disease.Four-Five-Six,having been in the driver's seat at that time,must have overheard this conversation,yet—

“Venereal disease…?” “I wonder if Teru-chan’s gonorrhea has cleared up.” I had tried to probe the relationship between Four-Five-Six and Teruko. Then he said, “Do you have gonorrhea…?”

He was clearly playing dumb, damn him. "Is 'the boss' referring to Yahagi?" "And is he your boss figure too, Roku-san...?"

“That’s my line,” said Four-Five-Six. “Is that so…” I replied. “What do you think…?” he pressed. “Is Yahagi my boss…?” “Let’s quit this infighting.” The neon signs blazed luridly. A Kodak advertisement swam into view. No—no time for descriptive flourishes— Our destination turned out to be a nightclub on Yu Yuan Road (though I’d only learn the street name later). As we disembarked, Four-Five-Six told the driver:

“Thanks for the trouble. You can go back.”

Four-Five-Six said. Then the driver—who until then hadn't uttered a single word, which was why I'd been absolutely convinced he was Chinese— "I'll go back and report to the boss." With that remark, he made me flinch. He was Japanese. Did "the boss" mean Yahagi?

"If we leave the car here—it’d be bad if trackers get on our tail, you know." Four-Five-Six said that to me. There was an iron gate in Western-style mansion fashion that at first glance looked like an ordinary residence. The gate stood open, but the old-fashioned entrance door remained closed. Even after opening it, there was still no commotion befitting an entertainment venue. Guided by a Chinese bellboy down a red-carpeted corridor, I gradually heard jazz music approach.

The inner hall appeared much narrower than Teruko’s bar. Perhaps it was also due to the darkness. Tables were arranged around the band, and on those tables stood cylindrical white frosted-glass candle holders. In that dimness, the light barely illuminated the floor where guests packed tightly together danced. It was an old-fashioned fox-trot. In the corner of the hall stood a liquor bottle-lined stand where Four-Five-Six went. A partition separated it from the hall, arranged to block visibility from beyond. Four-Five-Six ordered beer.

“It’s so dark here, I can’t tell where the boss is.” From behind the partition, I quietly peered into the hall. There didn’t seem to be any Japanese customers. Four-Five-Six peered at his chareke (wristwatch) and,

“The floor show will start soon. They’ll pop firecrackers to shake off sleepiness, so when that happens…” After telling me this, he too fixed his eyes on the dark hall. All the customers at the tables had women with them. Since this wasn’t a dance hall, there were no dance girls here. They danced with their accompanying women. From the slits of their qipaos’ hems, glimpses of legs flickered—the darkness made them stand out all the more. They’re having a damn good time, I thought bitterly.

“There.” Four-Five-Six whispered into my ear. Hiding his fingertip with a beer glass, he indicated the location. When I scanned where he'd pointed, there sat Yahagi at a table with a Chinese man and woman. The candlelight illuminated only his face—that face was unmistakably Yahagi’s.

“That him?” “That’s him.” “Isn’t that Yahagi?” “That’s right.” “Are we going to take him out?” Four-Five-Six silently nodded.

“So Mr. Roku, you really were Yahagi’s underling after all.” Four-Five-Six was telling me to kill Yahagi, not Sunauma. Why had he mentioned Sunauma back in the car? Was he trying to test my so-called loyalty to Sunauma? You bastard! However, on the surface I remained calm, “Since I don’t want a repeat of Asakura’s fate, you’re saying we should eliminate Yahagi first?” “Yeah, quit yammering ‘Yahagi this, Yahagi that’.” “There’s no way you’d let me handle such an interesting job.” “Then why don’t you do it yourself?”

"I'm not cut out for this sort of thing." "You're too modest..." I mimicked Hyakunari's way of speaking. "Back in Japan, I once killed a man for that Yahagi—a man I didn't know at all, someone I had no connection to whatsoever." I hadn't thought this Four-Five-Six was the man the crossdressing Roku had spoken of, nor had I believed Hyakunari's denial, but—

"That wasn't my fault." "It's Yahagi's fault." "If that's how it is, then it works out even better." "For you?" "For you..." "So you're gonna settle the score here with the enemy Yahagi made you become Nishimaru - that ex-con - huh?"

"My family register isn't tainted yet."

“Huh, is that so? Ain’t you a wanted man?” “Seems like the consular police have been lookin’ for you.”

“What the…?” “Do this job here, and we’ll put our lives on the line protecting you." “We won’t just hand you over to the cops without a peep.” “That ain’t gonna fly.” “Meaning?” “I’m through doing wetwork for others.” “Not even for the great Mr. Roku of Four-Five-Six himself…” “Unwilling? Unwilling to ice that man?” “Unwilling to ice that man?” “Not a chance.” “So he’s your real boss after all?”

“I ain’t nobody’s kin.”

“I’ll go tell Commander Sunauma you said that.” “Go to hell.” I crossed my arms.

“How about you lower your voice a bit more? Using too much Japanese here ain’t wise.”

Four-Five-Six pressed the muzzle of his pocketed pistol against my back, “I’ll ask again—you unwilling to take out that man?” “I refuse.” “Well, sorry ’bout this...” “You meant to kill me from the start, didn’t ya?” “Depends how you play it.” “I love me some daruma work, but takin’ orders from you? No dice.” “Oh yeah?” Four-Five-Six puffed up his chest, “Then guess I ain’t returnin’ them pieces I took off ya.”

“Go ahead and give them back to Maruman.”

“I’ll return them to Commander Sunauma. Or should I tell him how Mr. Shiro Kashiwai shriveled up like a slug under Yahagi’s salt? No—better yet, I’ll give Commander Sunauma the full account of how you showed your traitor’s true colors when push came to shove.” Keeping my arms crossed, I slipped a hand into my vest and gripped the pistol. Furious deep in my gut, I wanted to waste this Four-Five-Six bastard instead of Yahagi. Couldn’t even wait for the damn firecrackers anymore.

“Letting you speak… you bastard!” If I’d known Chinese, I would’ve cursed him as Third Brother Fourth Brother—that meddlesome upstart—instead of Four-Five-Six. I nimbly twisted my body and struck Four-Five-Six’s pistol-wielding hand with my left while thrusting my right-hand pistol against his chest. The pistol roared with unnatural volume. That sound told me I’d pulled the trigger. Four-Five-Six leapt upward like a prankster recoiling backward. When I looked again, he suddenly hunched forward and collapsed onto the floor with a heavy thud, curled like a shrimp.

A woman’s scream rose nearby, and as if it were a signal, the band stopped playing. The customers all rose to their feet. “Han traitor!”

And I shouted. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. The people around me scattered like a receding wave. No sooner had they fled than they came surging back in a rush. As if to prevent that, two Chinese men stood blocking my way. Where had they come from—this unexpected reinforcement (though that was my genuine feeling in the moment)—one of those Chinese men said to me,

“Fukero (Run!)” he said in Japanese.

That was Kanehara wearing Chinese clothes. The other man, appearing to be a genuine Chinese person, was shouting something in Chinese at the customers. That loud voice seemed to be protecting me.

“Leave this place to that partner. Now, scram!”

Kanehara told me to follow him. It was my role to clear a path with my raised pistol, but I left the escape route to Kanehara and followed after him. Having temporarily escaped to the back of the house, we rushed through the garden and ran to the front road. Unlike in Japan, there were no gawkers chasing after us. Is this their way of saying 'none of my business' toward incidents that don’t directly involve them? There was no sign that a police cordon had been set up.

When we emerged onto the road, “We’re safe now.” Kanehara slowed his pace as if to say “Whew”, “This area’s under a different jurisdiction.” This road is called Extension Road, and since only the road itself belongs to the International Settlement, the police jurisdiction here is different from that of the nightclub. He explained that once we reached this road, the nightclub’s patrols could no longer apprehend us. It felt terribly anticlimactic.

I looked back at the nightclub we had fled from, but there was no sign of customers rushing out in panic from the house over the murder commotion. As if nothing had happened—such was the look of that house, and of this road. Relieved, I expressed my thanks to Kanehara, “So we’re safe now (sukoten)? Thank god you were here, Kanehara.” “Glad I happened to be there.” Kanehara said curtly,

“You’re still being reckless.” “So you knew…?” “Well, in Nemuro you were playing the innocent too.” At that moment, I saw a small group of bats fluttering before my eyes—the bats I’d often seen in twilight streets as a child, those eerie bats from my visits to dens of iniquity. Shanghai had bats too…? When I stared, they vanished. Strange. A hallucination? I drew my hand down my face. When I opened my eyes again, a black bat streaked past at terrifying speed.

I shuddered. Terror froze my blood. It was not the terror of having killed a person.

Rather than subsiding unless I kept killing people, this terror pressed in on me as that sort of strange terror. "Namiko..." "What's wrong?"

Being tapped on the shoulder by Kanehara, I came back to my senses, “If it happens once, it’ll happen again.” “What happens twice will happen a third time…?” “Who’s next? Right—Yahagi.” I kept silent to Kanehara about the bats.

Part Five: Two Mauser Pistols

To retrieve my overcoat, I went to Teruko's bar with Kanehara. Kanehara wore a fur-lined greatcoat that made an overcoat unnecessary. In front of the cloakroom, I came face to face with Teruko as she saw off a customer. "Thanks to you, Teruko, I cheated death." The words slipped out before I could stop them. Later—Teruko signaled with her eyes— "Won't you come inside?"

“Want a drink?” said Kanehara.

We sat down at the Romance Table. Fukamaki had already left. Kanehara ordered a beer from the waitress. In Nemuro, Kanehara had looked every bit the peasant with his reddened, chapped eyes, but seeing him now sitting leisurely before me in his magnificent overcoat, he seemed like a Chinese gentleman. "I need to properly thank Kanehara again..." "Why did you thank the madam here?" I ignored that and, “Even if it was just chance you were there… Were you helping me out of anarchist solidarity…?”

“Ex-anarchist.” Kanehara corrected, "But you're still a terrorist after all. Why don't you go ahead and cut loose in Shanghai?"

The waitress beside us asked in a Kyushu dialect what a terrorist was. That accent reminded me of Namiko's. When I went to assassinate General Oogaki in Keijō and first met Namiko, she had spoken with a similar accent. I had committed yet another senseless murder—my heart inclined in that direction. "A terrorist is the opposite of a smirker." Kanehara was telling the waitress. "A smirker's some dandy who just grins like an idiot in front of women—a man with no ability to act. A terrorist's a man of action."

“Oh, how reliable,” said the waitress with a gourd-shaped face, paying her compliment.

“You’re the reliable one here.” What I’d said wasn’t empty flattery toward Kanehara. Shifting her attention from me, the waitress addressed him: “So you’re acquainted with our Madam.” “I don’t know anything about that.” Kanehara shook his head, but the waitress—who seemed around Teruko’s age—persisted: “Teruko-chan was talking about you here earlier. Couldn’t you be Madam’s old flame?”

“Should you really be saying such things in the shop?” “Your life might be in danger.”

After saying that, I drank the bitter beer (awamori). The beer at that time was literally bitter. “Do you know about Papa? Papa went and got himself another woman long ago, and poor Mama...” the waitress said in a low voice, yet bluntly. “But Mama had been praising Yahagi’s Papa an awful lot, you know.” When I also spoke bluntly, the waitress grabbed my glass and drank the awakiss (beer). “That’s what makes Madam so impressive...”

"Terrorists unfortunately hate high-and-mighty bastards." "You feel just like me..." "Oh, how dependable." I mocked in return. Then Teruko the Madam arrived and shooed the waitress away from the table,

“I’d like to hear more about that story from earlier.” “Mr. Yahagi also had a narrow escape.” Kanehara said bluntly to Teruko, whose eyes held an odd intensity. "The Roku from 4-5-6 who came to summon me ordered me to take out Yahagi Daizo—but instead I did Roku in…" I trailed off there, but Teruko’s expression showed she’d grasped it. Even after realizing I’d done the killing, she remained utterly unfazed, “And it didn’t cause complications?”

“Fortunately, Mr. Kanehara here happened to be around by chance, and I was saved.” “Coincidence?” Teruko said, “Wasn’t it Mr. Sei’s Ayako who asked you?”

What she meant was that it wasn't mere coincidence he happened to be there—Ayako had likely instructed him beforehand to protect me. Had I struck true? Kanehara pulled a sour face. "I wasn't ordered to save Yahagi Daizo." "Waiter." "Whiskey." Teruko spoke. Her voice slurred drunkenly. The intoxication she'd been suppressing seemed to burst forth suddenly. With a voice that laid bare the hidden drunkenness,

“Bring the whole bottle!” “Given how things look, even though Kashiwai Shiro went to the trouble of saving Yahagi Daizo’s life, there’s no telling how it’ll be conveyed to the man himself.” Overlapping Kanehara’s words, “Bullseye.” Teruko said. Her bold voice was incredibly alluring. A wheal had formed on my wrist. I came into the light there and noticed it. When I was escaping, I must have caught it on a nail or something. I brought my wrist to my mouth and licked the stinging wheal with my tongue. That gesture resembling a mock kiss may have owed something to the effect of Teruko’s alluring voice. Teruko watched that with eyes brimming with laughter.

“Shiro-san, you haven’t changed one bit since back then.” She seemed about to call me childish, but— “That’s right. This terrorist—who knows who he’ll take out next. You’d better watch out.” Kanehara said something that couldn’t be pinned down as joke or sincerity. “Perhaps I should be careful?”

she said with apparent delight that contradicted her words. "To think you'd stoop to dealing with women, Shiro..." "Haven't you sunk low?" I said, staring at Teruko, "I don't know."

That night, I didn't return to the inn and stayed in Kanehara's room. Kanehara was renting a room on the second floor of a Chinese household. The next day, when Kanehara said he had some "business" to take care of in Shanghai's outskirts, I decided to go with him. As we were about to leave, the Chinese man whom Kanehara had called his "partner" last night came and returned the Mauser pistol that Roku (4-5-6) had taken from me. That was the small pistol Maruman had given me. The Chinese man had retrieved it from Roku's corpse.

“This is proof that everything went smoothly.” Kanehara said, and “Alright, let’s get going with our ‘business.’”

Kanehara casually called it "business," but it turned out to be an all-day job. We went to the upper reaches of Suzhou Creek, to an area occupied by the Japanese military. We went by car as far as the edge of the Concession, but after that, we walked along the embankment. Kanehara was holding a map drawn with a brush on paper. Kanehara was engaged in the "material removal" business that Hyakunari had spoken of. A Shanghai brush factory or something had "evacuated" dozens of boxes of pig bristles to the outskirts during the Incident, but they couldn't retrieve them. Kanehara had been requested by a Chinese person who urgently wanted to bring those supplies back to Shanghai, so he went to first verify their location.

The entire surrounding area had been a battlefield during the Incident. As far as the eye could see, rice fields stretched out, and whether due to winter's grip or not, not a soul was in sight. Buffeted by the cold wind as we walked along the embankment, we found a Japanese sentry standing at the bridge's foot. We were startled to find a guard post in such desolation, but the sentry who challenged us seemed equally astonished to encounter fellow Japanese in that forsaken place. To the sentry demanding our purpose,

“Carry on.” Kanehara said, implying we were there on military business. The sentry, having likely deduced we weren’t ordinary folk to come to such a place,

“Be very careful.” He said defeated soldiers were still lurking ahead.

We walked along the embankment again. "The supplies we're after might've already been snatched up by Shina-san." I said. This "Shina-san" referred to Chinese soldiers. "They were never there to begin with." While glancing sideways at the bullet-riddled pillbox, Kanehara remarked nonchalantly, "What matters more is whether this map's reliable..."

"If the map provided by the client were inaccurate," he said it would be a wasted effort, then immediately added, "But Shina-san would never send anything unreliable." Kanehara said. "Is Hyakunari in the same line of work as you?" "He doesn't bother with such petty things," Kanehara told me. "Is he a bigger villain?" "Well, how should I put it? He's already a known figure in Shanghai. Even if he does nothing, just by sitting there, information comes in. If he's got that kind of information coming in, he could make a living off that alone."

“What kind of information?” “The so-called activities of Japanese residents here.” “Where does he sell the information?”

Kanehara did not answer that, “The writer Tamatsuka Hidenobu has come to Shanghai as a war correspondent.” “He’s probably already gone to the front lines by now.” “That’s certainly someone you know, isn’t it?” “Is that also Hyakunari’s information?”

How long had we walked? We had been walking for at least two hours since coming out onto the embankment. The overcoat-clad body began to sweat.

“That’s the one.”

Kanehara pointed at the bamboo grove in the distance.

We descended from the embankment. When we proceeded along the path toward the bamboo grove, corpses of Chinese soldiers lay strewn across the road. We did not encounter the live defeated soldiers the sentry had warned us about, but instead stumbled upon abandoned corpses. The corpses on the embankment seemed to have been cleared away by Japanese soldiers, but those in places like this had been forgotten. The flesh of their faces had already crumbled away, leaving behind skeletons. The bones, which should have been white, had darkened. The military uniforms, stained the color of oil-soaked work clothes, lay oddly flattened—perhaps because the flesh inside had rotted away. Perhaps because they had hardened like mummies. The stench of decay was absent.

However, as we drew nearer to the bamboo grove, the rotten stench of corpses caught the wind and drifted over. Thinking there must be more bodies somewhere, we pressed into the grove and gasped. Countless Chinese soldiers' corpses lay piled in heaps, fallen over each other. Though mummified like those on the road, their powerful decay stench now permeated the bamboo thicket. Against the Japanese forces' advance, these soldiers must have made this grove their defensive stronghold, only to meet complete annihilation.

Kanehara stepped carelessly over the corpses and kept going. Unlike me, he was already accustomed to this.

Lacquered boxes were being used as sandbags, and on top of one such box lay a Chinese soldier dead face down. The box appeared to contain pig hair. The corpse's oils had seeped into it, forming stains like those from a leaking roof. At the base of bamboo roots where ammunition boxes lay scattered, there was another identical box. The target box had been, as it were, protected by the Chinese soldier's corpse and remained perfectly preserved.

“Damn...” I said. Kanehara remained silent with a sullen face, as if he’d taken offense. When we returned to the Concession and stopped by the inn together with Kanehara, there was a summons from the consular police for me. “That was quick.” I said with apparent admiration, but my words didn’t match my thoughts. I was inwardly panicking, wondering if the Beyuu incident from last night had already been exposed, but Kanehara said that the summons probably wasn’t about that matter. He said that since our Chinese comrades had handled it properly, it must be something else.

Now that I thought about it, that Roku from 4-5-6 had said the consular police were looking for me. What could they want?

When I appeared, just as Kanehara had said, I was summoned not as a murderer but as a terrorist under surveillance. When I left the mainland, I hadn't notified the local police. I was supposed to file a report, but thinking that filing carelessly might prevent me from traveling, I'd come to Shanghai without permission. This had been discovered, and I was questioned about why I'd come to Shanghai. I imitated Kanehara and put on a face like I was on military business.

Just like the mainland cops, the consular police were no match for the military. It ended with a mere formality—taking my verbal statement. On my way back, when I went to the back toilet, an eerie moaning sound came from the direction of the dojo. When I peeked in to see what was happening, several detectives were ganging up on a man, brutally interrogating him. Among those detectives was that Modern Boy-style man who had been on the ship with me. He had come all the way from the mainland specifically to arrest criminals. Brandishing the bamboo sword in his hand,

“Hey, Shigeno. If you don’t spill, I’ll make you hurt even worse.”

“Hey, Shigeno,” said the man. Shigeno...? It was Shigeno being tortured. His face had been altered by the interrogation, so at first I hadn’t recognized him, but there was no mistaking it now. “Why don’t you just tell us what sort of people you contacted here in Shanghai?” “Stop making this difficult.” “Stubborn bastard.”

The detectives said in unison. “Now that’s a Communist Party member for you.” “Fine. If you won’t talk, I’ll make you talk.” The detective from the mainland sneered, “I’ll bring one of your comrades here now—to make an example for him too—” To those around him, “Shall we begin?” he asked politely, requesting their assistance. From the ceiling beam hung a long rope—a single cord split into two strands. They twisted the ends around Shigeno’s ankles. With his hands bound behind him, Shigeno offered no resistance. Watching this filled me with frustration, but Shigeno—already broken by prior torture—seemed to have lost all strength to fight.

When the detectives pulled one end of the split rope hanging from the beam like tuna fishermen hauling in a catch, Shigeno's body was suspended upside down, as if he were a pig in a slaughterhouse. It was efficient work—or perhaps I should say lightning-fast—and Shigeno was now suspended upside down. "How's that, you bastard!" In a voice trembling with excitement at his own cruelty, that Modern Boy-style detective— "You're looking down on us... Hah!" He put all his strength into the bamboo sword and struck Shigeno's back.

I smelled something acrid. That immediately turned into the stench of death. Had the stench of death returned to my nostrils? Or was Shigeno's body actually emitting such a stench? "Got it now... you bastard?" The bamboo sword cracked sharply. "Ngh…"

A death-rattling groan escaped from Shigeno’s mouth. “Kill… kill me.” Low but clear, that voice pierced through my chest. Shigeno’s face, drained of blood and now crimson like a slab of meat in a slaughterhouse, sent my own blood rushing backward. I wanted to rush into the dojo and save Shigeno.

“Hey! What are you doing?” If not for that policeman’s voice, I would have truly rushed out blinded by rage. “Are you part of that guy’s gang too?” What Gacha (the policeman) and I saw was Kamari—the detention cell’s guard. A man fitted with Enjo (handcuffs) came there, flanked by two guards.

That man was none other than Maruman. Holding up his pants—their belt taken—with hands rendered immobile by handcuffs, he walked forward. The fact that Maruman had been handcuffed as a detainee meant he must have put up one hell of a struggle. I thought about raising hell right there and then. Maruman shot me a sharp look, warning me to pretend not to know him. As a member of Shigeno's gang, Maruman had been brought to the dojo. I couldn't stand to watch Maruman being tortured. Fortunately(?), the guard drove me off, so I staggered away from the spot. A swarm of black bats cut through the air before my eyes.

I went to Teruko's café. I crossed the hall and charged straight into Teruko's room. What for? That should go without saying. I was seething with murderous intent. The waiter tried to stop me midway, but— "Have you forgotten my face?"

When I roared at him, the waiter shrank back in fear. I didn’t check whether Teruko was in the inner room. If she wasn’t there, so be it—yet part of me almost wished her absent. Without knocking, I kicked open the door and charged inside. Yahagi stood imposingly at the room’s center like a temple guardian statue. (Damn him!) This marked my first encounter with Yahagi since arriving in Shanghai. Though I owed him formal greetings—having extorted his money through that faggot Roku—the sight of Teruko collapsed weeping on the sofa sealed my lips.

“Well, well, look who’s here.” Yahagi grinned slyly and, “I had a feeling it would come to this.” He stopped laughing and glared at me. “This is awkward as hell.” Before I knew it, those words had escaped my lips. There was no way to barge into the middle of a lovers’ quarrel. “What did you say…?” “I’ve walked into a real mess here.” “You think this is awkward?”

Yahagi glared coldly down at Teruko, “Hey, Teruko.” Teruko didn’t budge an inch. “Hey, get up.”

Yahagi grabbed Teruko’s hair with a jerk. Rather than pulling her up by the hair, it was as if he were trying to yank it all out by the roots; a tearing sound definitely seemed to reach my ears. “It…” She stifled her voice, but the pain brought tears to Teruko’s eyes. “If it hurts, say it hurts.” He irritably shook off the loose hair tangled around his fingers, “What a stubborn creature you are.” Saying the same thing as that detective, Yahagi abruptly slapped Teruko across the cheek. With a sharp crack, a tremendous sound rang out, and Teruko collapsed onto the floor. Tonight, Teruko was wearing not a kimono but a black velvet dress. I averted my eyes,

“Mr. Yahagi. Stop the violence.” “Stop? You giving me orders?” Yahagi glared fiercely, and— “I need to show you this Teruko.” As Teruko staggered to her feet, he raised his hand again. This time, whether by some twist of force, the blow sent Teruko lurching forward. Teruko flailed her hands in the air and grabbed onto Yahagi’s vest to steady herself as she fell. “What the hell are you doing?” When Yahagi flung his entire body to shake her off, his vest ripped with a sharp tear, and a button snapped off.

"You bitch!" "Mr. Yahagi. Haven't you had enough?"

I shouted and stepped between them. Seeing Teruko—Yahagi’s bira (mistress)—sheepishly gathering the scattered beso (buttons) on the floor, I felt disappointed. In my role as mediator, I looked like a complete kudama (fool) here. After placing the gathered buttons on the table, Teruko tried to leave the room in silence. You don’t need to show me any more of your pitiful state—her dejected back seemed to say as much, but—

“Where are you going…” Yahagi barked. Teruko jerked to a halt and slowly turned around. On her cheek, the mark of the slap remained red and swollen like an earthworm’s trail. “I’ll go fix your vest.”

Teruko spoke for the first time. "The vest? Hmm."

As if declaring this was only natural, Yahagi nodded arrogantly and removed his jacket. Next came the vest. Yahagi quietly slipped his hand inside its lining. I saw he had a pistol stashed there. What would Yahagi do with that pistol? Would he hand the vest to Teruko with the pistol still inside? Yahagi tried to take the pistol out from his vest. On sudden impulse, I reached inside my own vest and swiftly pulled out the pistol from the pouch Teruko had made for me.

“What the hell is that?” Yahagi stiffened. I grinned slyly, “I thought you were going to sarakusu (kill) Teruko-san with a slingshot.” “What the hell are you saying?” “As long as that’s not your intention, then fine.”

As I spoke, I placed the pistol on the table. It was the large pistol Hyakunari had lent me. Faced with this, Yahagi too had no choice but to place his own pistol on the table. He then took off his vest and thrust it at Teruko. She took Yahagi's vest and left the room without a word. The sewing kit should have been here—when she'd sewn the pistol pouch into my vest, it had been right here in this room...

“It’s pitiful how you bully a woman like that.” When Teruko left, I protested again. “Teru-chan—no, Teruko-san—how could you make her go through such a terrible ordeal…” “Teru-chan’s fine, isn’t it?”

Yahagi formed a sardonic smile. I maintained a stern expression, “Teruko-san speaks very highly of you behind your back, you know.” “You’re getting ahead of yourself…” “I should say I’m protecting her.”

“That’s just about saving your own face.” “Don’t want to look pathetic…?” “Even women have face to keep.” “And you’d trample that face right before me—” “Because it’s you I’m with.” Yahagi, seated on the sofa, kept jiggling his knees in quick little twitches. An irritating fidget. I told him: “Teruko-san goes through hell to prop up your dignity around me.” “The world says you killed Inozawa Ichitaro, but she swears that’s manpachi—a damn lie…”

“That’s obvious.” “She also says it wasn’t you who killed Asakura.” “You’re awfully quick to defend Teruko, aren’t you?”

“I’m just stating the facts I heard from Teruko-san.” “I hear you disposed of that Four-Five-Six punk Roku.” Yahagi raised his square jaw as he spoke. I pressed my lips into a tight line. I hadn’t eliminated Roku for Yahagi’s sake. Not that Yahagi had bothered thanking me for it anyway— “If you’re going to put it that way, I’ve got a favor to ask.” My voice hardened. “Mr. Yahagi. There’s someone I need you to arrange a meeting with.”

Interrupting that, “Did you get money from that faggot Roku?” “I did.” “Guess I should thank you, huh?”

“Seems you’ve gotten some from Sunauma too.” “That doesn’t mean I’ve become one of Sunauma’s underlings.” I cut off that conversation myself, “The truth is, an acquaintance of mine has been caught by the consular police and is being worked over.” “You want me to get him out?” “Please!” “Maruman?” Yahagi spat out the words. “You object if it’s Maruman?” “You should have Sunauma handle it.” “The one I want you to hand over is a man named Shigeno.”

“What’s his background?” “He’s a Bolshevik and my enemy, but seeing him like that—it’s downright pitiable.” “Does ‘Bolu’ mean Reds? Just leave that bastard alone.”

“Won’t you listen to my request?” “Traitors like that are better off dead.” In a gloomy voice unbefitting a Rojita (insult),

“You’d be wiser worrying about yourself instead of others’ business.” “Unfortunately, I ain’t that wise...” “Sunauma’s crew’s got you in their sights.” “Huh.” “That so?” “You think I’m lying about wanting to recruit you?” “Don’t reckon you’re lying.” “If I’d meant to recruit you, I wouldn’t have left you be all this time since you hit Shanghai.” “You ain’t the sort gets recruited half-assed.”

“He ain’t that big a deal.” “Even Sunauma kept quiet and let you roam free to figure out where you really stood.” So that’s how it was. So that’s how it had been. When I gave an involuntary nod, Yahagi pounced on the opening. “The other night—bad luck for me—I was there instead of Sunauma when you came gunning for him. “Word’s reached Sunauma proper.” “Bet the great man himself felt like he’d been played by foxes.”

“Not really. It was Sunauma who sold Maruman to the police. You and Maruman are thick as thieves. And what’s worse for you—that night when I stood in Sunauma’s place, well now…” “Still breathing?”

A smile rose to my face. "What the hell are you getting so cocky about?" I thought. Did my laughter make Yahagi sense killing intent? Yahagi quietly reached toward the pistol on the table. "Hold it." I swept my hand across the table as if wiping it clean, sending both pistols skidding across the floor. "What the hell're you doing?" Yahagi flushed crimson and stood up. Making placating gestures, I found myself calming my own nerves more than his. My hands naturally took on the mannerisms of a beckoning cat—or rather, a kitten batting playfully at air—which only stoked Yahagi's anger further.

“This guy... If he’d just come out quietly, he wouldn’t be getting so cocky...” “My bad. Don’t like that I’m not bowing and scraping? Do I have to be absolutely obedient like Teru-chan?”

Even as I resolved not to say anything unnecessary, my mouth began rattling off of its own accord. And with those very words of mine, I too grew increasingly agitated, "You planning to treat me the same as Teru-chan? Are you trying to hit me like you did Teru-chan?"

Yahagi's attitude, poised to strike me down at any moment, had partly driven me to say this. And so I spoke: “Mr. Yahagi. Don’t make me angry—I’m begging you.” “What’s with that cocky mouth of yours?” I hadn’t meant it impertinently, but Yahagi took it that way. “Don’t fuck with me. You bastard!” “‘Bastard,’ you say?” “So you’re siding with Sunauma after all.” It seemed Yahagi too had another pistol hidden in his pocket like mine. The instant this thought crossed my mind, a sharp gunshot—though I immediately recognized it as firecrackers—reached my ears from below, seemingly right at my feet, jolting me.

“Not as tough as your mouth makes you out to be.” Yahagi sneered.

“Hmph. Trying to salt-preserve me like Asakura?” The firecrackers’ noise—were they trying to shoot me dead under that cover? “Not a chance. I’m different from trash like Asakura. Cut from different cloth than you too. What you hate—not some Red, but a traitor to the nation. A terrorist.” My hand dove into the pocket and seized the pistol.

Part Six: Reality Within the Past

I had shot and killed Yahagi Daizo.

Why? There was no reason. No—there was a reason, but not one that should have compelled me to shoot Yahagi Daizo dead. (Next comes Sunauma!) I heard that voice. It was my own voice commanding me.

――Wait, why am I rambling on about all this? Is this a confession? There are probably some bastards―no, pardon me―people who would think this is a confession. Such gentlemen must surely think me a slow-witted (stupid) fool.

"I’ve done nothing but commit meaningless killings…" That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Look—it’s written right there on your face. Trying to hide it won’t work. Your face says everything. “Stupid murderer…”

Calling me a fool—fine, but I'll have you hold on before talking about murder like it's someone else's business. So you—all you upstanding citizens—have you never committed murder? Sure, maybe you haven't used knockout drops to put people to sleep. You probably haven't committed any murders that'd be considered crimes. But isn't the murder that doesn't count as a crime far more insidious? More vicious, don't you think?

How about it, you! Haven’t you committed murder? I won’t let you say you haven’t. You, who kill people without knowing it—your sin is deeper. For instance, could it be that your ambition—your desire for merit—is killing people? In your climb up the social ladder, you might actually be driving the unfortunate people around you to their deaths in agony. Have you never secretly contemplated such things in the dark of night? I, with all due modesty, have never killed anyone out of selfish interests.

Is 'death from agony' too dramatic? But countless people die from gnawing despair without ever realizing it's consuming them. You could say there's something twisted about those who perish. Maybe it's not your fault. But the truth remains—you're committing murder. Even without murderous intent, you kill. Do you hypocrites have any right to condemn me as a killer?

Everyone commits murder. Every human being commits murder, whether they realize it or not. Even those who consider themselves upstanding citizens are still committing murder. Am I recounting all this to enlighten you? That's not it. This isn't a confession, nor is it a threat. I've no desire to make you acknowledge your sins—that's simply not my way.

Then, is this some boastful tale? If you take it as boasting... well, I'd rather that than have you think it's a confession. Doesn't sit as poorly with me that way. But this bragging story of mine ends badly. To go back—those killings I was so proud of? They landed me in jail in the end. Not much to crow about now. What makes it worse—truth is, I went clean off my rocker for a spell because of the murders I'm fixing to tell you about. This was before they tossed me in the clink. Disgraceful sight.

The people conscripted by the military were all out there killing others, but you rarely heard stories like mine of someone going mad from that killing. So you're saying it wasn't meaningless slaughter like mine—that theirs was meaningful, significant killing? That's why they could keep their sanity unlike me? (This is no fucking joke!)

(Next is Sunauma!)

For some reason, my chest throbbed with anticipation. Yahagi said Sunauma had sold out Maruman to the cops. I hadn't taken those words at face value, but they still planted in me— (I can't let Sunauma live.) There were elements that made me think that way. Maruman had told me,

"I am a communist." He never stated it outright, but he’d implied something of the sort to me. This same Maruman had been arrested as a full-fledged communist—just before that incident. "Shiro-san, I need to speak frankly with you." That’s what he’d said to me. This was the "crucial conversation" I’d mentioned earlier. Calling it 'crucial' might sound pretentious, but Maruman becoming a communist held profound significance for me.

At that time, I learned from Maruman the location of Sunauma's house. It was when I first tried to go to Teruko's bar.

Right—after I killed Yahagi in Teruko’s room, I omitted the conversation I had with Teruko. It wasn’t a conscious omission—I simply carelessly skipped over it. I, of all people, am somewhat flustered. The memories of those serial killings have left me somewhat—no, completely—disoriented. It was a long time ago, but after all, it’s an intensely abnormal memory. Even as a memory, its abnormality is enough to throw my mind into disarray. Or rather, in this case, it is the memory itself that possesses a raw sense of reality. More than when I actually placed myself within that abnormality, now as I recall it, a far more intense sense of reality presses in on me.

To put it another way, reality exists within memories. There—only there—does reality exist. While immersed in a horrific reality, my former self did not perceive it as horrific. I felt no reality within reality. Even now, it remains so. The current reality isn't as horrific as that of the past—no—in just a little while, an extraordinary fate will befall me too. I bring this upon myself, yet even now, my reality exists solely in the past. In the dead past, my reality lives on. In other words, the living reality exists only within memories, and the current reality—to me—is not a living reality—

When Teruko rushed into the room, Yahagi still lay collapsed on the floor, his body twitching. I had used the compact pistol Maruman gave me to put a bullet straight through him, but Yahagi refused to die cleanly, writhing with stubborn persistence. Seeing Yahagi like this—where an ordinary woman would've screamed or cried out—Teruko kept her composure like someone forewarned, almost like an accomplice. The moment she entered, she threw the door latch and hung Yahagi's vest over the knob. This kept prying eyes from peeking through the keyhole.

Yahagi's shoulders convulsed spasmodically, then his fingertips began twitching. (Hurry up and die already!) As the spasms migrated across his body, (Just fucking stop!) To me watching this, "Shiro." Teruko spoke. She had opened her mouth for the first time. When I turned toward her, she wasn't looking at me who'd spoken, but kept staring fixedly at Yahagi sprawled on the floor. She watched with unnaturally dry eyes.

“What is it?”

“…………”

Teruko kept her mouth shut, immobile as stone. This wasn't the paralysis of shock. She stood vigil over Yahagi's final moments. Without so much as wrinkling her brow at the blood seeping steadily into the carpet, Teruko gazed down with unflinching composure.

I was on the verge of panicking, (You bastard!) Not wanting to trouble her any further, I thudded my shoe against Yahagi's shoulder. Then, from Yahagi's mouth, like those stray dogs at the drill ground, bloody vomit gushed out in a thick glob. And with that, the twitching stopped, and it became quiet. He had met a blessed end. Teruko remained standing motionless as ever. She didn't move a muscle. Not even her facial expression budged.

It was, in a way, an imposing sight. The way she stood—or rather, one might say a standing statue—the immovable figure of Teruko wrapped in black chiffon velvet had a fearsomeness that made one shudder. It felt like I couldn’t possibly match her. (What the hell!) Like hell I’d lose. No fucking way I'm losing. Alright—if it’s come to this, should I kill Teruko too—while I’m at it? While I'm at it? I hadn’t come to this room with any intention of killing Yahagi. I hadn’t come to Teruko’s room with that intention from the start. I came here to crush Teruko—to shatter that resolute aspect of hers.

Killing Teruko might have been the true purpose. I had previously hinted that I might kill Teruko. One could say that instead of killing Teruko, I killed Yahagi. (Fine then—I'll kill Teruko too while I'm at it.)

It also seemed Teruko had taken the vest and left the room precisely to make me kill Yahagi. That she'd laid hands on Yahagi's vest and torn it, that she'd forced him to leave his pistol on the table—all of it reeked of Teruko's scheming. I'd apparently killed Yahagi for Teruko's sake.

Firecrackers went off again. (Alright, it’s time.) Slowly raising the hand holding the pistol, “Were those firecrackers you set off on purpose… Teru?” “That’s right.”

Teruko pointed at my pistol and, "Shiro." "It's better to leave that here." "Leave it here."

Taking only the large pistol lent by Hyakunari, I told her to scram. “Should I leave this here?” My momentum broken, “Why?” “I’ll wipe the fingerprints clean.” As she said this, Teruko picked up one of my pistols that lay discarded on the floor and handed it to me, “Take this.” snatching the compact pistol from my hand that had shot Yahagi, “This is a pistol only the Sunauma gang possesses.”

“The Yahagi gang doesn’t have one?” “Yes.” “So there’s no way you could have one?” I thought Teruko intended to take the blame by claiming she killed Yahagi herself, but that wasn’t it. "I thought you were going to stay here with my pistol and cover for me." “Shiro. What did you think of me…” Her dry eyes instantly welled up, “Did you really see me as such an admirable person?”

“Still a softie, am I?”

"No, I'm not the kind of woman you think I am, Shiro." "I even thought about shooting you dead right now, Teru." "I know." Large teardrops streamed down her cheeks. "It would be better for me to be shot dead by you." "That... might mean happiness." "But…" "I've stopped trying to shoot you." "If anything were to happen to you, Shiro—forgive my impertinence—I'll protect your family back home."

“Does that mean you can’t die, Teru?”

“No, I don’t want to die yet either.”

The tears had already stopped. Her eyes had cleared like a summer shower. "I promise you." "If something were to happen—though I don't think it will—I'll definitely take care of things back home... At least let me do that much." "You sure know how to say the nicest things, don't ya." Because a pang surged through my chest, I deliberately adopted that tone, "Alright then, I'm counting on you to look after Maruman's family instead of me." "Teru, you know Maruman from the Sunauma gang, right?"

“I know.” “Back when I was working there, you came with me…” “You remember something that old…?” “Even I, Shiro…” “That Maruman bastard got himself arrested.”

Maruman had once told me he became Sunauma's underling because he had a child. But that old socialist Maruman still couldn't be satisfied with merely ensuring his own safety. He tried to keep alive the spirit of rebellion even if it meant sacrificing himself and his family. And what of Sunauma, basking in his wealth and glory? "Maruman has a small child," I said. "I need you to look after them." I briefly pictured my own daughter. Shinako in her padded jacket, round and bundled up like a little snowball!

“Maruman hasn’t killed like I have, so his punishment probably won’t be too long…” “Understood. I’ll do everything I can.”

Teruko squatted before Yahagi's corpse and pulled out a crocodile leather wallet from his pocket. As a woman, she should have found even approaching the body unsettling, yet like a grave robber prying gold teeth, she plundered Yahagi's wallet and thrust a thick wad of bills at me along with something resembling a paizi pass. "With this, you can swagger through Garden Bridge unchallenged," she said. "Lay low across the river for a while..."

Yahagi did not have a replacement pistol.

“Roku-san is downstairs.” “That faggot Roku?”

“If he finds you, there’ll be trouble… Hurry up.” She urged me to escape through the back door. (Next comes Sunauma!)

With my chest pounding, I hurried to Sunauma's house in the French Concession that I'd heard about from Maruman. Why had my chest been pounding like that?

Hyakunari had told me Sunauma was too vicious to let live. He said he needed eliminating. Had those words from Hyakunari made me resolve to kill Sunauma, and had that resolve set my heart racing? My pounding chest undoubtedly stemmed from that resolve. Yet my resolve hadn't been born from Hyakunari's words. Then was it Yahagi's doing? Yahagi had claimed Sunauma already knew why I'd gone to that Yu Yuan Road nightclub. Now that I stood as Sunauma's would-be killer, I'd be dead myself unless I acted first. Was this murderous urge mere self-preservation? No—no defensive instinct could make my chest dance like this.

My chest throbbed with exhilaration. That's right—the very reason I'd condescended to come to Shanghai (I'd muttered this to myself) was none other than to kill Yahagi, and then Sunauma too, wasn't it? What's more, until now I hadn't realized—no—I'd been hiding it even from myself. It had lain buried in my heart's deepest recesses. Now it rose to the surface. That's why my chest hammered so. First Yahagi as practice, then Sunauma—Yes, that Yahagi who walked a different path meant nothing anyway. Wasn't killing Sunauma the true purpose behind my Shanghai journey? This racing pulse confirms it.

As a terrorist, I could finally accomplish here what I'd been unable to achieve until now. This was the moment to demonstrate my true capabilities as a terrorist. Only through killing Sunauma would I truly become a terrorist. How could my chest not dance with anticipation? That we terrorists saw Sunauma as a traitor didn't necessarily mean I'd resolved to kill him. He was undoubtedly a traitor. Yet that wasn't the decisive source of this murderous intent. More than anything, I wanted myself to stand unflinchingly as a terrorist.

Therefore—it wasn't out of some feeling that if I didn't kill Sunauma, he would kill me that I tried to kill him. Since I'd killed Yahagi, Sunauma would likely clear up his misunderstanding of me, making my worries unnecessary. But such considerations never entered my mind. I remained single-mindedly fixated on killing Sunauma—on killing him.

Teruko must have arranged things to make Yahagi’s death look like the work of the Sunauma faction. She must have protected me that way, but none of that matters anymore. I went on tediously about my state of mind, but none of that matters either. Once I finish this story, I’ll bid farewell to this world. I’ll kill myself. I aim to become a terrorist against myself. Only by being a terrorist toward myself can I truly become a terrorist. Does that mean I couldn’t achieve it through Sunauma? I’m about to babble needlessly again. Let me hurry the story along. To make things quicker, I’ll stick to just the main points.

I went to Sunauma's house in the French Concession. Like that night club on Yu Yuan Road, it was a massive damn mansion with an imposing iron gate— (Take this!) Fueling my combativeness, I steeled myself. Here though, unlike the club, the gate stood firmly shut. So—how to slip inside? Arms crossed, I glared at the iron barrier when a motorcar approached. I ducked beside the gate to let it pass. But that damned auto slowed abruptly, swerved toward the entrance, headlights blazing across my hunched form.

“Damn it!” I cursed under my breath as I turned my face away, but the car stopped anyway. “Isn’t this Mr. Kashiwai?”

It was a woman’s voice.

The owner of that voice emerged from the car. It was Sunauma's wife. Now that I'd been found, I couldn't do anything undignified. I said, "Oh, Mrs. "Good evening."

I said. That former actress Ariake Teruko, unaware of my purpose, addressed me—who had come to kill her husband—in an unsuspecting voice, "You went to all the trouble of coming when I was out... But this works out perfectly." "My husband should be back soon, so please wait inside..." When she spoke to me kindly, this chinsukeri (wife)'s belly was conspicuously swollen even in the night—a mosagamari (pregnancy) nearing full term. I gasped as my chest tightened. I saw something I shouldn't have. The gate was opened,

“Here, please come in.”

“Here, please come in,” Teruko said. “No—if he’s not in, I’ll come again. Oh, I just happened to be passing by here... Well then, see you.” I would kill Sunauma another time. It didn’t have to be tonight. I decided to call it off and left. That night when I saw Teruko’s swollen belly, I found myself suddenly unable to kill Sunauma immediately. That my murderous resolve—which had burned so fiercely—would collapse like this was utterly humiliating. But seeing Teruko’s pregnant stomach had truly shocked me.

(The child who would soon be born—how pitiful if their father Sunauma were killed now. How pitiful too if Sunauma died without seeing his soon-to-be-born child.) I muttered this to myself, then—no, no—crushed my own compassion, insisting I was merely postponing tonight's deed. I'll let it go tonight. Just for tonight, I'd let it pass. When I returned to the inn, I slept that night as though dead. Though Teruko had told me to "hide across the river," sleeping at an inn seemed audacious—yet I myself felt neither bold nor anything of the sort. Exhausted beyond measure, I simply wanted to sink into deep sleep anywhere possible. I slept like a hog.

The next morning, I went to visit Fukamaki at the newspaper office. It occupied a room in a building. Fukamaki had not yet arrived at the office, but since it was said he would come soon, I decided to wait in the reception area partitioned by folding screens.

I wanted to learn the truth about Maruman's arrest through the newspaper office. If possible, I thought of consulting Fukamaki about whether there might be some way to help Maruman. Maruman, who had been so happy about expecting a child... A newspaper sent from mainland Japan lay on the table. Though it was a nostalgic piece from home, I felt no particular urge to read it at that moment. But when I reluctantly opened the flounder-like pages, I found extensive coverage of Dr. Hozumi's death occupying considerable space. Since this concerned people of importance who had nothing to do with me, I immediately shifted my gaze to other articles.

Before I knew it, I was jiggling my knee in small, rapid movements—a nervous leg shake. Being made aware of my irritation only aggravated it further, but what truly unsettled me was how it felt like the habits of Yahagi—the man I'd killed—had somehow transferred to me. From beyond the folding screen in the other room came the voices of branch office reporters. As I listened half-consciously, rumors of a cabinet reshuffle were circulating. "General Oigaki might become Foreign Minister." One of the reporters said.

Fukamaki arrived. When he saw me,

(There's an unpleasant fellow here.) He wore an expression that seemed to say as much. Fukamaki's demeanor differed from before. Yet this seemed only natural. "Please wait a moment." Fukamaki spoke these words and began whispering with the branch office staff. Soon he returned from beyond the partition, "Let's go get coffee or something." then led me outside. I sensed he was trying to obscure matters. When we reached the café on the building's first floor, Fukamaki—

“A friend in Shanghai has been arrested.” “If you keep dawdling،the repercussions might fall on me،” he said، “so I’ll head to the front lines now.” In the shop،there was only a single Chinese customer by the window．Even though it was cold،he was eating snowflake cake．

“That friend of yours… wouldn’t that be Shigeno?” “No.” “Seems they’ve caught quite a few.” “Mr. Nonaka’s—no, Mr. Kashiwai’s friends have also been arrested?” “That’s why I came to ask for your help. Call me Nonaka, not Kashiwai.” “There’s nothing I can do.” With that, Fukamaki fled, “I’m leaving for the front at dawn tomorrow. Why don’t you come along, Mr. Nonaka?”

“Together?” You couldn’t go to the front lines without proper qualifications. But if they listed me as a locally hired liaison, we could go together, Fukamaki said. “Mr. Nonaka said to help out, but if it’s just to that extent…” he added that it was precisely because it was Mr. Nonaka, “I just went to the police station—they were in an uproar over Yahagi Daizo’s murder. Said they’d round up every last suspect.”

Had my name come up among the suspects? It was Fukamaki's tone that made me think so. Yet I didn't ask Fukamaki about it.

Being caught here without a fight would gall me to no end. I suddenly found myself thinking this as well. Go to the front lines, and after things had cooled down, deal with Sunauma? Just then, a Chinese man wearing flashy tinted glasses entered the shop from outside and fixed his gaze intently on me through his amber lenses. I couldn't tell who he was, but (Here he comes.) When I braced myself, the Chinese man turned out to be Hyakunari. Hyakunari, dressed in Chinese-style clothing, strode briskly over to my side,

“We need to talk.” No sooner had he spoken than he sat at another table. His glasses were literally gankakushi. “This is getting interesting.” I told Fukamaki and asked if we could meet again today. Fukamaki remained silent. Had the appearance of that peculiar Oriental man—Japanese—shaken Fukamaki’s goodwill about taking me to the front? But then Fukamaki spoke resolutely. “Tonight at eight...in front of Broman.”

This referred to Broadway Mansions. “I’m counting on you.”

With that, I drank the remaining coffee. Fukamaki stood up from the chair.

“You’re not the one who sold out Maruman, are you?”

When I went over to Hyakunari’s table, I blurted it out abruptly. “Sold him out?” “Don’t spout such nonsense.” From Kanehara, I’d heard that Hyakunari was making a living by selling information. Where he was selling it, Kanehara hadn’t said. “It wasn’t your doing that Shigeno got caught either, was it?” “Someone like Shigeno? I’ve never even heard the name.” “What kind of man is he?” “He was a Bolshevik faction fighter.” “Was—no, maybe still is?” “Poor bastard’s getting hell from the cops.”

“You sympathize with a Bolshevik?”

“Don’t you feel any sympathy?” Like Yahagi—he remained silent. “I’ll have you return the pistol.”

Hyakunari said. Without particularly lowering his voice,

“I’ve come to need that. Though you might still need it yourself.” “You mean this pea-shooter?” If they took the pistol here, I couldn't kill Sunauma. Even though I'd borrowed it from Hyakunari, I couldn't just hand it back. “Coca-Cola!” I barked at the Chinese waiter. “Alright, I’ll be taking that back now.” Hyakunari's voice boomed like a gangster's threat. “Surely you don’t mean to say you’ve only got one pistol.”

“Not planning to return it?” “To you, I’m the one who’s been in your debt all this time. But that’s not happening.” This is a problem, I thought, shaking my leg restlessly. “How did you know I was here?” “I had a lookout stationed at the flophouse’s front entrance.” A remark typical of Hyakunari, who’d lived a life apart from civilians. “You shouldn’t have put a lookout on me. You could’ve just come directly to my room at the inn.” “I had other business to take care of.”

“Oh! That Dr. Hozumi was someone I met in Setul.” Suddenly, I remembered. When Maruman had taken me to Setul for treatment of lymphogranuloma venereum, I had met Dr. Hozumi. Had that Dr. Hozumi died? “What happened to Dr. Hozumi?”

“No—…” The fact that Dr. Hozumi—remembered through my connection with Maruman—had died gave me an ominous feeling. “Alright, let’s have you return that pea-shooter without delay.” And Hyakunari stated the reason. “I’m being targeted by Yahagi’s underlings in your place.” “Instead of me?” “That Kashiwai Shiro exposed Yahagi—I’d never say such a thing, even if my lips were torn apart.” “And I won’t say it was Kanehara either, you know.”

“Sorry ’bout that.”

I acknowledged my own killing. "Is that faggot Roku spreading rumors like that?" Trying to cover for me? No—was Roku himself trying to frame me as part of Yahagi’s faction for his own self-preservation? (Or is it Teruko?)

A Chinese woman passed by outside the window, crying,

“Do you want a child?”

she said as she passed by. Dressed like a beggar, she was leading a small child. “Does anyone want a child?” She was asking if someone would buy her child. Hyakunari told me that the refugee woman was going around trying to sell her own child for money.

Part Seven: An Unpleasant Feeling

I demeaned myself to become Fukamaki’s "subordinate" and went to the front lines. It was an old-fashioned way to put it, but a liaison officer was truly nothing more than a subordinate - their official duty was to transport drafts written by war correspondents at the frontlines to the rear, but beyond that role, to put it in Chinese terms, “like a coolie.” Just like a coolie, I had to perform all manner of menial tasks for my master—from carrying luggage to giving shoulder massages—as befitting a subordinate. Fukamaki apologized, saying he felt bad about it, but once I became a liaison officer, if I didn’t thoroughly act the part of a "subordinate," it would draw suspicion from others.

With Hyakunari having confiscated my pistol, I had lost the weapon to kill Sunauma. Moreover, with the Yahagi incident making Shanghai too hot to handle, I decided to kill two birds with one stone by becoming Fukamaki's "subordinate" to flee to the frontlines—where I could pinch myself a pistol. (Once I return from the frontlines, I'll kill Sunauma for sure!) And I swore to myself.

I went to Nanjing by military train, crossed the Yangtze River by boat, and reached Pukou. Then I traveled further by a newly operational train to Bengbu, recently occupied by the Japanese military. This kisha referred not to the Chinese qìchē (automobile) but to a railway train. The Xuzhou Campaign had not yet begun, but the Chinese military believed Japan would inevitably launch a pincer attack on Xuzhou using southern advance forces from Shandong and northern forces from Nanjing. Consequently, they concentrated their efforts on disrupting rear areas in the occupied territories—what Japan called "occupied zones." To weaken Japanese military strength for the Xuzhou operation, they waged guerrilla warfare to pin down troops in the rear.

Observing this guerrilla suppression with the aim of joining the imminent Xuzhou Campaign was Fukamaki’s objective. We hitched a ride on a military freight train into guerrilla-infested territory.

Midway through the journey at Huaide, I encountered an unexpected figure. It was that Wakamurasaki—the former Trogen courtesan. She was supposed to have been working at a tatami shop, but here she stood as madam of a brothel. This was the very establishment Hyakunari Ayako had said she wanted to run for profit. Leading her battalion of women, Wakamurasaki had marched straight into the newly fallen town. That I met this Wakamurasaki was because I'd gone to patronize the brothel—but to explain how that came about—

At the front lines, brothels were called comfort stations. The comfort stations came in two types: one for soldiers and another for officers. As part of the status hierarchy when staying at military lodgings, Fukamaki the war correspondent—who had been granted appointed official treatment (the military was vulnerable to newspaper influence, hence giving even young Fukamaki special appointed-official treatment as a war correspondent)—could visit the officers' brothel, but I, the liaison officer, lacked that qualification. Accompanying me, Fukamaki said he’d use the soldier brothel too. If I say "accompanying," it might sound like I invited Fukamaki,

“Let us nurture ‘the Great Spirit.’”

It was Fukamaki who first suggested going to the brothel. People might laugh at "Naodare"—that lecherous Shiro—for playing dumb, but this isn't a lie. Somehow, all such urges had completely vanished from me. However, I did feel curious to see what a military-exclusive brothel was like at least once, so I went with Fukamaki. When we arrived, to my astonishment, soldiers had formed an endless line stretching before the brothel. The soldiers who had come to this town on rotating "rest" from the battlefield must have all rushed here at once. It was a booming business. Indeed, with this kind of demand, it's no wonder Hyakunari Ayako wanted to run a brothel—and which explains why Wakamurasaki (though this wasn't my thought at the time, but a later realization) would brave such hardships and life-threatening dangers to come all the way to this frontline.

The soldiers waiting their turn, having neither shame nor pride, formed a single-file line at the brothel in broad daylight. "Hurry the hell up! I'm gonna piss myself here!" Some were bellowing such things. It looked like a line in front of a toilet. "Ah, I can't take it. Fuck, I can't hold it!" Some men, driven to fury, muttered obscenities like delirious ramblings; others fluttered government-issued rubber products before their trousers, ready to commence the assault at any moment. It was truly a sight too appalling to behold. If it had been a gray zone like Yoshiwara, that would have been one thing, but the fact that ordinary homes had been requisitioned into brothels made the horror all the more striking.

In a place removed from the town center, though foot traffic was sparse, Chinese people passed by with smirks. A crowd of children, “Shīsān, hǎoláixī!” they extended their hands and begged for money.

“Shut up! “Get lost!” “Get lost!” Even when driven away, they immediately swarmed back like flies. “Well now, this is unexpected!” Just as Fukamaki said this, a roar of cheers erupted from the soldiers’ line. A woman in disheveled sleepwear passed through the inner area. Upon seeing that, the soldiers erupted in commotion.

“This is absolutely no good.”

And so we withdrew, but let me be clear—it wasn't that I found the soldiers' ferocity distasteful. I'd be troubled if it were taken that way. It wasn't that I was troubled—no, at that time, far from being appalled, I was rather moved by the sight of raw vitality seething like a crucible, by the vivid pulsation of life itself. In other words, it was that very pulsation of life itself that was overwhelming! "How many prostitutes does that brothel even have... To handle such a crowd—it's astonishing they can manage it."

Even when I said this to Fukamaki, my tone wasn’t one of disgust. It was an admiration for vigor.

“That’s incredible, both sides.”

This was Fukamaki,

“Let’s go to the officers’ brothel and try negotiating,” he said. It was located on the opposite side of town. The atmosphere there felt as quiet as moving from a public eatery to an upscale restaurant. The madam here was Wakamurasaki. Had Wakamurasaki been running the enlisted men’s brothel, I would have missed encountering her altogether. To be truthful, I initially failed to recognize that the madam in gaudy Western attire was that Wakamurasaki—nor had she recognized me.

“The regulations are such a nuisance.” “If they were to confiscate the license, it would spell trouble.”

she said to Fukamaki, who had summoned the madam. She was a woman I'd seen before. Right—it was me who first realized she was Wakamurasaki.

“What an unexpected meeting.”

I started to say, "Aren't you Wakamurasaki?" but— "You don't recognize my face, do you?" I phrased it cautiously to avoid letting both the former courtesan and Fukamaki know.

“Oh my,” Wakamurasaki widened her eyes, “Isn’t this Shiro?” “How nostalgic.” Fukamaki then asked me, “Do you know each other?”

Then Wakamurasaki said without hesitation about her background, "He's a regular from when I worked in the Nakaa (Yoshiwara)." Her kind nature didn't seem to have changed from the old days.

Fukamaki was the one caught off guard, turning to me,

“I’m utterly astonished at how well-connected you are.” “Do you have good standing everywhere?” “Or does your reputation hold sway here?”

Wakamurasaki said with apparent delight, as though it were her own affair. "That madam in Shanghai was also acquainted with Mr. Nonaka." “Mr. Nonaka?” “My pen name—a professional alias.” I said. “So you really were a writer after all? There was a time when you had something scary—I was so startled.” “Startled you?”

Compared to her days as a courtesan, she looked completely aged. Her appearance had changed considerably, but her kind nature seemed unchanged. With all this, it was amazing she could keep running this kind of business. "Do you have Chinese women among your comfort girls?" "Chinese women are no good." "What do you mean by 'no good'?"

Fukamaki asked. "They refuse, so there are no takers." “Even if they offer any amount of money, after all, the Japanese are Eastern devils…”

Am I a devil too? I changed the subject. "You're quite something as a comfort station madam." It wasn't sarcasm, and Wakamurasaki took it at face value. "Getting this place was no easy task." "Must be profitable." "Not really. They take such an outrageous cut..." "Says the Madam skimming her own share from the girls." "Oh now, 'Madam' is pushing it..." "The girls are saying it themselves, aren't they?"

“They’re just putting on airs when they say that.” Wakamurasaki laughed, “There’s no helping it with you, Shiro. There’s a nice girl here.” “No—I…” “There’s no need to hold back with me.” “It’s not that I’m holding back—just professional courtesy, I suppose.” I said to have Fukamaki look after that good girl,

“What’s become of the tatami shop owner?” “He’s back in the mainland.” “Aren’t you together?” “It’s not like we’ve split up.” “Living the easy life then.” “I’ve been meaning to let you live easy too.” This Wakamurasaki had once told me she wanted to build a home together. At that moment—how to put it—I felt profoundly moved. Here stood this former courtesan turned brothel owner exploiting wretched prostitutes, yet moved I was. I’d just spoken of life’s vitality, but here—though I can’t quite articulate it—I felt something like gratitude toward existence itself.

I encountered another unexpected figure. It was Tamatsuka Hidenobu. I had already heard from Kanehara that he was coming to China as a war correspondent, so it wasn't exactly surprising—but I never imagined we would bump into each other at the front. “Never expected to meet you in a place like this.”

The one who said this wasn't me—it was Tamatsuka. "You're still going strong, I see..."

I needled Tamatsuka. "Gathering material for your war novels, are you?" "I can't make dirty money like Sunauma Kouichi. No choice but to write morale-boosting novels and scrape by."

Tamatsuka was unnervingly composed. What struck me as unexpected was how unlike his former self he now seemed, having acquired this brazen demeanor. Perhaps this sense of having encountered an unexpected figure stemmed from that very change. "What are you here to gather, Mr. Kashiwai...?" "Me?" When I was at a loss for a reply, Tamatsuka— "You enjoy flaunting your vices, but you're actually a good person." "Acting all high and mighty—don't fuck with me." "I met Sunauma Kouichi in Shanghai, but—" "Even you, Tama-san, got completely overwhelmed by a real villain—not some petty one like me—did you?"

“I’m the petty villain here.” “Am I supposed to be some kind of saint?” “Kashiwai Shiro is neither villain nor do-gooder.” “Then what does that make me?”

“A born anarchist.”

I can’t recall the name of the village now, but when we entered that riverside settlement, the walls of houses were luridly daubed with white paint— Peasants, arise! Exterminate the Japanese devils I noticed that such slogans were boldly written. Farmers, rise up and annihilate the Japanese army. It was the guerrilla unit that had written them. 駆逐日寇 救老百姓 Among the wall writings, there were also these. They are proclaiming that they will expel the Japanese army and save the peasants. The soldiers were vigorously scrubbing it off with metal tools,

“Fuckin’ hell. Fuckin’ hell.” “Fuckin’ chore.” they were saying to each other in a joking tone. In Chinese, ‘辛苦的’ meant something like ‘thank you for your hard work,’ but the soldiers’ ‘shinku, shinku’ had a ring to it that evoked the Kansai dialect’s ‘nangiya naa.’

It had been over a month since leaving Shanghai, and the weather had already taken on a spring-like warmth. Through the morning mist, a boat drifted leisurely down the river. On that shore, women were noisily chattering as they washed chamber pots, creating a seemingly peaceful scene, but guerrillas were active across the river. The Japanese military detachment stationed in the village was a small unit of about twenty-five members, led by a sergeant major. One day, I received a chicken from soldiers returning from a punitive expedition. It was a live chicken. Neither I nor Fukamaki had ever killed a live one or cooked a whole chicken before. We could have asked the mess squad, but since we didn’t know what kind of excuse the squad leader—who held a grudge against us—might come up with, we decided to handle it ourselves. As the "subordinate," I threw myself into what I considered my duty,

“What’s so hard about it? I’ve seen them wringing necks at the poultry shop.”

As I said this and reached for the chicken, its beak struck the back of my hand with a sharp thwack. “Ouch!” “Alright, I’ll do it.” Fukamaki grabbed the chicken’s beak with a grunt. Then, tucking the torso under his left arm, he twisted the chicken’s neck as if tightening a screw. The chicken let out an odd noise—a strained “Koo.” Merely twisting with his right hand proved insufficient, and the chicken thrashed beneath his arm. Fukamaki pressed down on the twisted neck with his left hand, freed his right hand, and with that hand twisted it again as if wringing out a hand towel.

As he kept twisting, the chicken’s neck became like a gnarled old rope— “Alright, that should do it.”

and dropped it on the ground. The chicken lay motionless. “Next comes plucking the feathers?” I said. The chicken was faintly twitching its toes (which reminded me of Yahagi), and when it heard my words—heard?— No—in fact, as though understanding human speech, it suddenly scraped the ground with its toes and lightly sprang upright. The neck remained twisted. “Don’t startle me like that. It’s still alive?”

When Fukamaki tried to catch it, the chicken escaped. Carefully straightening its twisted neck back into place while scattering down feathers from it, it fled. “Hey, hey!” Fukamaki gave chase. The chicken turned its beak toward us in an odd contortion. Keeping its face turned toward Fukamaki pursuing behind, never fully righting itself, it fixed innocent eyes upon us and trotted away. Fukamaki stood frozen with a horrified expression.

A few days later, the punitive expedition team that had gone to the opposite shore returned with two prisoners. The soldiers called them "prisoners," but they wore no military uniforms and appeared to be innocent farmers.

However, according to the soldiers, while they claimed to be farmers themselves, their hands weren't weathered like farmers' hands should be. Moreover, they said that when one of them was called by his full name during roll call, he answered "Present!" It must have slipped out accidentally—since that's how soldiers respond during diǎnmíng (the Chinese term for roll call)—confirming they were undoubtedly Chinese soldiers. They insisted both were plainclothes operatives. An all-night interrogation ensued. Through the night echoed screams of those breaking under torture and soldiers' bellows demanding confessions.

The letter addressed to Fukamaki from the Shanghai bureau arrived exactly the next day. Through communications from the rear, it had been transported here. "There's one for Nonaka-kun too." Fukamaki said. When I left Shanghai, I had written to Namiko instructing that any mail from home should be sent to Fukamaki's newspaper branch office. It was a gatte (letter) from Namiko. When I slit the envelope open, my brother's factory stationery came out. "I see you've got no sense of style," I muttered as I read the bean-sized characters.

I stood rigid as though suddenly barked the command "Attention!" I stood motionless, dangling the letter from my fingertips. "Conscription?" Fukamaki looked puzzled, "They'd have sent notice by wire for mobilization orders." The news was that Shinako had died. It said she had fallen into the river behind the house and died. Wasn't she pushed off by that violent Jiro? Namiko's letter hadn't mentioned anything like that, but— (Shinako!)

I stared at the yellow river before my eyes. The plump, bundled-up Shinako reached her hand out to me for help, gasping as she floated up and sank beneath the surface... (Shinako!) I remained silent and said nothing to Fukamaki. Fukamaki seemed to think that I, in such a state, was being driven by homesickness, “Nonaka-kun. There’s something here about your friend in Shanghai.” While showing me the letter he held,

“Maruman Tomekichi apparently committed suicide. "He took advantage of a guard’s lapse to do it. "The details aren’t specified here.” Fukamaki’s voice sounded unnervingly dry. I had specifically requested the newspaper to inform me about Maruman and Hyakunari’s fates. “Maru-san kicked the bucket? (Died)?” “It also states that Hyakunari Seiichiro was shot dead with a pistol by someone.” “Abiru was killed?” Blood surged to my head in a searing rush.

“What about Sunauma Kouichi?” “There’s been no word about Sunauma Kouichi.” At that moment, strange Chinese voices could be heard from beyond the bamboo thicket. “Ráo le wǒ mìng ba!” They were pleading for their lives to be spared. “An execution, huh?”

Are those two going to be killed? "Alright..." I bolted forward. What had that "alright" even meant? (Shinako was dead. Hyakunari too.) Maruman might as well have been killed. (Everyone would die.) I screamed it inside. Would I be killed next? No—I wanted to kill. I wanted to kill instead. At least to watch killing happen.

A rectangular hole had been dug there. The two "prisoners" had just finished digging. The two men to be executed had been forced to dig the holes that would bury their own corpses. The upturned soil lay jet-black—against the white, dry earth of the surrounding ground, its darkness pressed upon the eyes with particular intensity. On one side of the hole, black soil had been piled up; on the opposite edge, the two men had been made to sit. They were bound behind their backs and blindfolded with cloth.

(They're not going to shoot them?) Perhaps out of reluctance to let non-soldiers witness the cruel execution scene, "Hey! Don't come over here!" A sergeant with a goatee barked at me. "Get over there." I didn't move. The soldiers aimed their rifles, but I held my ground. "If you're so desperate to watch," "I'll give you a proper show." The sergeant declared, "Here goes!" He whipped out his military sword. Not some ceremonial blade, but a nagadosu—a Japanese sword that had clearly drunk its fill of blood before.

He raised the military sword diagonally to his left. His Zhong Kui-like face left no doubt - this was an Oriental devil incarnate. The Chinese men forced to sit before the pit wore plainclothes shredded from overnight torture, their blindfolded faces swollen to purplish-red masses that barely resembled human visages. Yet where their collars gaped open, the exposed napes of their necks shone with unnatural pallor. Taking aim at these bared throats - prepared for clean slicing - "Hyaah!"

And the military sword was swung down diagonally. It was skill just as he had boasted. The military sword had splendidly severed the head. Next, the Sergeant’s foot kicked the headless torso into the hole. At the same moment, the man beside him screamed as if he too had been slashed and threw himself into the pit. This necessitated pulling the man back out from the pit, "You bastard, making us go through all this trouble!"

“Should we just bury him like this?” The reason someone had proposed burying them alive was that descending into the pit containing the headless corpse proved too unnerving, and even the soldiers had balked. “Alright, I’ll help.” I volunteered. Brushing aside their hands that tried to stop me—no need for their interference—I leapt into the hole. Right next to my buttocks that had landed with a thud lay a severed head. I nearly ended up sitting right on top of that severed head. The head, its blindfold now removed, had opened its eyes wide and was glaring at me.

At this moment, I saw for the first time in my life at close range the throat of a headless corpse - a throat whose neck had been cleanly severed. It resembled a sea anemone that had contracted tightly, and I found myself looking at this strange object like a crimson sea anemone, a sight that went beyond mere grotesqueness. The man who had thrown himself into the pit clung to the earth like a hibernating frog, something like trying to burrow headfirst into the soil.

“Hey, Chink, get up.”

I forcibly lifted him up from behind. No, no—as he thrashed in refusal, I mustered all my strength and heaved him upright. The soldiers reached down from above and grabbed his shoulders. The man who had been dragged out of the hole suddenly became quiet. It wasn't prostration—this was solemn composure. Somehow, he had taken on the clean decisiveness of a different person, "Kill! Kill!" and stretched out his neck. "Let me handle this Chink."

"I said to the Sergeant." "Don't talk nonsense!" he barked, but I— "I'm begging you, let me do it." I dug in my heels. They told me an amateur couldn't cut through a neck, but I kept insisting.

In the end, even the Sergeant seemed to relent,

“Then give it a try.” “Much obliged.” I said. What in the world was this all about? Had I already gone mad at this point? At that moment, I was still in my right mind. But upon hearing of Shinako’s, Maruman’s, and Hyakunari’s deaths, I had indeed been enraged. However, I couldn’t believe I was capable of such things through rage alone. Was I trying to do this to make up for not being able to kill Sunauma? If this was about settling scores with Sunauma, I should have killed Japanese like him instead—there was no need to target Chinese people.

The deceased Kōdō-sensei had said I resembled Zhang Ji. I, who had been told I looked Chinese, was trying to massacre Chinese people. I was attempting to mercilessly destroy lives that bore me no grudge. That self who once marveled at life's vitality and felt gratitude toward existence—what had become of me now? No—this wasn't contradiction but rather its natural extension. I, branded a born anarchist by Tamatsuka, found myself recalling Ōsugi Sakae's words anew: "Our rebellion is life's expansion." I craved that expansion—the combustion of being. This shameful act of mine—no, 'act' trivializes it—was precisely that combustion of life.

The burning of revolutionary passion was nothing but the burning of life itself—this I had believed in my younger days. That the massacre of Chinese people had become for me the combustion of life itself—that is to say, the combustion of revolutionary passion—when I think of it now, ah, what have I become? In Nemuro I had tried so desperately to live an ordinary life, yet for someone like me who ultimately couldn't become an ordinary person... to think this was what expanding life meant... Here I must ask myself once more—why am I speaking of such things?

I already said this isn't a confession. Was I trying to show people the wretched end of a terrorist - this miserable final form? Did I want to recount my checkered fate to you all - to you ordinary people?

Not at all—the lives of ordinary people are actually far more brutal.

Namiko! Namiko!

I borrowed a military sword, “Alright, let’s do this.”

I took my stance, but there was no way I could perform like the Sergeant. "Hey, you! Bend forward more! Bend forward more, you Chink!" I pressed down on his head with my hand, "Stretch your neck out more. Alright, now!" I raised the military sword overhead. And then, as if splitting firewood, I brought the military sword straight down. Blood splashed across my face, but the neck remained intact. The Chinaman’s neck bone clanged as it caught the blade. The clang that traveled through my hand was an utterly nasty sensation.

“Shit.” The Chinaman, drenched in blood, remained alive like that Yagen chicken. Having botched it, I frantically raised the military sword again. At that moment, a shudder laced with strange ecstasy pierced through my body. I was ejaculating. (What a vile sensation!)

Fukamaki’s figure came into view. He had lowered his pale face as though he himself were the one about to be killed.

“Hyah!” This time, I managed to drive the blade cleanly between the cervical vertebrae. While being showered in blood spray, “I did it!”

And I shouted in triumph. It was what Yā-sama called Shimeten. The bright red mouth gaped open, and the head—which should have dropped neatly into the pit—instead dangled limply,

"What the hell?" It seemed I’d left part of the skin uncut; the neck remained connected by that remaining flap. With his head dangling limply forward, the Chinaman still maintained his original posture. (What a nasty feeling!) A strange laughter welled up from deep within me.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha” The laughter continued endlessly, could not be stopped. Laughing mad laughter, I kept laughing as I tumbled down into the pit.

I thrust my hand into my pocket. The beanbag’s cloth had somehow torn open, scattering azuki beans everywhere. Clutching both the azuki beans and the small dried fish mixed among them in my hands—sticky with blood—I, “Ah, ha, ha, ha”

At the bottom of the pit where I kept laughing madly, the Chinaman's body—his head dangling limply—came falling down upon me.

(Around 1935)