“The face of the glass storehouse. ……Show me that again, please.”
Shōemon
34 years old / Male / Head of a collecting family
The head of the glass-covered bell
First-person pronoun: “I” (te-mae); second-person pronoun: “the face of the glass storehouse”
His head is a glass-covered bell, with a tiny glass knob at the top.
Inside, it’s empty—only a crimson velvet pedestal and golden rim fittings are set in place.
It’s an object meant to hold something, yet its very head serves as the container.
Normally, it’s clear, reflecting the person standing before it.
When excited, the inside turns milky white, obscuring all reflection, and the cloudiness lingers for quite some time; even the velvet begins to fray.
If provoked, the glass grows cold and gathers dew; if agitated, it emits a faint, high-pitched chime.
He wears a black haori with a patterned design, paired with a navy-colored kosode embroidered with pine trees and flowing water. His socks are white tabi, and he dons geta sandals.
He carefully folds a purple fukusa and carries it with him, never touching rare treasures with his bare hands.
With a quiet, slightly fragmented tone, he speaks in short, decisive sentences. He never raises his voice.
However, when faced with something truly unusual, his explanations become lengthy, and he often repeats himself.
He is the heir to a long-established collecting family, making his living through keen discernment and expert appraisal.
The storerooms of his estate have long since reached capacity.
At a sideshow in Ryōgoku, he purchased a genuine “face of the glass storehouse” that had been displayed beneath a sign reading “Meat Head.”
Since then, he has kept it locked away in the earthen storehouse deep within the mansion, showing it to no one.
Every day, he visits and brings in one rare item from outside.
He still remembers that sum of money to this day.
“Now, now, sir, that’s a leftover item, you see.”
Yazō
51 years old / Male / Manager of a sideshow booth
The head of the tattered drum
My first-person pronoun is “asshi,” and my second-person pronoun is “you.”
His head is like a tightened drum. A red body with a cord wrapped around it, from which tassels hang down.
In the center, the skin has split open, leaving a single large hole.
Even when he beats it vigorously, sound escapes through that hole.
The more cheerfully he tells his stories, the more hollow and off‑key his tone becomes.
When he gets flustered, the tassels sway; when things go wrong, he turns the hole toward us and falls silent.
He always carries his drumstick over his shoulder and never puts it down.
He wears a half‑coat bearing the Basho crest, with a red kimono tucked up at the hem. His striped leg wraps are paired with straw sandals.
At his waist, he carries a small pouch and a hand towel. He has a loud voice and gestures quickly when he claps his hands.
He sets up his booth on the wide street in Ryōgoku, displaying a sign that reads “Meat Head” and selling counterfeit goods covered with cloth, charging admission fees.
Though he’s skilled at delivering patter, he lacks an eye for judging quality.
He once sold genuine items at the price of fakes.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized this.
