Yasushi Inoue - Bullfight

So he said. He didn’t look particularly exhausted to Tsugami.

And sure enough, the next instant he was ready for business. “So we’re all set for the parade?”

They had arranged to depart from Sannomiya at eight, make the rounds of downtown Kobe, and deliver the parade of sumo bulls to the stable in Nishinomiya. The next morning they would walk them from Nishinomiya to Osaka, circle through the center of city, then return to Nishinomiya. Tsugami was anxious above all that the bulls might not be in good condition after so much rocking on the train, but Tashiro didn’t seem concerned.

“They haven’t exercised for so long, a bit of walking will be good for them.”

Tashiro glanced up at the sky to gauge the weather, looked down at his watch, and then strode off with the contented gait of an officer inspecting his troops, saying he should at least peek in to thank the station manager for his help.

Tsugami was walking around greeting some of the owners who had helped with things during that first trip to W. when N., a reporter who had made the trip up on the train with the rest of the group, drew him aside, saying he had some information to pass on. “Look,” he said, glancing meaningfully toward the far western edge of the yard, where the only opening in the fence allowed passage in and out. Four or five men were loading something into a truck. Tsugami noticed Tashiro among them; he was standing next to the truck, evidently directing the men in their work.

“He brought that stuff up with us — says it’s all feed for the bulls. A bunch of us are pretty sure he has something else going on, though. He’s quite the huckster.”

According to N., Tashiro had loaded an enormous number of mysterious bundles on to the train in W., each wrapped in straw mats and tightly tied, claiming that it was feed. N. was puzzled by the quantity, though, and when he looked inside one he discovered that it was stuffed with dried bonito. When he opened another, a stream of brown sugar gushed out.

“Feed for the bulls, my ass. And who knows what else is in there? Still, he’s a crucial partner in this project, so I thought for the paper’s sake I’d better just pretend I hadn’t seen anything. And then in Takamatsu — it was hilarious, let me tell you.”

There had been an earthquake in the ocean off Kishū while they were there, and it had bent the rails that delivered the cars on to the ferry. They had no choice but to unload the bulls and all the rest of the cargo from four of the eight cars, put everything on the boat, and then transfer it all to another set of cars in Uno. Even Tashiro had been rattled. He spent the whole day hurrying back and forth around Takamatsu, and then that night he had brought five or six men who unloaded the “feed” and took it off somewhere.

“The goods they’re putting in the truck are what’s left, the stuff from the four cars that made it on to the ferry.”

N. was clearly furious, and proceeded to curse Tashiro roundly. Tsugami wasn’t really surprised that an incident like this should have happened, but even so he felt a wave of displeasure rising up inside him as he stood there watching it happen. He walked up behind Tashiro where he stood near the truck and tapped the shoulder of his overcoat. When Tashiro looked around and saw that it was Tsugami, he suddenly broke into a broad grin.

“You’re on to me,” he said.

“How could I not be? You’re doing it right out in the open.”

“Well, you know,” Tashiro murmured vaguely, then turned serious. “It’s Mr. Okabe’s stuff.”

Tsugami noticed as Tashiro said this that the name of Okabe’s company, Hanshin Manufacturing, was printed in white on the side of the truck. Tashiro had been unable to refuse. How could he say no when Okabe asked him to load up a few things and take them along, when without his help they would have been unable to get a single car and Okabe had gotten them eight? It just wasn’t possible.

“Pretend you didn’t see anything. He’ll be useful to you again, trust me.”

“I’m not sure I want him to be useful. A man like that…” Tsugami’s expression was still sour.

“As it happens,” Tashiro replied, “I’m afraid there’s a little matter we’re going to need his help on more or less immediately. We’ve got to feed the bulls.”

For two or three days before a fight, you had to feed sumo bulls great heaps of rice and barley, and then on the actual day of the event you had to give them sake and eggs, too. If you were dealing with twenty-two bulls, well, you were going to need an awful lot of rice and barley, and so on. Tashiro had been planning to try and get special rations issued in Ehime, but in the end he hadn’t been able to get permission, he said, though he had tried as hard as he could. And if they couldn’t make it happen in Ehime, applying for rations in Hyōgo Prefecture or Osaka certainly wasn’t going to work, since they were having trouble providing people with enough basic staple foods. When all was said and done, there didn’t seem to be any choice but to beg Okabe for help.

“Ask him, and we’ll have no problem getting feed for twenty or even thirty bulls. It’s only for two or three days, after all.”

Even as he talked with Tsugami, Tashiro would occasionally shout at the men loading the truck — telling them to be careful, issuing instructions. Tsugami had begun feeling vaguely uneasy, as though, without his realizing it, someone had come and wound him up, around and around, with an invisible string. Now that he was feeling this way, he started noticing a certain nasty tinge to Tashiro’s brazenness that hadn’t been there before, as if he had decided he could get away with anything now.

“All right. I’ll talk to Okabe,” Tsugami said.

By the time Tsugami left Tashiro and rejoined the rest of the group, everyone from the paper who was involved with the tournament had arrived, and the air was buzzing with voices. He noticed one of the photographers rushing around taking pictures of the bulls. At seven, they started getting ready for the parade. As they were putting the showy sumo-style aprons over the bulls’ backs, Tashiro, who always wore long pants, appeared wearing knickerbockers; he had replaced his usual overcoat with one that came down only to his waist and had a hunting cap on his head. He would be riding in a truck at the end of the parade today, directing the entire process.

A reporter named Y. walked up to Tsugami, saying he had been searching for him everywhere. He was worried that the pictures of the parade weren’t going to be ready on time, even if the article itself was, and wanted to know if the parade could set out an hour earlier than planned. Tsugami told him to talk to Tashiro and do whatever seemed best.

“The paper is going to be crazy today. The editors are going to hate us,” Y. laughed. “Not only do we have two huge lead stories, with the general strike coming up on February 1st and the raid today on Jikōson’s compound, we also have to cover this bull parade, and then we’ve got the special report on ‘Traveling with the Bulls.’”

“It’ll all be over in a few days,” Tsugami said. “Don’t pay any attention.”

Recently the paper’s pages were awash with big news stories, crammed into limited space. All their competitors were paying particularly close attention to what was happening with the strike, and their editors remained resolutely focused on that one issue; Tsugami, meanwhile, kept right on giving most coverage to the bullfight, come what may, telling himself what he had told Y. — pay no attention.

Y. glanced at his watch. “Seven already! Today is one busy day.” He lit a cigarette, expelled a puff of white breath and smoke, and hurried off in Tashiro’s direction.