The Battle of Bun’ei. Chapter Seven

The mayor was awakened by a knock so violent it seemed to threaten the structural integrity of his house, his dignity, and possibly the entire village.

It was the kind of knock that suggested either a police raid or a visit from his mother-in-law — either way, disaster. The sound ricocheted through his skull, which was already throbbing from last night’s heroic attempts to drown his problems in sake.

“Who in the name of all that’s pickled…” he croaked, his voice thick with the residue of too much sake and too much desperate revelry.

He staggered upright, tripped over a futon, and reached for the nearest open bottle. The world steadied, slightly. The knocking continued, now accompanied by a chorus of voices that sounded suspiciously cheerful for this hour of the morning. Musicians. Of course. Only musicians could be so chipper after a night of drinking, freezing, and public humiliation.

He opened the door to find them grinning, scarves askew, eyes bloodshot but spirits unbroken. “Mr. Katsuhiro! Good morning! We’ve come for our payment!” one of them chirped, as if this were a perfectly reasonable thing to do at the crack of dawn in a snowstorm.

The mayor’s head throbbed in protest. “Didn’t you call the accountant?” he grumbled, clutching his sake like a life preserver.

“We did! He didn’t answer. We thought maybe he’d frozen to death, but then we remembered he’s too cheap to die before payday.”

Gritting his teeth, the mayor wrapped himself in a coat and led the musicians through the empty, snow-choked streets. The village looked like the aftermath of a particularly unsuccessful military campaign — banners drooping, plastic swords abandoned, a lone wig stuck to a lamppost.

Inside, the sole sentient being was Kayamo Matsumoto, the elderly cleaning lady, who moved with the deliberate, unhurried pace of someone for whom time had long ceased to be a relevant concept. She was mopping the floor with the grim determination of someone who had seen too much and cleaned up after all of it.

“Where’s Miss Tokyo?” the mayor demanded, his voice echoing off the linoleum.

Kayamo didn’t even look up. “Last I saw, she was with the Saudis. Said she was going to see them off. Looked happy, too. Not like you lot.”

The mayor cursed, a string of words that would have made a sumo wrestler blush, and stomped to the safe. He spun the dial, yanked the handle, and stared into the void. The safe was empty. Not a yen, not a ledger, not even a moth.

He shook so violently the musicians took a step back, exchanging glances. “Is he having a seizure?” one whispered. “Or is this just how he negotiates?”

“Call the accountant, old woman!” the mayor hissed, his voice rising to a squeak.

But there was no need. As if summoned by the sheer, unadulterated panic radiating from his son-in-law, Mr. Hiroshi Tanaka, the accountant, shuffled timidly into the doorway, his ancient face etched with the familiar expression of a man who had just misplaced his own brain. From his belt, where others might carry a mobile phone or a handkerchief, he produced a can of beer, already open, and took a tentative sip.

“Where is the money?” the mayor roared, advancing on his father-in-law with the energy of a man who had just realized his entire life was a Ponzi scheme.

“Where is the money, old fool? Where is Ledger?”

“Ledger?” the accountant squeaked, eyes darting. “What ledger?”

“Crypto wallet!” the mayor bellowed, veins bulging.

Hiroshi’s eyes widened, a flicker of dim comprehension passing across his ancient features.

“I don’t know! I asked the secretary to help me transfer your crypto, you know I’m not on good terms with your gadgets. She said she’d take care of it. She’s good with computers, you know.”

The mayor’s world spun. The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in, the musicians’ faces blurring into a single, mocking grin. He saw it all: the subsidies, the fake festivals, the roast pork, the whiskey, the Saudis, the empty safe, the beautiful secretary vanishing into the snow with a suitcase full of digital cash.

Everything — his career, his schemes, his dreams of early retirement in Okinawa—had flown away, or drowned, or both.

He slumped to the floor, the musicians peering down at him with the professional curiosity of men who had seen many a man fall, but never quite so spectacularly.

“Should we play something?” one asked.

“Maybe a requiem,” another suggested.

But the mayor heard nothing. Only the sound of his own defeat, echoing through the empty streets of the village.

Chapter Eight