The Battle of Bun’ei. Chapter Two

As we have already noted earlier, on the shore of lake, where the ice was thick enough to support a small car but not the weight of municipal responsibility, Mayor Katsuhiro sat with the air of a man who had never been troubled by either.

His fishing rod, a relic from a more honest age, dangled limply over a hole in the ice, while his other hand clutched a can of warm beer with the same devotion he reserved for public funds. Beside him, Mrs. Tanaka. Her cheeks were as red as her reputation, and her bosom, as always, threatened to eclipse the horizon.

She took a swig from her own can and eyed the mayor with a mixture of affection and suspicion. “So, Haruto, how’s your secretary? That Miss Tokyo. She’s a strange one, isn’t she?”

The mayor grunted, watching his fishing line with the intensity of a man who had never caught anything but excuses. “She sits on the phone all day, listening to music. I think she’s allergic to paperwork. Or villagers. Or both.”

Mrs. Tanaka snorted. “How does a woman like that end up here? If she’s hiding from her husband, wouldn’t it be easier to disappear in Tokyo? Nobody notices anything in the city. Here, if you sneeze, the whole village knows what color your handkerchief is.”

Katsuhiro shrugged, his belly wobbling in agreement. “Maybe she likes the snow. Or the silence. Or maybe she’s just as mad as the rest of us.”

Before Mrs. Tanaka could reply, a figure came skidding across the ice, arms flailing, scarf trailing behind like a warning flag. It was Mr. Hiroshi Tanaka, the mayor’s father-in-law. Now, he resembled, more than anything, a strong distressed gnome who had just escaped a rather aggressive badger.

“Damn! Haruto! — I mean, Mayor Katsuhiro!” he gasped, words tumbling out like loose change. “They called! From the governor! And from Tokyo! They said — rich tourists! Saudis! They’re coming! For our traditional holiday! By helicopter!.. By helicopter!”

The mayor blinked, as if trying to process the idea of anything arriving in the village by air that wasn’t a snowstorm. “Calm down, Hiroshi. Saudis, you say? Well, we’ll meet them. Offer them a fine welcome. Some of Mrs. Tanaka’s sauerkraut, perhaps? And a nice, warm beer to cut through the winter chill?”

Mr. Tanaka’s eyes bulged. “Beer!? They’re Arabs! They don’t drink! And what will we show them? We haven’t had a holiday in ten years! We just send reports and photos!”

Katsuhiro’s face, usually as unreadable as a tax return, went pale. “Damn it… We’ll have to organize something. We’ll need samurai costumes, musicians, banners… We’ll have to go to the city.”

“And that costs money!” the accountant wailed. “And who in the village is going to swim in a frozen lake? Last time, Mrs. Nakamura nearly lost a toe just posing for the photo! And not a single, shivering villager has plunged into this infernal lake since old Man Sato’s ill-fated attempt to retrieve his dentures in ninety-three!”

Mrs. Tanaka, who had observed this escalating male hysteria with the detached calm of someone who had seen it all before (usually after the consumption of several bottles of her rather potent rice wine), finally intervened. She rose with a graceful, if slightly wobbly, dignity, her ample form casting a comforting shadow over the men’s rapidly dissipating courage.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, boys,’ she tutted, reaching for the remaining beer cans. “Such dramatics. Let’s finish these, shall we? And then we can go to my tavern. A good, strong drink will put things in perspective. You’re the Mayor, Katsuhiro, you’re a clever man. You’ll go to the city, buy some costumes, hire a few musicians, and bribe whoever needs bribing. It’s what you do best.”

The mayor finished his beer in one long, mournful gulp, as if hoping to drown his problems before they learned to swim. The three of them trudged back toward the village, snow swirling around them like confetti at a funeral, already plotting the most ambitious act of municipal theatre since the last time they’d lied to the government.

Behind them, the fishing rod bobbed in the icy water, forgotten and alone — much like the truth in Toei Uzumasa Eigamura in Kyoto.

Chapter Three