When I woke up the next morning, my whole body ached so badly I could hardly bear it. It must be because I hadn't been in a fight for so long that I reacted like this. While lying in bed thinking that this wasn't much to be proud of, the old woman brought in the Shikoku Newspaper and set it by my pillow. Truth be told, even looking at the paper was a bother, but a man can't be beaten by something so trivial—I forced myself onto my stomach and, lying there, opened to the second page, and was astonished. Yesterday's fight was reported in full. I wasn't surprised that the fight was in the paper, but it said that Horiota, a middle school teacher, and a certain arrogant fellow recently transferred from Tokyo had not only incited this disturbance by manipulating well-behaved students, but had also directed the students on the scene and freely committed violence against the normal school students at will. Then the following editorial comment was appended: "The middle schools of our prefecture have long been admired throughout the nation for their fine, gentle, and obedient spirit. Yet the privileges of our schools have been damaged by two frivolous upstarts, and having brought this disgrace upon the whole city, we must rise up and demand accountability. We believe that before we lay hands on them, the authorities will duly punish these ruffians so that they may never again set foot in the world of education." And every single character had been marked with a black dot, as if to brand me with moxa cautery. Lying in bed, I muttered "go eat shit" and bolted upright. Strangely enough, my joints had been aching terribly until then, but the moment I sprang up, they felt light as if the pain were forgotten.
I rolled up the newspaper and flung it into the garden, but that still didn't satisfy me, so I made a point of taking it to the privy and throwing it away. Newspapers sure do tell outrageous lies. If you ask what in this world tells the biggest whoppers, there's nothing more full of hot air than the newspaper. They've gone and lined up everything that I ought to be saying. And what's this "certain arrogant fellow recently transferred from Tokyo"? Is there a person in this world named "Certain Fellow"? Think about it. I've got a proper family name and given name, thank you very much. If you want to see my lineage, I'll show you every last ancestor straight back to Mitsunaka Tada. — After I washed my face, my cheeks suddenly started hurting. I asked the old woman for a mirror, and she said, "Have you seen this morning's paper?" I told her I read it and threw it in the privy. When I said go fetch it if you want it, she backed off in alarm. Looking at my face in the mirror, the wounds were just as they'd been yesterday. This is my precious face, and on top of being wounded, to be called "a certain arrogant fellow" and addressed as "Certain Fellow" is the last straw.
If they said I'd skipped school sick over today's paper, it'd be a disgrace for life, so I ate and reported to Number One. Every last person who came out laughed at the sight of my face. What's so funny? It's not like you lot made this face for me. Presently, Noda came out and said, "Well, quite the feat yesterday—an honorable wound, eh?"—maybe he took it as payback for the whack at the farewell party—and he teased me so coldly that I told him to shut up and go lick his paintbrush. Then he said, "Oh, my apologies. But it must hurt something fierce," so I roared, "Hurt or not, it's my face. Not your concern to worry over." He went to his own seat across the room, still looking at my face, and whispered something to the history teacher next to him and laughed.
Then Yama-arashi reported in. As for Yama-arashi's nose, it was swollen purple, and looked like pus would come out if you dug at it. Whether from vanity or not, he'd been worked over far worse than me. Yama-arashi and I put our desks side by side, close neighbors, and worse yet, those desks sit right facing the doorway, so our luck is rotten. Two strange faces clustered together. The others, whenever they're bored, always look over here. They say "what a mess" out loud, but in their hearts they must be thinking "what idiots." If not, there'd be no reason to whisper and titter like that. When we went into the classroom, the students welcomed us with applause. A couple of them said "Long live the teacher." Whether that's in good spirits or mockery, I can't tell. Amid all this attention on me and Yama-arashi, only Red Shirt came over as usual and said, "What a terrible misfortune. I feel nothing but sorry for you both. I've consulted with the principal and arranged to request a correction, so don't worry. My brother invited Horiota, and that's what caused this, so I'm truly sorry. I intend to do everything I can about this matter, so please don't take offense," lining up half-apologetic words. The principal came out of his office during third period and said, "The paper dug up a regrettable matter. Hope it doesn't get complicated," looking somewhat worried. I've got no worries—if they dismiss me outright, I'll just hand in my resignation before that happens. But backing out when I've done no wrong would only embolden the lying newspapermen, so I figured the right thing was to make them print a correction and stick to my post out of sheer stubbornness. I thought of going to negotiate with the paper on the way home, but since the school said they'd already filed for retraction, I let it go.
Yama-arashi and I, watching for gaps between classes, explained the true facts to the principal and head teacher. The principal and head teacher concluded, "That's right, the newspapermen must bear a grudge against the school and put up that article on purpose." Red Shirt, while defending our conduct, walked around the staff room alone, especially spreading it about as if it were his own fault that his brother had lured Yama-arashi out. Everyone said the newspapermen were entirely to blame, scandalous, and that we'd had a raw deal.
On the way home, Yama-arashi warned me, "Say, Red Shirt stinks. If you're not careful, he'll screw you." I said, "He stinks anyway—he didn't just start stinking today," and he told me, "Haven't you caught on? Yesterday he deliberately lured us out and dragged us into that fight—that was a scheme." Indeed, I hadn't thought that far. I admired Yama-arashi—he seems rough, but he's sharper than me.
"He started the fight like that, then right after pulled strings with the newspapermen to get that article written. A real snake."
"The paper too, was that Red Shirt? That's a shock. But would the paper so easily listen to Red Shirt?"
"Why wouldn't they? If he's got friends at the paper, no problem."
"He's got friends there?"
"Even if not, no problem. Tell a lie, say it happened thus and so, and they'll write it right up."
"That's low. If it really was Red Shirt's scheme, we might get dismissed over this."
"At worst, we might get had."
"Then I'll hand in my resignation tomorrow and go straight back to Tokyo. I don't want to stay in a low place like this anyway."
"Even if you resign, Red Shirt won't care."
"That's true too. How do we make him care?"
"A snake like that schemes so no proof ever surfaces, so rebutting him is hard."
"Troublesome. So we wear the false blame? Not amusing. Is heaven right or wrong?"
"Well, let's watch for two or three days. If it comes to it, we'll grab him by the vitals in the hot spring town."
"The fight's one thing, as a fight?"
"Right. We'll grab his weak point our own way."
"That works. I'm poor at schemes, so I leave it all to you. If it comes to it, I'll do anything."
Yama-arashi and I parted there. If Red Shirt really did as Yama-arashi suspected, he's a foul one. No way to beat him at wits. It's got to be brute force. So that's why war never ends in this world. Even for individuals, in the end it's brute force.
The next day, impatient for the paper, I opened it—and far from a correction, there wasn't even a retraction. I went to school and pressed the tanuki, and he said, "It'll probably run tomorrow." The next day a small retraction in six-point type appeared. But the paper, of course, made no correction. I argued with the principal again, and he answered there's no other procedure. The principal's got a tanuki face and puts on airs, but he's unexpectedly powerless. Can't even make a country paper apologize for a false article. I got so mad I said I'd go alone and negotiate with the editor, but he said no—if you go, they'll just write more abuse. In short, once the paper's got you, true or false, there's nothing to be done. Nothing but to give up, he added, like a priest's sermon. If that's what newspapers are, we'd be better off smashing them soonest. That being written up in the paper and being bitten by a mud turtle are much the same—I learned that firsthand from the tanuki's explanation today.
Then about three days later, one afternoon Yama-arashi came in furious and said the time had come, he meant to carry out the plan, so I said all right, I'm in, and at once joined the gang. But Yama-arashi tilted his head and said maybe you should sit this one out. I asked why, and he said, "Were you called in by the principal and told to hand in your resignation?" I said no. "You?" I asked back, and he said that in the principal's office today he was told, "I'm truly sorry, but circumstances leave no choice, so please resign."
"No such trial exists. The tanuki's probably beaten his belly drum too much and his stomach's flipped. You and me, we went to the victory banquet together, saw the glittering Kochi dance together, went in together to stop the fight, didn't we? If he says hand in your resignation, tell him to do it fairly to both sides. Why can't a country school understand reason? Don't fret."
"That's Red Shirt's finger pulling the strings. He and I, from all that's happened, can't coexist—but he thinks keeping you as is does no harm."
"I can't coexist with Red Shirt either. Thinking you do no harm—what arrogance."
