四 2

“It’s a pity they can’t tell refined from vulgar,” I said, and sent the six of them packing. My language and manners may not be refined, but at heart I consider myself far more refined than those fellows. The six withdrew at their leisure. Even the top one looked far more impressive than me, the teacher. In truth he was just calm—and all the worse for it. I could never have such nerve.

After that I got back into bed and lay down, but from the earlier commotion the mosquito net was buzzing furiously. Lighting a candle and burning them one by one was too much trouble, so I unhooked the net, folded it long, and swung it crosswise and lengthwise around the room until the ring flew off and slapped the back of my hand more than I cared for. The third time I got into bed I was somewhat calmer but still couldn’t sleep. I looked at the clock: half past ten. Thinking it over, I’d come to a troublesome place. What sort of thing is a middle school teacher, anyway—wherever you go, if this is what you have to deal with, it’s a pity. I’m surprised they never run out of teachers. It must be the stubborn, thick-headed ones who take the job. I could never manage it. Thinking of that, Kiyo is admirable. She’s an old woman with no education and no status, but as a human being she’s quite noble. Until now I’d been so much in her care that I never thought much of it, but having come alone to this distant country, I understand her kindness for the first time. If she wanted to eat Echigo bamboo-grass candy, it would be worth going all the way to Echigo to buy it and feed it to her. Kiyo praises me, saying I’m unselfish and straight-hearted, but the one who praises is a finer person than the one praised. I found myself wanting to see Kiyo.

As I lay thinking of Kiyo, drifting, suddenly above my head—thirty or forty of them, by count—came a stomping on the floorboards in rhythm, boom, boom, boom, as if the second floor would collapse. Then a great war cry rose in proportion to the footsteps. Startled at what was happening, I sprang up. The moment I sprang up, I realized: ah, the students are acting up in revenge for earlier. Until you say you were wrong, the guilt doesn’t clear. You know well enough what you did wrong. Properly you’d regret it after bed and come apologize in the morning. Even if not apologizing, you’d be ashamed and sleep quietly. What’s this racket? We didn’t build a dormitory to raise pigs. This mad behavior—have a little moderation. Just watch what I do, I thought, and in my nightclothes burst out of the night-watch room and leapt up the stairs three and a half steps at a time to the second floor. Then strangely, the stomping that had surely been right above my head fell suddenly silent—not a voice, not even a footstep. This is odd. The lamp was already out, so it was dark and I couldn’t tell what was where, but you can sense whether a place is occupied. Not a single mouse hid in the long corridor running east to west. Moonlight came from the far end, brightly outlining the distance. Something’s wrong—I’ve had a habit since childhood of dreaming, springing up in my sleep and muttering nonsense to be laughed at. At sixteen or seventeen, the night I dreamed of finding a diamond, I sat straight up and demanded of my brother beside me, where’s that diamond now, with great urgency. For three days I was the family joke and thoroughly miserable. Maybe this was a dream too. But it surely was rampaging—as I stood pondering in the middle of the corridor, from the moonlit far end came “one, two, three, waa,” and before the voices of thirty or forty had finished echoing, they stomped the floorboards in rhythm as before. See, not a dream—it’s fact. Quiet, it’s the middle of the night, I shouted back just as loud, and ran down the corridor toward the far end. My path was dark; only the moonlight at the end was my mark. I’d run maybe two yards when in the middle of the corridor I slammed my shin into something hard and big, and as the pain rang in my head, my body was flung forward. You bastard, I got up but couldn’t run. My spirit rushed but my legs wouldn’t obey. Impatient, I hopped on one foot toward them, but the footsteps and voices had fallen silent again, all still. No human is such a coward—they’re outright pigs. Right, I’ll drag out whoever’s hiding and make them apologize; I won’t back down, I resolved, and tried to open one dormitory room to search inside, but it wouldn’t open. Locked, or a desk or something piled against it—push as I might, it wouldn’t budge. Next I tried the north-facing room opposite. Same—wouldn’t open. As I fretted to open the door and catch whoever was inside, from the east end came the war cry and stomping again. These devils have agreed to answer east and west and make a fool of me, I thought, but didn’t know what to do. I’ll confess honestly: I have courage but not enough wit. In such times I’m completely lost. Lost, but I won’t lose. To let it pass would disgrace my name. It’s a shame to be called a spineless Edo kid. A night watch fooled by sniveling brats, helpless, forced to swallow it—that’d ruin my name for life. I’m a hatamoto by origin. The hatamoto trace to the Seiwa Genji, descendants of Tada no Mitsunaka. Born different from these peasants. Only my lack of wit is regrettable. I just don’t know what to do—that’s the trouble. Troubled or not, I won’t lose. I’m honest, so I don’t know what to do. Think: in this world, if honesty doesn’t win, what does? If I can’t win tonight, I’ll win tomorrow. If not tomorrow, the day after. If not then, I’ll have bento sent from my lodgings and stay here till I win. With that resolve, I sat cross-legged in the middle of the corridor waiting for dawn. Mosquitoes came buzzing but I didn’t care. I felt my shin where I’d hit it—slick with something. Blood, probably. Bleed if you want. Then the earlier exhaustion caught up and I dozed off. Some noise woke me—damn, screwed up—and I jumped. The door to my right was half open, two students standing before me. I came to myself; the instant I thought ha, I grabbed the foot of the student before my nose and yanked with all my might—he fell flat on his back. Serves you right. The other faltered; I pounced, pinned his shoulder, shook him two or three times—he was dumbfounded, blinking. Come to my room, I dragged him; he was a coward and followed without a word. It was long daylight.

When I began questioning the fellows I’d brought to the watch room, pigs are pigs beaten or struck—they just played dumb, seeming set to deny to the end, never confessing. Then one came, two came, gradually gathering from the second floor to the watch room. They all had sleepy, drooping lids. Petty fools. Stay up one night and make that face—call yourselves men? Go wash your faces and come argue, I said, but none went.

I’d been arguing with fifty-odd for about an hour when the badger popped in. I heard later the janitor had gone specially to report a disturbance at school. Calling the principal for such a trifle—too spineless. That’s why he’s a middle school janitor.

The principal heard my explanation and a bit of the students’ side, then said until discipline later, attend as usual; wash your faces quick and eat breakfast or you’ll be late, and released all the boarders. Soft. I’d have expelled every boarder on the spot. This leniency is why students mock the watchman. Then to me he said, you must be worried and tired; skip teaching today. I answered: “Not at all, not worried in the least. Even if this happened every night, as long as I live I wouldn’t worry. I’ll teach—if I can’t teach for one sleepless night, I’ll return my salary.” The principal stared at my face a while, then noted, your face is rather swollen. Indeed it felt heavy, and itchy all over—mosquitoes surely. I scratched my whole face and said, even if it swells, my mouth works, so teaching’s no problem. He laughed, very energetic, he praised. Truth be told, not praise—he was mocking.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”