十 1

Because of the victory celebration, school was closed. There was to be a ceremony at the parade ground, so Tanuki had to lead the students there to attend. I, as one of the faculty, went along with them. When we came out into the town, it was nothing but Rising Sun flags, so bright it hurt the eyes. Since the school had as many as eight hundred students, the gymnastics teacher formed them into ranks, leaving a little space between each group, and into those gaps one or two teachers were inserted as supervisors. The arrangement was quite clever, but in practice it was quite a failure. The students were children on top of that, cheeky ones who thought their dignity as students was at stake unless they broke the rules, so no matter how many teachers went along, what good would it do? Without any order being given, they would sing military songs on their own, and when they stopped, they'd raise a meaningless war cry of “wah,” just like masterless samurai parading through the neighborhood. When they weren't singing military songs or war cries, they'd jabber about something. You'd think they could walk without talking, but all Japanese are born mouth-first, so no matter how much you scold them, they won't listen. And they weren't just talking—they were badmouthing the teachers, which is low. I'd made the students apologize over the night-duty incident and thought, well, this'll do. But in reality it was quite different. Borrowing the landlady's words, it was truly a “great difference of Kanpachi.” The students hadn't apologized out of sincere regret. They'd just been ordered by the principal and bowed their heads as a formality. It's the same as a merchant who keeps bowing but won't stop his crooked tricks—the students would apologize, but never stop their mischief. Thinking it over, maybe the whole world is made up of people like these students. To take someone's apology or regret at face value and forgive them—that's what you'd call an honest fool. You can just think: the apology is a provisional apology, and the forgiveness is a provisional forgiveness. If you really mean to make them apologize, you've got to beat them until they truly regret it.

When I stepped in between the groups, there was a constant stream of voices saying “tempura,” “dumpling,” and so on. And since there were so many, you couldn't tell who said it. Even if you did, they'd surely say, “I didn't call you tempura, I didn't say dumpling—that's just you, sir, being neurotic and mishearing because you're paranoid.” This sort of base character is a local custom cultivated since the feudal age, so no matter how much you tell them or teach them, it'll never be fixed. If I stay in a place like this even a year, even clean me might end up imitating it. If they dirty my name with tricks they can wriggle out of, to just let it go is out of the question. If they're human, I'm human too. Even if they're students or children, their nerve is bigger than mine. So as punishment I've got to give some retaliation, or it's against my honor. But when I retaliate by normal means, they twist it back on me. If I say it's your fault, they've already built an escape route from the start, so they'll argue fluently. They argue, make themselves look fine on the surface, then attack my faults. Since it started as retaliation, my defense isn't a defense unless their fault is shown. In the end, they throw the first punch, but the world sees it as a fight I picked. A great disadvantage. Then if I just let them do as they please and play the fool, they only grow bolder—and broadly speaking, it's no good for the world. So with no choice, I've got to use their own tricks, stay uncatchable, and give untouchable retaliation. When it comes to that, even an Edokko is done for. Done for, but since I've been treated like this for over a year, and I'm human, done for or not, I've got to do it or there's no end to it. No matter what, I've got to get back to Tokyo soon and be with Kiyo. Staying in this countryside is like coming here to degenerate. Even delivering newspapers would be better than falling this low.

Thinking this, and dragging along unwillingly, suddenly the vanguard started making a huge racket. At the same time the line stopped dead. Strange, so I stepped out of the line to the right and looked ahead—at the corner where Ote-machi hits a dead end and turns into Yakushi-machi, they'd jammed up and were shoving back and forth in a scrum. I asked the gymnastics teacher, whose voice was going hoarse crying “quiet, quiet” from the front, what's up, and he said the middle school and the normal school had collided at the corner.

They say in every prefecture the middle school and normal school are like dogs and monkeys, terrible together. Don't know why, but they just don't suit. Whenever something comes up they fight. Probably because the narrow countryside is boring, it's something to kill time with. I like a fight, so hearing “collision” I ran over half for fun. Then the guys up front were constantly yelling, “What, local-tax bastards, pull back,” and from behind came loud cries of “push, push.” I was crawling through the students blocking the way, about to reach the corner, when a high, sharp command of “Forward!” rang out, and the normal school side began marching in perfect order. The collision over right-of-way must have been settled—meaning the middle school gave way one step. By qualification, the normal school is supposedly higher.

The victory ceremony was quite simple. The brigade commander read a prayer, the governor read a prayer, the attendees cried “banzai.” That was all. Since the entertainment was said to be in the afternoon, I went back to the boarding house for now and started drafting the reply to Kiyo that had been on my mind for a while. This time she'd ordered me to write more in detail, so I had to be as careful as possible. But when it came down to it, picking up the half-sheet, there was plenty to write, but I didn't know where to start. Should I do that—nah, that's a bother. Should I do this—this is dull. Thinking if there was something that would flow easily, take no effort, and amuse Kiyo, there didn't seem to be a single such event to order. I ground ink, wetted the brush, glared at the rolled paper—glared at the rolled paper, wetted the brush, ground ink—repeating the same motions the same way several times, then gave up, sure I could never write a letter, and put the lid on the inkstone. Writing letters is a bother. Better to just go to Tokyo, meet her, and talk. I can guess Kiyo's worries, but writing a letter to her order is harder than a twenty-one-day fast.

I threw the brush and paper aside, flopped over, pillowed my arm, and looked at the garden, but still Kiyo was on my mind. Then I thought: as long as I've come all this way and worry about Kiyo's welfare, my true heart must reach her. If it reaches her, no need for letters. If I don't write, she'll think I'm fine and getting by. A letter's only needed when something happens—death, illness, some event.

The garden's a flat yard of about ten tsubo, no particular trees. Just one mandarin orange, rising from beyond the fence tall enough to be a landmark. Whenever I'm home I look at this mandarin. For those who've never left Tokyo, a place with growing mandarins is quite a rarity. Those green fruits will ripen and turn yellow—must be pretty. Even now some are half-changed. Asked the landlady, she said they're very juicy, good mandarins. Said when they're ripe, eat plenty, so I'll eat a little each day. In three weeks they'll be good enough. Surely I won't leave here within three weeks.

While I was thinking of mandarins, Yama-arashi happened by to talk. Today's the victory feast, he said, so thinking to eat with you I bought beef—and he dragged a bamboo-leaf wrap from his sleeve and tossed it in the room's center. Me, stuck on potato and tofu at the boarding house, forbidden even soba or dumpling shops, said that's great, and right away borrowed a pot and sugar from the landlady and started cooking.

Yama-arashi stuffed beef and asked, “You know Red Shirt's got a geisha mistress?” I said of course, that one at Uranari's farewell was her, right? He said yes, I only just caught on, but you're sharp, and praised me big.

“That guy, every other word is 'refinement' or 'spiritual recreation,' but behind the scenes he's got a geisha relationship—damnable. And not only that, if he'd tolerate others playing, fine, but he went through the principal to warn you that even going to a soba shop or dumpling shop is harmful to discipline.”

“Yeah, in that bastard's mind, buying geisha is spiritual recreation, tempura and dumplings are physical recreation. If it's spiritual, he should do it bigger. What's with him. When his geisha comes in, he slips out to dodge—trying to fool everyone to the end, I hate it. Then when attacked, he says 'I don't know,' or 'Russian literature,' or 'haiku's brother to new-style poetry'—trying to blow smoke. That weakling's no man. Probably reborn from a palace maid. Maybe his old man was a Yushima kagemachi.”

“Yushima kagemachi what?”

“Just means not manly. —Yours isn't boiled yet. Eat that and you'll get tapeworm.”

“Really? Probably fine. So Red Shirt hides and goes to Kakiya at the hot-spring town to meet his geisha.”

“Kakiya, that inn?”

“Inn and restaurant. So to crush him best, catch him with the geisha going in there, then confront him.”

“Catch him—you mean stand night watch?”

“Yeah, at Kakiya”}

“Stories of the world, in your language.”