This story in the original Japanese can be found here.
***
Fish Market
It was a night in spring last year. That being said, a chilly wind was blowing, and the moon shone clearly in the sky. It was about nine o’clock. Yasukichi and three of his friends were walking by the fish market along the river. His friends were Rosai the poet, Fūchū the painter, and Jodan the artisan. (Their real names are unfamiliar, but they are known masters in their fields.) Rosai, in particular, has been around for a long time; he made a name for himself long ago as a writer of modern haiku.
All of them were drunk. Fūchū and Yasukichi in particular could not hold their liquor and Jodan was the representative heavy drinker. In this way the three were not at all unusual. But there was a possibility that Rosai might be a little unsteady on his feet. Surrounding Rosai, they headed to Nihonbashi, following the fish-smelling moonlight.
Rosai was a born-and-bred Tokyoite. His great-grandfather was good friends with the likes of Shokusan and Bunchou. There was nothing he did not know about Marusei, the neighborhood of the fish market and the one where he made his home. For a long time Rosai had largely left the family business to others, and he himself spent his days on mountain roads, writing poetry and essays and designing seals. This gave him some sort of dashing quality about him not found in the rest of them. That trait was not quite Shitamachi-esque; it was distantly related to the brashness of Yamanote. He had something in common with the unique flavor of the fish market’s tuna sushi, so to speak.
Rosai, rather irritatingly, intermittently hit his companions with the sleeves of his overcoat while he boisterously continued with his story. Jodan laughed quietly and occasionally politely chimed in. During this time we quickly reached the start of the fish market. They all felt strangely disappointed at just going through the fish market. There was a western-style restaurant there, one of its white door flaps dangling in the moonlight. Even Yasukichi had oft heard the rumors of this shop. In the time it took to say, “Shall we go in?” “Sure, why not?” they had all trailed into the tiny shop after Fūchū.
There were two customers at a long narrow table in the store. One of them was a young market employee, and the other looked to be some factory worker. They were seated at the same table, two pairs facing each other. They then began to sip at their beers and their appetizer of fried mussels. The weak Fūchū and Yasukichi, of course, did not have more than a glass. Instead the two greatly indulged themselves on food.
The restaurant’s chairs and table were unfinished wood, no varnish. To make matters worse it was surrounded by old Edo-era reed screens. Despite the fact that they were eating western food, it barely seemed like a western restaurant. When Fūchū’s steak arrived, he wondered if it was not perhaps a cut of fish. Jodan expressed reverence while cutting with his unfamiliar utensil. And Yasukichi was grateful for the electric lamps typical for this sort of restaurant. And Rosai, well, being a local, did not act as if this was anything out of the ordinary. But with his cap pushed far up his head, he had another round with Jodan, engaging him in atypically cheerful conversation.
It was then that a customer, wearing a fedora, abruptly intruded through the entry flaps. His plump cheeks buried in the collar of his fur overcoat, he did not look, but scowled over the cramped restaurant. Then without so much as a word of greeting, he rested his large frame in the seat between Jodan and the group of youngsters. What an unpleasant ass! thought Yasukichi as he scooped his curry. If this were an Izumi Kyōka novel, he’d be eradicated by a chivalry-loving geisha or something. But Kyōka’s novels could never possibly happen in modern Nihonbashi.
After he had ordered, the customer arrogantly lit a cigarette and began to smoke. The more one looked at him, the more he fit, bit by bit, into the role of villain. His greasy red face, of course, his Ōshima overcoat, his signet ring…he was the spitting image of an Izumi villain. Yasukichi, all the more impugned, started talking to Rosai, next to him, to forget the customer’s very existence. But Rosai gave nothing more than some half-hearted “Yeah”s and “Hmm”s. Perhaps also impugned, he turned his back to the electric lamps and pulled his cap over his eyes.
Yasukichi reluctantly began to talk to his companions about their food, but the discussion was sparse. Since the arrival of the fat customer, the strange madness that had fallen over Yasukichi and his friends was undeniable.
When the customer’s order arrived, he picked up his bottle of Masamune beer and then poured it into his cup. Then, from the side, someone called clearly, “Kō!” The customer was clearly surprised. And yet as soon as he saw the owner of the voice, his surprised expression instantly turned to bewilderment. “Oh! Is that you, sir?” The customer removed his hat and bowed towards the owner of the voice. The voice’s owner was Rosai, the poet, and Marusei businessman.
“Hold on a minute,” said Rosai, a cool expression on his face as he took a swallow from his cup. Once the cup was empty, the customer refilled it, without a moment’s delay, from his own bottle. After that, he kept such a watchful eye on Rosai’s mood as to be ridiculous.
Kyōka’s novels were not yet dead. Even in the Tokyo fish markets could events such as this transpire.
But when they exited the restaurant, Yasukichi’s heart fell. He, of course, had no sympathy towards this “Kō.” And according to Rosai the customer was of poor character. But in spite of it all he could not quite feel happy. On the desk in Yasukichi’s study was a book of Rochefoucauld’s maxims which he had already read: when he walked in the moonlight, he sometimes thought about them.
(July 1922)