Ogikubo Izakaya "Sugi no Ki" ~The Defeated's Revenge Score~ - Wounded veteran man

Sugiyama Seiichi walked alone down the stone-paved alley that branched off from the south exit of Ogikubo Station. September dusk. The air still dragged the lingering scent of summer, but the way the shadows stretched already spoke of autumn. The days had grown shorter. As he approached the main street of the shopping district, colorful flags caught his eye. ——Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere Tokyo Games, Come Friends of the World—— Beside the hand-painted banner hung a printed poster of the sacred flame. From the speakers came the cheerful sound of brass instruments. In front of Matsuda's butcher shop, two neighborhood housewives laughed together: "It's finally here," "My child insists on going to see the sacred flame relay." Seiichi narrowed his eyes. (We won the war. Eighteen years have passed.) The peace treaty was signed in Geneva in February of Showa 21. The end of the Greater East Asia War. America had lost its Pacific Fleet, and the Manhattan Project remained incomplete when it came to the negotiating table, battered and scarred. Japan maintained its dominance over Southeast Asia. A historic victory, the textbooks said. But Seiichi couldn't bring himself to celebrate it wholeheartedly. Something held him back. When he returned from the battlefield, the Tokyo that met his eyes was not scorched earth. It was the city of victors. Yet the black markets held hungry faces, and his comrades who had been demobilized wandered the alleys searching for work, while those on the losing side held their breath in the corners of the streets. Despite winning, everyone had lost something. That sensation lingered somewhere still. Seiichi turned into the alley. The noise of the shopping district faded, leaving only wooden fences and stone pavement. Walk seven minutes and it would come into view. A scorched-brown wooden wall with a white noren curtain. A small potted cedar tree by the eaves. The izakaya "Sugi no Ki." The twenty-five-year-old wooden single-story building leaned slightly, and on rainy days the pillar on the right would creak. Eight seats at the counter, two tables in the raised seating area at the back. Capacity was sixteen, but it had been full only a handful of times. That was fine, Seiichi thought. As he hung out the noren, Seiichi made a circuit of the shop. He ran his finger along the counter to check for moisture, adjusted the heat under the oden pot, and glanced at the photographs on the wall. Several photographs of Tokyo from the 1950s. Not the burnt ruins, but the streets from a bit later, when reconstruction had begun. The people's faces were tired, but somehow facing forward. His finger paused for a moment on one of them. A young woman and a small child. Smiling. Seiichi immediately looked away. The aroma of oden broth pricked his nose. He'd started the prep work at two in the afternoon. The daikon should have absorbed the flavor all the way through by now. (Good smell.) He decided to think only that. 　　＊ The regular factory workers arrived just after six, and by before seven, an order for grilled chicken came from the raised seating area. The shop began to take on a gentle liveliness. Seiichi quietly warmed sake, plated oden, and moved back and forth behind the counter. A little after seven, the noren swayed. The moment Seiichi saw the man who entered, his movements stopped for just one beat. So slight that even he barely noticed it. Late thirties or early forties. A white man. Not particularly tall. A plain jacket under his coat. His right leg from the knee down was a prosthetic, and while he carried no cane, there was a slight shift in his center of gravity with each step. His features were sharply defined, and the color of exhaustion seeped from his cheeks. His eyes were a pale blue-gray, and after a quick survey of the shop's interior, he headed for the seat at the end of the counter. His Japanese was fluent. "One drink, if you please" "Of course" Seiichi set down a sake bottle and cup. The man lowered himself slowly, folded his coat, and placed it on his lap. The gesture was careful, giving an impression of meticulous precision. He took a sip of sake. The man closed his eyes. There was silence for a while. Seiichi continued his observation, wiping the counter with a cloth, eyes not raised. "Where does one go to handle the paperwork for military pension benefits?" It was an abrupt question. "If you go to the Ogikubo ward office, they'll guide you through it" "I see. I attended a memorial ceremony for the Greater East Asia War, and my paperwork needs updating..." The man continued. As a wounded veteran, he received a pension. He had attended the ceremony. Seiichi made appropriate responses while quietly searching for inconsistencies in his mind. Something was off. If this were a former soldier talking about military pensions, somewhere a division name would come up. A battlefield location. A comrade's name. None of it appeared. The conversation had no contours. As if gathered from a textbook, the man spoke of being a wounded veteran in Japanese. (Gathered from a textbook, perhaps.) Seiichi casually lowered his gaze. There was a thin layer of dried mud on the coat's cuff. It was dry. Not from today. The metal joint of the prosthetic knee—the seams were unusually new. Recently replaced. Laughter rose from the raised seating area. A voice ordering more grilled chicken. Among the cheerful regulars, the man at the end of the counter alone created an oddly quiet island. Something deep in Seiichi's chest moved with a low rumble. It was the detective's intuition he had put to sleep for over a decade. 　　＊ Near closing time, the noren swayed again. This time Seiichi's expression softened slightly. Soft, naturally wavy brown hair came into view first. It was Misako. Twenty-four years old, running the flower shop "Hana Yoshi" alone, she delivered flowers to Sugi no Ki twice a week. About one hundred fifty-eight centimeters tall. Her large, round, pale green eyes sparkled slightly tonight as well. Carrying baskets in both hands, she brought the autumn night air with her. "Another plain combination, Sugiyama-san" Balloon flowers and chrysanthemums. "I said anything was fine" "That's why I choose by season. It's autumn, after all" Seiichi accepted the flowers and thanked her quietly. Misako set the basket on the counter and straightened the flowers while surveying the shop. Her gaze paused for a moment. The man at the end of the counter was just finishing his third bottle of sake, giving Seiichi a respectful nod as he stood. The sound of his prosthetic right foot on the floor. A quiet gait. The man parted the noren and stepped outside. Misako's hands continued straightening the flowers as her eyes followed his back. After a moment, Misako returned to Seiichi's side and lowered her voice. "That person... I don't think he's Japanese. The way he walks is different" Seiichi said nothing. Only his eyebrows moved, ever so slightly. "I'll come again soon" Misako took the basket and left. The sound of the sliding door closing. Footsteps fading away. Seiichi kept his eyes on her retreating figure until it disappeared into the darkness of the alley. After the warmth of everyday life withdrew, something cold remained. 　　＊ The workers left, and the shop fell silent. As Seiichi cleaned up, he noticed something. There was still a figure at the end of the counter. The one-legged man. When had he returned? Or had he never left? He sat slumped in the dark corner, nearly asleep. The sake bottle lay on its side. Seiichi approached slowly. Just as he was about to place a hand on the man's shoulder, it happened. A low voice tore through the air. English. In a thick, murky voice mixing hatred and exhaustion—— "Fuckin' Nippon" Seiichi's movement stopped. The man's eyes remained closed as he fell into deep sleep. His breathing was audible. Seiichi stood looking down at the man's face for a while. The silence in the shop felt unusually dense. The oden pot's fire had been extinguished. No speaker sounds from outside. It was that late. (Wounded veteran. Perfect Japanese. Prosthetic leg. A new prosthetic leg. From a former enemy nation.) The Alien Enemy Management Act, established in Showa 26——a law to manage and monitor those from former enemy nations, namely America and Britain. He'd heard that about forty bureaucrats were stationed in the Tokyo district alone. Restrictions on residential areas, permits required for movement, mandatory reporting every quarter. Failure to comply meant detention or forced deportation. Seiichi doubted this man was filing his reports. He reached under the counter. He confirmed the position of the wooden sword. A hard sensation. Cold. (I know the eyes of people who lie.) This man was hiding something and waiting for something here in Ogikubo. Seiichi didn't wake him. For now, he draped his own coat over the man's shoulders like a blanket. He turned off the lights. In the darkened shop, only the aroma of oden broth remained. 　　＊ The next morning, when Seiichi opened the back door, he stopped. An old envelope was wedged in the wooden gap. He pulled it out and opened it. Thin paper with pencil scrawl. The letters were alphabetic, but not English. German, he thought. Seiichi had no knowledge of German. He couldn't read a single line. But the last word alone, he had a memory of seeing in old books after the war. Vergiss nicht. Forget not——that's what it meant, he thought. Seiichi put the envelope in his pocket. The one-legged man had disappeared before dawn. Only a dried fragment of mud remained on the seat. 　　＊ Early afternoon, someone knocked on the shop door. It wasn't yet time to hang out the noren. Seiichi wiped his hands and went out. A face he'd never seen before. Late sixties, perhaps. A tall man with white hair carefully combed back. About one hundred seventy-eight centimeters. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit. His sharp gray eyes tilted upward slightly, holding a quiet light. His face was expressionless——or rather, it was more accurate to say he was deliberately suppressing emotion. "My name is Mueller Heinrich. I would like to speak with Sugiyama Seiichi" His Japanese was perfect. Seiichi paused for a moment. "We open at five in the evening" "I am aware. However, if you could spare just a moment——" Seiichi met Mueller's eyes. It was not a plea but a request. His eyes said he would press on even if refused. Seiichi opened the door. The two went to the raised seating area. Seiichi brought tea. Mueller held the cup in both hands, took only one sip, and set it down. Then he spoke quietly. "I would like you to recover my daughter's engagement ring" Seiichi said nothing. He waited for more. "I understand it has fallen into the hands of a black market broker in Ginza. You were formerly a detective, I understand. Though you have since retired——" "I have retired" "...There is a reason only you can be asked" His voice was quiet. Seiichi met Mueller's eyes. In the depths of those gray pupils, something heavy lay submerged. Darkness that had sunk over years, bottomless. Not sadness, not anger. Something more complex, an accumulation of emotion pushed down before it could be put into words. (Not the eyes of a father worried about his daughter's engagement ring.) That's what Seiichi thought in his chest. This old gentleman's bearing aimed at something else entirely. The ring was merely the entrance to it. But today, he didn't ask further. "I'll listen to what you have to say" Mueller gave a small bow. There was something of an older era's refinement in the gesture. 　　＊ Mueller left around two o'clock. Seiichi continued his prep work while thinking about the envelope. German. Vergiss nicht. And a German old gentleman had come calling. Coincidence or not. It was harder to believe it was coincidence. When he hung out the n

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Episode 1

Name: Ogikubo Izakaya "Sugi no Ki" ~The Defeated's Revenge Score~
Author: Novelia

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