Юрий Мельников
Battle of Bun'ei

Prologue

In the far north of Japan, where the mountains huddle close and the wind sings through the pines, there lies a small village, half-forgotten by the world.

Snow falls here for half the year, soft and endless, blanketing crooked roofs and narrow lanes, muffling the sounds of life until all that remains is a hush—a silence so deep it seems to hold the breath of time itself.

The houses are old, their wood darkened by countless winters, their windows glowing faintly with the golden promise of warmth. Smoke rises from chimneys in thin, hopeful threads, curling into the pale sky. The people move quietly, wrapped in layers of patched clothing, their faces marked by the gentle resignation of those who have learned to expect little and endure much.

There is a sadness here, a sadness as old as the mountains, as wide as the snowfields. It is not the sharp pain of loss, but the slow ache of longing – the sadness of all mankind, woven into the fabric of daily life. It lingers in the empty fields, in the silent shrines, in the laughter that never quite reaches the skies.

Yet in this quiet, in this poverty, there is a kind of peace. The village endures, as it always has, through storm and hunger and the slow passage of years. And when the snow falls at dusk, turning the world to silver and silence, it is almost beautiful – the sadness, the stillness, the small lights shining bravely in the dark.

…And into this gentle, aching stillness, a storm of mad bureaucracy and international misadventure was about to descend.

Chapter One

In the remote, frostbitten village of Higashikuma, where the only thing colder than the winters was the welcome extended to outsiders, the municipal office was a monument to both architectural and moral decay. The linoleum curled at the edges like a dying leaf, the radiators hissed with the impotent rage of a thousand bureaucrats, and the only thing that ever ran on time was the clock, which was, of course, broken.

At the heart of this municipal mausoleum sat the new secretary, a woman so strikingly out of place that the villagers had taken to calling her “Miss Tokyo” behind her back, as if her origins were a contagious disease. She was tall, beautiful, and possessed the kind of poise that suggested she had once been accustomed to better things – like central heating, or shoes without holes. Her long, elegant legs propped with exquisite care upon a stack of unfiled, and almost certainly incriminating, municipal reports. Her name was Ayumi Sato, and she was currently reclining in her battered office chair, headphones clamped over her ears, and a look of serene detachment on her face as she filed her toenails to the beat of Sparks’ “Left Out in the Cold.”

The only other sign of life in the office was a potted plant, which had long since given up hope, and the accountant’s documents, who had never had any to begin with.

The fragile tranquility of this highly personal spa session was abruptly shattered, not by the usual drone of Mayor Katsuhiro’s snoring from the inner sanctum, nor by the plaintive mewing of the municipality’s resident, and perpetually underfed, cat, but by the cataclysmic entry of Mr. Hiroshi Tanaka, the municipality’s accountant and, far more crucially, the Mayor’s senile, perpetually befuddled, and utterly indispensible father-in-law. The door, long since deprived of its upper hinge and thus prone to a dramatic, almost operatic, swing, was flung inward with such force that it bounced off the adjacent wall with a sound like a distant artillery barrage, causing Miss Sato’s carefully poised brush to momentarily hover mid-air, a delicate, pink-tipped suspension of disbelief. Mr. Tanaka, his face a contorted mask of panic and unwashed whiskers, resembled nothing so much as a frightened ferret that had somehow acquired a waistcoat of dubious vintage and a chronic case of the vapours.

“Where is the mayor?!” he bellowed, his voice cracking like a cheap ceramic plate. “Where is that useless… They’re calling from Tokyo! Tokyo! It’s urgent!” – Yeah, he didn’t like his enterprising son-in-law.

Ayumi, without so much as glancing up from her pedicure, increased the volume on her headphones. The accountant’s voice, muffled by the music, became a distant, almost pleasant, like a bee trapped in a jar.

“Ayumi Sato! Miss Ayumi Sato!” Mr. Tanaka was now hopping from foot to foot, as if the urgency of the situation might be transmitted through the floorboards. “The governor’s office! Tokyo! Rich tourists! Saudis! Where is the mayor?!”

Ayumi finally looked up, her expression one of mild curiosity, as if she had just discovered a new species of insect. She removed one earbud with the deliberate slowness of someone who has spent her entire life being interrupted by men with less intelligence than a houseplant.

“He went fishing,” she said, her voice as calm and cool as the lake in December.

Mr. Tanaka stared at her, mouth agape, as if she had just announced that the mayor had eloped with a walrus. “Fishing? Now? With Tokyo on the line? With Saudis coming? With…”

Ayumi Sato shrugged, replaced her earbud, and started doing her pedicures again. “He said he needed to catch something big,” she said, which, in the mayor’s case, usually meant a hangover or a new mistress.

Mr. Tanaka let out a strangled cry, somewhere between a sob and a curse, and bolted from the office, – papers fluttering behind him like the wings of a very confused chicken.

Meanwhile, on the frozen shore of Lake Hachiman, the mayor Katsuhiro, a man whose moral compass spun like a roulette wheel – was indeed fishing.

Though the “legendary trout”’ he had so glibly described to his impossibly elegant secretary was, in fact, a particularly lukewarm can of cheap lager, and the “fishing” itself involved little more than a desultory line cast into a rather stagnant lake, while he, Katsuhiro, a man whose paunch preceded him like a particularly aggressive scouting party, sat with supreme indifference upon a folding chair, his rather unctuous hand discreetly placed upon the remarkably accommodating thigh of Mrs. Matsuda, the very same proprietress of the fermented cabbage establishment, whose ample bosoms provided a far more comforting vista than any impending bureaucratic apocalypse.

The only thing biting that morning was the wind, but the mayor didn’t mind. After all, he had already caught everything he needed: a government subsidy, a gullible accountant, and, if the rumors were true, a secretary who was far too clever for her own good.

But as the accountant’s frantic shouts echoed across the ice, even the mayor began to suspect that this year’s “The Battle of Bun’ei” might be more of a rout than a victory.

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. Matsuda. 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. Matsuda 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. Matsuda 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. Matsuda’s sauerkraut or pickled radish, 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, katanas, 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!”

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