Modern Japanese Stories/The Charcoal Bus

Noriai Jidōsha

The Charcoal Bus^[1]

by Ibusé Masuji

On a recent trip to the country, I rode once again on the Binan-line bus. I hadn’t been on this bus for some time—not since the war, in fact. However, I remembered it well.

During the war, all the country buses were pretty decrepit, but the bus on the Binan route was in a class of its own. It rarely got through a run without a series of mishaps: first there would be a puncture, then the engine would break down and when this had finally been repaired the gear box would give trouble. Almost all the windows were broken; some of the openings were covered with cellophane, others with wooden boards.

Now, five years after the war, the bus still ran on charcoal, though the chassis had been painted over and most of the windows repaired. The driver was a young fellow whom I recognized from the war-days, when he had been the conductor. Apparently he had changed places with the moustachioed man who had previously occupied the driver’s seat. I wondered whether this had any particular significance.

“Haven’t the driver and the conductor switched round?” I said to a woman in the seat next to mine. “Surely this conductor used to be the driver. Has he had an accident or something so that he can’t drive any longer?”

“No,” put in the woman’s companion, “he became unpopular during the war and had to be demoted. He was too strict with the passengers, you see. As soon as the war was over, people began to write to the company complaining about his behaviour and saying he should be purged…. Well, this is where we get off.”

The couple nodded to me and left the bus. An old man in a peasant’s smock, who had been listening to the conversation, took the woman’s place beside me.

“That’s all very well,” he said as soon as he had sat down, “but the conductor will soon be back where he was before, mark my words. Of course, he was so unpopular after the war that they couldn’t help purging him; they lowered his salary and made him a conductor. But nowadays the purgees are all coming back into favour. It’s people like him who are going to get ahead now.” The old man nodded his head and murmured, as if to himself, “Yes, that’s how things are moving these days.”

I glanced at the conductor. How well I remembered that little moustache! He was standing now at the back of the bus looking out of the window. We crossed a bridge over a dried-up river; beyond the rice-fields I could see the slopes of a barren looking mountain. As we passed a Shinto shrine by the side of the road, the conductor removed his cap and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. As he did so, he bowed his head slightly, and I wondered whether this was intended as a mark of respect for the shrine. Such reverence had been unfashionable for some time after the war but was now gradually coming back into favour. The conductor’s gesture seemed deliberately ambiguous.

My memories of the man were far from favourable. During his long term of duty as driver for the Binan-line bus, he never missed an opportunity to hector the young man who was then conductor. The burden of his abuse was usually the alleged misdemeanours of the passengers, and among his favourite points of attack were rucksacks.

“No rucksacks inside the bus!” he used to roar at the conductor. “Kindly tell that passenger to remove his rucksack. You know perfectly well they aren’t allowed. What are you waiting for anyhow? Make him get off!”

There was indeed a rule that each piece of luggage, including rucksacks, had to be checked, paid for and piled on top of the bus. Occasionally the police would stop the bus at a cross-roads and examine the luggage for black-market articles, such as rice or firewood, the discovery of which meant confiscation and a fine. Under the circumstances we preferred to take our baggage with us and push it under the seats, but such attempts were almost invariably frustrated by the moustachioed driver. He, on the other hand, did not scruple to transport large quantities of carrots, peas and other contraband in the tool box next to his seat.

Not only did I and the other regular passengers regard the driver as a disagreeable bully, but we also despised him for his inefficiency in handling the bus. The constant delays and breakdowns used to leave him quite unperturbed. As soon as the engine failed, he would announce in a stentorian tone, “All passengers out! Start pushing!” When we had pushed for fifty or sixty yards, the engine usually started and he would order us aboard.

Towards the end of the war, however, these periodic breakdowns became more serious and the last time I had taken the bus (shortly before the destruction of Hiroshima) I had helped push it almost four miles. I had gone fishing in a mountain stream and after spending the night at an inn, had gone early next morning to the Otaki Bridge bus stop. About forty people were already waiting. The time for departure came but there was no sign of the bus. A few people gave up at once and left; others vented their annoyance by reviling the driver, a luxury that they certainly would not have permitted themselves had he been within earshot. Only about half of us remained when the bus finally arrived, over two hours late.

I gave the conductor my return ticket and luggage check, passed him my rucksack and stepped aboard. There were seats for all of us. When the conductor had finished stoking the burner with charcoal, the driver pressed the starting-button. Nothing happened. He pressed it again several times, but still the engine would not fire. This, of course, was a fairly normal occurrence and without waiting to be told, we all got out of the bus—all, that is, except for a young couple who remained unconcernedly in their seats. They were obviously not familiar with the Binan-line bus.

With one accord we started to push. As the burner, which stuck out in the back, was extremely hot, we split into groups on each side. One enterprising passenger found a long board and used it to push the burner. The conductor also jumped down and began pushing. The road here was at a slight incline and the bus moved along without too much effort on our part. The driver sat calmly in his seat, hands on the steering wheel.

We had pushed the bus three or four hundred yards without the engine once firing, when suddenly we heard a hysterical voice from inside the bus. It was the driver, who evidently had just noticed the young couple.

“Hey, you two back there!” he roared. “What do you think you’re doing? Can’t you see that everyone else is pushing? Get out and lend a hand! Don’t just sit there!”

A man’s voice answered calmly, “Would you mind not shouting at me? I may not be much of a traveller, but I always thought that buses ran on their engines.”

“I see,” said the driver. “So that’s your attitude! You’re too good to push like everyone else, eh? Well, let me tell you something: I don’t care if you’re honeymooners or not, if you don’t get out this minute and start pushing, you’ll damned well wish you had!”

“If you want to continue this conversation,” answered the man, “you’d better address me politely.”

There was a pause. A little later, as the road passed through a quiet grove, the driver’s voice again broke the silence.

“Hey, you two back there! Don’t be so damned stubborn. How can you go on sitting there in comfort when all the others are sweating away on the road? We’re beginning to go uphill now. Get out and help!”

“Why don’t you pay attention to the engine?” said the young man loudly. “You’re the one that’s stubborn! You’re so interested in making us get out and push that you aren’t even trying to start the engine. Concentrate on your job like other drivers! You’re a disgrace to the public transport system.”

“Shut up!” said the driver. Then in a milder tone he added, “See here, young man, we’re going up the Sampun Hill now. You don’t want to let the others do all the work, do you? Look at them back there sweating away!”

The Sampun Hill was a steep cutting; both sides of the road were clay cliffs. It took all our strength to move the bus. From the top of the cutting the road went steeply downwards, and if the engine didn’t fire there, it was hard to see when it would. We all stopped at the summit and watched the bus gathering speed as it ran downhill. It passed a large irrigation-tank on one side of the road and disappeared behind a clump of trees. We pricked our up ears for the sound of the engine, while the conductor ran down the hill after the bus.

A man in an open-neck shirt, a peaked cap and a pair of khaki plus-fours stained with paint came up to me. “Can you hear if it’s started?” he said.

“I believe it’s started,” replied a girl in slacks who was standing next to me. “I think I can hear the engine…. But maybe it’s just my imagination.”

“I can’t hear a thing,” said the man in plus-fours. “How many more miles is it to town?”

“About four and a half,” said the girl. “But in just over two miles we come to the Three Corners Crossing where we can catch a decent bus.”

“And I’m taking that bus for the rest of the way,” declared the man in plus-fours. “I’m fed up with this charcoal contraption!”

Just then the conductor appeared at the bottom of the hill. He stood there waving his arms and shaking his head, before disappearing again in a clump of trees.

“We’ve never had to push this far before,” said the girl in slacks as we started disconsolately down the hill. “That couple has annoyed the driver. He’s taking it out on the rest of us.”

“Yes, I bet he’ll have us pushing the bus all the way to the end of the line,” said the man in plus-fours angrily. “There’s only one thing for us to do … look exhausted. We must make him think we’re on our last legs; then maybe he’ll change his mind.” He pulled his shirt out of his trousers to give himself a dishevelled appearance.

Finally we caught sight of the bus, parked by a farmhouse near the trees. The driver was standing beside it with arms folded, while the conductor was busily turning the handle to stoke the burner. I could see a girl in a green dress drawing water from a well.

“Isn’t that the girl who was in the bus?” I suggested.

“That’s right,” said a horse-faced man in an old army uniform with a mourning-band. “I’ve got a feeling something’s gone wrong. Look, the girl’s carrying a bucket into the bus. Hey, what’s got into you?” he called out to the driver. “What are you doing, just standing there looking up at the sky? Have you decided to give up driving, or what?”

“That’s right,” said the driver, fingering his moustache. “I’ve resigned.”

“What do you mean, you’ve resigned?” said the horse-faced man.

“That stubborn fool in there wouldn’t get out and push when I told him. So I had to give him a good beating. But first I resigned, because employees aren’t allowed to hit the passengers. Once I’d resigned, I was a private citizen and could give him the beating he deserved.”

“Look here,” said the horse-faced man, “you’ve gone too far this time. And who do you think is going to drive if you don’t?”

The driver shrugged his shoulders. He glanced disdainfully at the passengers assembled beside the bus.

“I can’t drive any more,” he repeated stubbornly. “I tell you I’ve resigned.”

At this point a tall old man stalked out of the farmhouse.

“I’ve had about enough of this!” he shouted to the driver. “I’ve seen everything that’s gone on. I saw you attacking that peaceful couple. What do you mean by behaving like that in front of my house?”

“I’m a private citizen,” said the driver. “I’ve got a perfect right to strike anyone I want to.”

“Don’t talk like a fool,” said the old farmer. “And kindly get the bus away from my house. I’ll help push the damned thing in place of the honeymoon couple, if that’s what’s bothering you. My old woman can give a hand too. You get in and steer!”

We all followed the old couple to the back of the bus, and as I passed one of the windows, I glanced inside. The young man was lying back pale in his seat. He had some tissue-paper stuffed in his nostrils and one of his eyes was red and swollen. The girl in the green dress had apparently just finished swabbing his face; she took the bucket to the back of the bus and handed it to one of the passengers, who returned it to the well.

The driver stood with his arms folded and refused to get into his seat. The old couple began pushing the bus with all their might. It would not budge.

“Hey, all you others,” shouted the old man, “give us a hand!”

“Right you are,” said the horse-faced man and ran to the back of the bus. “Come on, all of you,” he shouted, “push away! Yo-heave-ho!”

We all pushed. The bus began to move. The driver opened his eyes wide in amazement. “Hey, wait a minute!” he shouted. “Don’t be crazy! Wait till I get hold of the wheel.”

He ran after the bus, jumped on to the driver’s platform and grasped the steering-wheel before even sitting down. We all pushed now with redoubled vigour, spurred on by the feeling that we had taken matters into our own hands, at least temporarily. The road was fairly straight and the bus ran along at a steady speed.

“Hey, driver,” shouted the horse-faced man, “can’t you get the engine started? Are you sure you aren’t doing it on purpose?”

“Don’t be so suspicious,” answered the driver. “It’s not my fault it won’t start. The engine’s worn out. The battery isn’t charging right either. But of course you people wouldn’t know about such things.”

“That’s right,” said a man who was wearing a light yellow shirt and a surplice inscribed with a Buddhist prayer. “We laymen are only good for pushing. ‘Push and don’t ask questions!’—that seems to be the motto of this bus company.”

“Yes, it’s going a little too far,” said the horse-faced man. “We’ve got to push whether we want to or not, and no one even bothers to tell us what’s wrong with the damned bus. I’m exhausted!”

The driver turned round with a cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey there, you two,” he shouted to the honeymoon couple, “did you hear what that passenger said just now? He’s exhausted. They’re all exhausted because of your damned selfishness! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? Listen to the voice of the people back there! Get out this minute and push—both of you!”

“Are you still worrying about us, you poor fool?” said the young man. “I’ve told you already: leave us alone and concentrate on the engine or the battery or whatever it is. First you charge us high fares and then you try to make us do a lot of useless pushing. I’ll have something to say about all this when we arrive, I warn you!”

“What’s that, you bastard?” roared the conductor. “Do you want another beating?”

“You tell me to listen to the voice of the people,” answered the young man calmly. “Well, by protesting like this, I’m trying to make it penetrate your ears too.”

“So you still think you’re pretty smart, do you?” cried the driver, shaking with fury. “You still think you’re better than everyone else? All right. I’ll show you! You’ve asked for it!” He got to his feet.

“Sit down, sit down!” shouted the horse-faced man, who had now become our spokesman. “Don’t let go of the steering wheel!” Then turning to us, he said, “Come on, push harder. Don’t let the driver leave the steering wheel. Push away!”

We pushed harder than ever and the bus moved rapidly along the straight, narrow road. On the left was a low stone wall beyond which was a steep drop to the paddy-fields; on the right was a shallow river. The driver could ill afford to let the bus swerve in either direction. In the distance I noticed a car approaching.

“Stop a minute!” cried the driver. “I’ve got to give that fool another beating.”

“Oh no, you don’t!” said the horse-faced man. “Come on, everyone, push away! Let’s really get this old crate moving!”

We pushed—in fact we almost hurled ourselves at the back of the bus. In our excitement we had forgotten that the driver could stop the bus whenever he wanted simply by applying the brakes. We were all out of breath by now, but this did not deter us.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you all?” shouted the driver. “Why do you stand up for that insolent bastard anyway? It’s his fault you’re all worn out.”

“Don’t worry about us!” said the horse-faced man. “Just keep steering! If you let go of that wheel, you’ll really have something to worry about.”

“That’s right,” added the man with the surplice. “You’ll be with your ancestors before you know it.”

Just then a large van approached from the opposite direction. The bus jerked to a sudden stop which almost knocked us off balance; it was a moment before I realized that the driver had applied the brakes. We exchanged disappointed, frustrated looks.

“Well, at least we’ve arrived at the cross-roads,” remarked the horse-faced man. “We’ve pushed it four miles already. Quite an achievement, I must say! But I’ve had enough. I’m taking the tram from here on.”

He gave his luggage-check to the conductor, loaded his rucksack on his back and started walking towards the Three Corners Crossing. I also decided to take the tram; so did the man in plus-fours, the girl in slacks and a few others. The others said they would continue pushing—some because they were convinced the bus was about to start, others to prevent the driver from attacking the honeymoon couple, still others because they did not want to lose their fares. The refractory couple decided to remain in the bus. The man in plus-fours went to fetch his luggage and joined us at the cross-roads.

“They’re sitting in there having lunch,” he reported. “They’ve taken out a tin of dried beef.”

“What about the driver?”

“It looks as if he’s going to leave them in peace to enjoy their meal. They’ve got a bottle of whisky too.”

I looked back at the charcoal-bus. The driver had opened the bonnet and was tinkering at the engine with a spanner—more for form’s sake than anything, I imagined. The conductor put some charcoal in the burner and began turning the blower furiously. He seemed to have unbounded confidence in the engine. I noticed that the old farmer and his wife were trudging back towards their house.

Ibusé Masuji (b. 1898)
This story was first published in 1952
Translated by Ivan Morris

1. In this political satire, the driver represents Japan’s militarist leaders, and the passengers the grumbling but obedient civilian population. The honeymoon couple stand for the non-cooperative minority, and the four mile stretch of road the four years of war following Pearl Harbour.