# Modern Japanese Stories/Letter Found in a Cement Barrel

Letter Found in a Cement Barrel
Matsudo Yoshizō was emptying cement barrels. He managed to keep the cement off most of his body, but his hair and upper lip were covered by a thick grey coating. He desperately wanted to pick his nose and remove the hardened cement which was making the hairs of his nostrils stand stiff like reinforced concrete; but the cement mixer was spewing forth ten loads every minute and he could not afford to fall behind.
His working day lasted for eleven hours and not once did he have time to pick his nose properly. During his brief lunch break he was hungry and had to concentrate on gulping down food. He had hoped to use the afternoon break for cleaning out his nostrils, but when the time came he found that he had to unclog the cement mixer instead. By late afternoon his nose felt as if it were made of plaster of Paris.
The day drew to an end. His arms had become limp with exhaustion and he had to exert all his strength to move the barrels. As he started to lift one of them, he noticed a small wooden box lying in the cement.
​“What’s this?” he wondered vaguely, but he could not let curiosity slow down the pace of his work. Hurriedly he shovelled the cement on to the measuring frame, emptied it into the mixing boat and then began shovelling out more cement again.
“Wait a minute!” he muttered to himself. “Why the hell should there be a box inside a cement barrel?”
He picked up the box and dropped it into the front pocket of his overalls.
“Doesn’t weigh much, damn it! Can’t be much money in it, whatever else there is.”
Even this slight pause had made him fall behind in his work and now he had to shovel furiously to catch up with the cement mixer. Like a wild automaton, he emptied the next barrel and loaded the contents on to a new measuring frame.
Presently the mixer began to slow down and eventually it came to a stop. It was time for Matsudo Yoshizō to knock off for the day. He picked up the rubber hose that was attached to the mixer and made a preliminary attempt at washing his face and hands. Then he hung his lunch box round his neck and trudged back to his tenement. His mind was absorbed with the idea of getting some food into his stomach and, even more important, a powerful cup of distilled rice wine.
He passed the power plant. The construction work was almost finished: soon they would be having electricity. In the distance Mount Keira towered in the evening darkness with its coat of pure white snow. The man’s sweaty body was suddenly gripped by the cold and he began to shiver. Next to where he walked the rough waters of the Kiso River bit into the milky foam with a barking roar.
“Damn it all!” thought Matsudo Yoshizō. “It’s too much. Yes, it’s too damned much! The old woman’s pregnant again.”
He thought of the six children who already squirmed about their tenement room, and of the new child who was going to be born just as the cold season was coming on, and of his wife ​who seemed to give birth pell-mell to one baby after another; and he was sick at heart.
“Let’s see now,” he muttered. “They pay me one yen ninety sen a day, and out of that we have to buy two shō of rice at fifty sen, and then we have to pay out another ninety sen for clothing and a place to live. Damn it all! How do they expect me to have enough left over for a drink?”
Then abruptly he remembered the little box in his pocket. He took It out and rubbed it against the seat of his trousers to clean off the cement. Nothing was written on the box. It was securely locked.
“Now, why the hell should anyone want to lock a box like this? He likes to act mysterious, whoever he is.”
He hit the box against a stone, but the lid still would not open. Thoroughly exasperated, he threw it down and stepped on it furiously. The box broke and on the ground lay a scrap of paper wrapped in a rag. He picked it up and read:
“I am a factory girl working for the Nomura Cement Company. I sew cement bags. My boy friend used to work for same company. His job was to put stones into the crusher. Then on the morning of October 7th just as he was going to put in a big rock he slipped on the mud and fell into the crusher underneath the rock.
“The other men tried to pull him out, but it was no use. He sank down under the rock, just as if he was being drowned. Then the rock and his body were broken to pieces and came out together from the ejector looking like a big flat pink stone. They fell on to the conveyor belt and were carried into the pulverizer. There they were pounded by the huge steel cylinder. I could hear them screaming out some sort of a spell as they were finally crushed to smithereens. Then they were put into the burner and baked into a fine slab of cement.
“His bones, his flesh, his mind had all turned into powder. Yes, my entire boy friend ended up as cement. All that was left was a scrap of material from his overalls. Today I’ve been busy sewing a bag into which they’ll put him.
​“I’m writing this letter the day since he became cement, and when I’ve finished I’m going to stick it into the barrel.
“Are you a workman, too? If you are, have a heart and send me an answer. What is the cement in this barrel used for? I very much want to know.
“How many barrels of cement did he become? And is it all used in the same place or in different places? Are you a plasterer or a builder?
“I couldn’t bear to see him become the corridor of a theatre or the wall of some large mansion. But what on earth can I do to stop it? If you are a workman, please don’t use the cement in such a place….
“On second thoughts, though, it doesn’t matter. Use it wherever you want. Wherever he’s buried, he’ll make a good job of it. He’s a good solid fellow and he’ll do the right thing wherever he happens to end up.
“He had a very gentle nature, you know. But at the same time he was a brave, husky fellow. He was still young. He’d only just turned twenty-five. I never had time to find out how much he really loved me. And here I am sewing a shroud for him—or rather, a cement bag. Instead of going into a crematorium, he ended up in a rotation kiln. But how shall I find his grave to say goodbye to him? I haven’t the faintest idea where he’s going to be buried, you see. East or west, far or near—there’s no way of telling. That’s why I want you to send me an answer. If you’re a workman, you will answer me, won’t you? And in return I’ll give you a piece of cloth from his overalls—yes, the piece of cloth this letter’s wrapped in. The dust from that rock, the sweat from his body—it’s all gone into this cloth. The cloth is all that’s left of those overalls he used to wear when he embraced me—oh, how hard he used to embrace me!
“Please do this for me, won’t you? I know it’s a lot of trouble, but please let me know the date when this cement was used, and the sort of place it was used in and the exact ​address—and also your own name. And you’ll be careful too, won’t you? Goodbye.”
The din of the children once more surged about Matsudo Yoshizō. He glanced at the name and address at the end of the letter and gulped down the rice wine that he had poured into a tea cup.
“I’m going to drink myself silly!” he shouted. “And I’m going to break every damned thing I can lay my hands on.”
“I see,” said his wife. “So you can afford to get drunk, can you? And what about the children?”
He looked at his wife’s bloated stomach and remembered his seventh child.
Hayama Yoshiki (1894–1945) This story was first published 1926 Translated by Ivan Morris