The Battle of Bun’ei. Chapter Three

How fucking tired I’m of it all. Saudis, Saudis, Saudis, why in the name of all that’s fermented do they want to come here, to this frozen arse-end of nowhere, for New Year’s?

Couldn’t they have gone to Sapporo, or stayed in Tokyo, or just bought a postcard and called it a day? No, they want authenticity, snow, samurai, women in the lake, the whole bloody kabuki. If only they’d come in the summer, I’d have shown them the photos, the ones from last year, and the year before, and the year before that, all the same, all nature, all perfect. Samurai fighting in the snow, women shrieking in the water, old Nakamura’s wig floating away…

Miss Tokyo, Ayumi Sato, what a sight she’d be, naked in the snow, all legs and hair and that look in her eye, the one that says she’s seen better men than me and left them all behind. If only I were her husband, but no, I got stuck with Mina and her father, the old fool, Hiroshi, who can’t tell a crypto wallet from a cabbage. Why did I ever let him near the accounts? He can’t even count his own teeth, and now everyone wants money, money, money. The theater wants cash for costumes, the musicians want cash for music, the military wants cash for heated tents—heated tents! In my day, we froze, and we liked it, but now, no, everyone wants to be warm, and everyone wants to be paid.

And the villagers, my country’s bumpkins, how am I supposed to get them to dive into a frozen lake? They’ll die, they’ll freeze, they’ll sue, and then what? No more subsidies, no more sauerkraut, no more beer. I’ll have to buy a mountain of booze just to get them to take off their boots, let alone their clothes. Maybe if Ayumi gets drunk enough, she’ll forget she’s from Tokyo, forget she’s too good for this place, forget she’s not supposed to be naked in front of the mayor. Maybe I’ll forget I’m tired of Mina and her endless sauerkraut, her endless bosom, her endless complaints about the cold, the tourists, the Saudis, the snow.

Snow, snow, snow, that’s what they want, the damned Arabs, as if they don’t have enough sand and oil and money. Try living here without financial assistance, try living here with nothing but cabbage and regret. If only the old geezer could figure out the crypto, cash it out, make it disappear, make it reappear in my pocket, in my mistress’s bar, in the hands of the musicians, the actors, the soldiers.

Tomorrow, I have to meet with the villagers, persuade them to jump into the water, to fight with swords, to pretend they’re samurai and not just freezing farmers. One sake won’t be enough, not for this, not for them, not for me. I’ll need whiskey, lots of whiskey, and maybe a miracle. Don’t forget the whiskey, don’t forget the bribes, don’t forget the Saudis, don’t forget to smile, don’t forget to lie, don’t forget to survive.

And if all else fails, there’s always next year. Or the year after. Or the year after that…

Chapter Four