Pathway to Japanese Literature

Cliff’s Illusion

I

At that time, I wanted to become a great writer and had resolved that to achieve this, I must endure any manner of grueling training and make any great sacrifice necessary.
To become a great writer, I reasoned, one must first undergo training as a human being rather than training with the brush.
Naturally, I believed that to become a good writer, one must first experience everything—love affairs, stealing another man’s wife, spending one hundred yen in a single night’s revelry, being thrown in jail, buying stocks to make a thousand yen or lose ten thousand, even committing murder—every kind of experience had to be undergone.
However, I—timid and shy by nature—had none of those experiences.
Even if I resolved to act, I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.
While drinking my ten-sen coffee, I even had to exert desperate effort just to steal furtive glances at the café girl.
Wanting to see some kind of gloomy world, when I crossed the Sumida River and ventured out to a certain den of vice, I had already frozen in my tracks two or three blocks before reaching that place.
I nearly choked on the stench emanating from that world.
I repeated such futile attempts countless times, and each time, I failed.
I despaired.
I thought I truly lacked the qualities to become a great writer.
Ah, but it was precisely such timid cowards who could become terrifying criminals.

II

In the New Year of the year I turned twenty, I set out on an excursion to a certain coastal hot spring resort about three hours by steam train from Tokyo.
My family ran a kimono wholesaler in Nihonbashi, and unlike now, still possessed considerable assets at that time; I was also an only son who had entered the First Higher School's humanities department with respectable grades; regarding money, I enjoyed far more freedom than students of the same age.
Having lost all hope of becoming a great writer, I spent entire days sighing; fearing I might go mad if things continued this way, and wanting to make some meaningful use of my winter break, I resolved to visit that hot spring resort.
At that time, I was ashamed of looking young, so I disliked traveling in my First Higher School uniform.
Because my family ran a kimono business, I had developed a discerning eye for clothing, and my taste in designs was first-rate.
Thus, I set out on my journey wearing layered black plain-weave tsumugi silk, donning a huntsman cap and carrying a walking stick.
In appearance alone, I was a writer of some standing.

The hot spring resort I visited was a place where Ozaki Kōyō had once stayed, and its coast had served as the setting for his masterpiece The Golden Demon.
I decided to stay at Hyakkarō, the finest inn in that area.
They said Ozaki Kōyō himself had lodged there long ago—his manuscript for The Golden Demon sat framed in an ornate display above the decorative crossbeam of the front desk.

The room I was shown appeared to be among the inn's better accommodations, with a scroll painting of sparrows by Taikan hanging in the alcove.
My attire must have spoken volumes.
The maid slid open the south-facing shoji and began explaining the vista to me.

“That is Hatsushima Island.”
“Those faintly visible over there are the mountains of the Boso Peninsula.”
“That is Izusan.”
“That is Uomizaki.”
“That is Manazurizaki.”

“What is that island where smoke is rising?”
I asked in as adult a tone as I could manage, grimacing at the sea’s blinding glare.

“That’s Oshima.”
She answered curtly.

“I see. It’s a beautiful place. Here, it seems I could write a novel in peace.” After saying it, I was struck by a sudden thought. I turned bright red with embarrassment. I wondered whether to rephrase it.

“Oh, is that so?”
The young maid peered into my face, her large eyes gleaming.
Unfortunately, she seemed to be a literary-minded girl.
“They say Omiya and Mr. Kan’ichi stayed at our inn too.”

However, I was in no position to laugh.
The lie I had carelessly uttered left me tormented beyond measure.
To correct my words would have been mortifying beyond endurance.
I muttered frantically.

“The deadline is at the end of this month.
“I’m busy.”

My fate was decided at this moment.
Even now when I think about it, it’s strange—why did I have to mutter such an unnecessary thing?
Is it that human beings can only utter foolish things the more they panic?
But no—it wasn’t merely that.
How intensely I yearned to become a writer back then—might not that very fleeting thirst be the crucial key to unraveling this question?

Ah, that idiotic remark made me commit a crime.
It made me commit the crime of murder—so dreadful that even recalling it terrifies.
Moreover, a murder that no one ever knew of, and still remains unknown.

That night, I entered the name of a new writer in the guest register brought by the inn manager.
Age: 28.
Occupation: Writing.

III

After wandering aimlessly for two or three days, I somehow began to settle into myself.
What crime could there be in merely changing a name?
Even if by some chance I were found out, I could simply laugh it off as a joke.
When you're young, everyone must do this sort of thing at least once.
Thinking this, I grew calm.
Yet my conscience still prickled at me.
When I considered how wretched it was—this youth who had despaired of becoming a great writer now masquerading as some trivial new author for comfort—I felt unable to sit still or remain standing.
But even that shame gradually faded, and by about a week after arriving at the hot spring resort, I had fully become a carefree bath-going guest.
The hospitality shown to me as a new writer proved rather agreeable.
Most maids visiting my room would timidly inquire, "Can you really write?"
I would reward them only with a placid smile.
Each morning on my way to the baths, every maid I passed would say, "Good morning, sir."
The only time in my life I was ever addressed as "sir" was during those days.

That the glory of being a writer could be attained so effortlessly came as a surprise to me. I found myself muttering even the common saying "When cornered, a path opens" with a bitter smile. By now, I was a new writer. No one doubted me. At times, I myself didn't doubt it.

I would spread manuscript paper across my desk, write "A Record of First Love" in large characters for the title, then jot down the name of a certain new writer—now my own name—followed by two or three lines that I'd write and erase to show signs of struggle. Leaving this deliberately visible on the desk for the maids to see, I'd grimace and head out for a walk.

Engaging in such acts, I spent another two or three days in a state of euphoria.
At night after going to bed, I would still sometimes grow uneasy.
If the real one were to suddenly appear at this Hyakkakurō, I thought, even I couldn't help but shudder.
At such times, I even considered whether I should be the one to denounce him as an impostor.
Little by little, it seemed I was growing more audacious.
I must have been swept up by that piercing joy amidst anxiety and dread.
Ever since becoming a new writer, every single tree and blade of grass seemed fresh to my eyes.
When I strolled along the shore swinging my walking stick, the sea, clouds, and ships all appeared strangely idiosyncratic enough to make my heart race.
Returning to the inn and doodling on manuscript paper, each stroke of my characters seemed worthy of framing.
Every sentence felt like it might become something immortal.
While drifting through those days of distorted elation, I encountered a monumental crisis unlike anything I'd ever experienced before.

IV

I fell in love.
It was a belated first love.
The title of the novel I had written in jest had now materialized before my very eyes.

That day, I messed up manuscript paper in the morning, then left the inn with an irritated air.
I wandered around Akane Park awhile before heading into town for lunch.
I entered a café called Ideyu.
Now being a proper new writer, I no longer acted timidly like before.
In truth, the life I'd led in Tokyo just ten days earlier now felt as distant as ten or twenty years past.
I was no longer the child I once had been.

At Ideyu, there were two girls.
One appeared to be a former inn maid, her hair arranged in an elaborate traditional style, cheeks ruddy and full.
I felt no interest whatsoever in this woman, but upon glimpsing the other girl—ah, my very blood seemed to freeze.
Now that I reflect upon it, there was nothing peculiar about this.
In youth, everyone experiences such a thing at least once.
Passing a girl along the way, startling at her presence yet feeling she couldn’t be a stranger.
I became convinced we had been bound since before birth—that some ordained month and day had been set for our meeting here.
This might be termed youth’s divine inspiration.
Pushing open Ideyu’s door, I spotted the girl’s form in the dim counter space and was struck by that same inspiration.
Still playing the new writer’s part, I arrogantly took a seat near the entrance—yet my knees shook violently enough to clatter.
As my eyes gradually adapted to the gloom, the girl’s figure sharpened into clarity.
Her hair cropped short; slender cheeks smooth.

“What would you like?”

I thought it was a pure voice.

“Whiskey.”

I thought someone else among the customers must have answered that way.
Yet I was the only patron present.
At that moment, even I shuddered.
I thought I must be going mad.
With vacant eyes, I swept my gaze about.
But it was indeed the whiskey glass that arrived at my table, borne by the girl with her hair in a traditional Japanese style.

I stood perplexed.
Never before had I tasted whiskey.
After staring at the glass awhile, I heaved a deep sigh and glanced up at the counter girl.
The bob-haired one smiled like a blossom in bloom.
Like some wild eagle seized by frenzy, I snatched up the glass.
I drank.
Ah—to this day I cannot forget that liquor’s bittersweet tang from that hour.
I nearly drained it in one desperate gulp.

“Another glass.”

With truly adult-like boldness, I thrust the glass toward the counter.
The girl with the traditional Japanese hairstyle, parting the branches of a potted tree that was beginning to wither, approached my table.

“No—I’m not drinking for your sake.”

I waved my left hand as though shooing her away.
I told myself it was permissible for a new writer to maintain such fastidiousness.

“What a greeting.”

The girl who seemed to be a former maid shouted in a crude tone and plopped down onto the chair beside me.

“Ha ha ha ha!”

I laughed with affected bravado.
The mysterious workings of an intoxicated heart—I experienced them for the first time then.

V

To this day, I remain ashamed that something as trivial as a single glass of whiskey left me so shamefully intoxicated.
That day, I left Ideyu cackling uncontrollably, but upon returning to the inn—as my drunken haze gradually lifted—I was consumed by such humiliation and remorse over my earlier imbecilic, utterly indescribable antics that I wished to disappear.
Even when I sank into the bathtub and thrashed about splashing water, even when I rolled back and forth across my room’s tatami mats, the anguish persisted.
To have acted with near-idiotic discourtesy before a young woman felt nearly fatal to me at that time.

What should I do, what should I do? After agonizing over it, I came to a strange resolve.
"A Record of First Love"—I resolved to seriously continue writing the manuscript I had begun drafting under a certain new writer's name.
That night, I wrote obsessively.
It was the story of an unfortunate man who, during his wandering life, encountered a beautiful girl in the garden of a rustic farmhouse—a girl so ethereal she seemed not of this world.
And that man's attitude remained thoroughly noble, even heroic.
Through this, I secretly hoped to console myself for my great failure.
The passion I had desperately restrained toward the girl at Ideyu, whom I'd seen that day, transferred itself to that farmer's daughter, resulting in a splendid story—one even I had to admire.
I still believe this to be true—that romance was such an accomplished work that even the new writer whose name I'd borrowed likely couldn't have written it.

As night paled toward dawn, I finished writing the description of the unassuming wedding ceremony between that young man and girl. Feeling an uncanny joy, I crawled into my cold bed.

When I opened my eyes, it was already afternoon.
The sun was high in the sky, and the hum of several kites could be heard.
I sat bolt upright and reread the previous night’s manuscript.
It was indeed a masterpiece.
I felt that this manuscript could sell to a major magazine right away.
I thought that with this work, that new writer would finally achieve flourishing literary success.

There was no longer anything terrifying for me.
I was a brilliant new writer.
I felt confidence swelling throughout my entire body.

That evening, I made my second visit to Ideyu.

VI

As soon as I opened Ideyu’s door, I heard the girls’ voices erupt in laughter.
I flustered.
Suddenly before me appeared yesterday’s bob-haired girl.
She rounded her eyes into perfect circles and said:

“Welcome.”

In her eyes, I found no trace of contempt.
This steadied me.
Then—could it be that yesterday’s mad display hadn’t been a complete disaster after all?
No, not merely not a failure—perhaps I’d even impressed these girls as some brave man.
Thus self-congratulating, I heaved a sigh of relief and sank into a nearby chair.

“I won’t be giving any service today.”

The girl with the traditional Japanese hairstyle said that and lewdly doubled over laughing.

“Fine.”
The bob-haired girl pantomimed hitting the girl with the traditional Japanese hairstyle using her long sleeve.
“I’ll do it.”
“Well? Can’t I?”

“Both together would be good.”

I was drunk without even drinking any alcohol.

“Oh! You’re so greedy!”

The bob-haired girl glared at me.

"No—it's merciful."

"Smooth talker."

The Japanese-haired girl was impressed.

I regained my composure, then ordered whiskey.

I realized I had a talent for drinking.
I drank one glass and was already drunk.
I drank two glasses and got even drunker.
I drank three glasses and became truly cheerful.
I didn't feel the slightest bit unwell.
The bob-haired girl stuck close by my side all evening.
More than ever, there was no reason to feel unwell.
Throughout my unfortunate life, there had never been a time as blissful as this.
But I did not exchange many words with that girl.
No—I couldn't speak.

“What’s your name?”
“I’m Yuki.”
“Yuki—good name.”

Then, for another thirty minutes, we remained silent.
Ah, even if I remained silent, the girl wouldn't leave my side.
In the silence was this joy narrated by eyes.
In "A Record of First Love," which I had written the previous night, there were many, many such descriptions as well.

As the night deepened, customers began to appear sporadically.
As expected, Yuki did not leave my side, but my hostility toward the other customers made me slightly more talkative.
The lively atmosphere of the place probably lifted my spirits as well.

“You—about what I did yesterday—you thought I was a fool, didn’t you?”

“No.”
Yuki pressed her cheeks with both hands and smiled.
“I thought it was stylish.”

“Stylish?”
“Is that so?”
“Hey—another glass of whiskey.”
“Won’t you drink too?”

“I can’t drink.”

“Drink.”
“Today... I have something to be happy about.”
“Drink.”

“Alright—just a little.”

Yuki said this, went to the counter box, and brought back two glasses filled to the brim with whiskey.

“Now, let’s toast. Drink.”

Yuki closed her eyes and gulped it down.
“Impressive.”
I also gulped mine down.
“You know... today, I’m really happy.
I’ve finished my novel.”

“Oh! You’re a novelist?”

“Damn it.
I’ve been found out.”

“How wonderful.”

Yuki, apparently drunk, narrowed her bleary eyes dreamily.
Then she mentioned two or three writers who had recently visited this hot spring resort.
Ah—wasn’t my name among them?
I doubted my ears.
My drunkenness seemed to lift momentarily.
The real one was here in this town.

“Do you know?”

Even now, I marvel at how I remained so composed in that situation.
A coward and a warrior, it seems, differ no more than the front and back of a shield.

“No.”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“But right now, they say that gentleman is staying at Hyakkakurō.”
“Are you friends?”

I let out a sigh of relief.
Then, that was me.
There couldn't possibly be two authors with the same name at Hyakkakurō.

“How on earth did they find out I’m at Hyakkakurō?”

“Well obviously.”
“I do like novels a little.”
“That’s why I pay attention.”
“I heard from the inn’s maids.”
“It’s a small town after all.”
“Obviously.”

“Do you like his novels?”

I deliberately smirked meaningfully.

“I love them! That person’s novel called Flower Story,” she began before suddenly clamping her mouth shut. “Oh! It’s you! Oh my, what should I do? I know from a photo. I do know.”

I was in a dreamlike state. To think I resembled that new writer! But now wasn’t the time to hesitate. I seized the moment and barked a dry laugh.

“Oh, you’re such a tease.” The girl’s cheeks, already faintly flushed from alcohol, reddened even more. “I’m such a fool too.” “I should’ve recognized you at first glance.” “But you’re so much younger and handsomer than your photo. You’re a beautiful man.” “You have such a lovely face.” “When you came yesterday, I knew right away.”

“Enough, enough.”
“Flattery won’t work on me.”

“Oh, but it’s true.”
“It’s true.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes, I’m drunk.”
“And I’ll get even drunker.”
“I’ll get much, much drunker.”
“Kei-chan!”
She called out to the girl with the traditional Japanese hairstyle who was joking with other customers.
“Whiskey—two.”
“I’m getting drunk tonight. I’ve got something to celebrate.”
“Oh yes, I’m going to get drunk.”
“I’ll get drunk enough to die.”

Seven

That night, I left Ideyu half-carrying the drunken Yuki in my arms.
Yuki kept insisting she would walk me back to the inn.

The frost-covered town lay still and silent.
Not being seen by anyone was, I thought, rather a blessing.
When I went outside and was struck by the cold wind, my drunkenness vanished instantly.
But no—it wasn’t merely the wind.
The weight of the intoxicated girl’s body against me played its part too.
Beneath the damp heaviness of her arm—that vibrant, almost piscine flesh pressing upon me—any lingering tipsiness had utterly dissipated.
By fortune’s grace, unseen by any in the town, we reached Hyakkakurou’s gate.
The great wooden portal stood fast shut.
I stood confounded.

“Damn, trouble here.
The gate’s shut.”

“Just knock.”

Yuki slipped smoothly from my arm and wobbled toward the gate.

“Stop that, stop.
It’s embarrassing.”

If I knocked on the inn’s gate late at night with a drunken woman in tow—what would become of my reputation as an up-and-coming writer? I’d sooner die than commit such squalid behavior.

“Hey you, go home already.
You’re staying at Ideyu, right? I’ll walk you back this time.
Go home.
Let’s meet again tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to.”
Yuki shook her body violently.
“No—no!”

“This is a problem.”
“Are you saying we should sleep outdoors or something?”
“This is a problem.”
“I’d be embarrassed before the inn staff.”

“Ah, I have an idea.”
“Come on.”

Yuki clapped her hands sharply and grabbed my kimono sleeve after speaking, dragging me along as she began walking hurriedly.

“What’s this? What’s happening?”

I staggered along but kept following Yuki.

“There’s a way.
But it’s embarrassing.
You know, at Hyakkakurou... sometimes when customers bring women in through... Oh, I shouldn’t—it’s too funny!”

“I’m not laughing.”

“There’s an entrance like that.
Yes, a secret one.
You go through the bathhouse.
The inn pretends not to know about it.
But I’ve only heard stories.
I don’t know the real truth.
I don’t know anything about that.
You think I’m a wanton woman.”

The tone was strangely serious.

“That, I don’t know.”

I answered spitefully and sneered.

“Yes—I’m a wanton woman. A wanton woman.”
“A wanton woman.”

Yuki murmured that in a low voice, then suddenly stopped and began to cry.
“Anyway, I…”
“But…but…only once—no, twice.”

I forgot myself and hugged Yuki tightly.

VIII

Through that so-called secret entrance, holding Yuki who was still sobbing, I sneaked into my room.

“Let’s be quiet,” I said. “If others hear us, it will be trouble.”

I made Yuki sit down and calmed her.
The drunkenness had completely worn off.

The bright electric light seemed too harsh for Yuki’s tear-swollen eyes; she momentarily lifted her hands from her face only to press them tightly back over it again.

She whispered from behind hands reddened and stiff with cold.

“Do you despise me?”

“No!”
I answered vehemently.
“I respect you.
You’re like a god.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s true.
I want a woman like you—that’s why I’m writing this novel.
Last night I wrote *The Record of First Love*, but this one uses you as its model.
You’re my ideal woman.
Why don’t you read it?”

I picked up the manuscript from the desk and flung it toward Yuki with a thud.

Yuki removed her hands from her face and spread it across her lap.
Ah—there it was, written large: a man’s name that wasn’t mine—no, rather, it was indeed my name.
Yuki sighed and began reading silently.
I sat by the desk, quietly propping my cheek on my hand, gazing at the endearing profile of my beloved reader.
Ah—this stinging delight of watching my own work being voraciously devoured before my very eyes!

Yuki read two or three pages, then—for whatever reason—abruptly brushed the manuscript off her lap.

“I can’t.”
“I can’t read it.”
“Am I still drunk?”

I was deeply disappointed.
Even if one were utterly drunk, upon reading a single line, shouldn't the intoxication vanish instantly—compelling them to devour it with heart-rending intensity all the way to the final line? Wasn't this supposed to be a masterpiece worthy of such absorption?
To brush it off her lap over a mere two or three glasses of whiskey!

I wanted to cry.

“Not interesting?”

“No—it hurts instead.”
“I’m nowhere near that beautiful.”

I regained my courage.
That’s right—a masterpiece naturally has such traits.
It’s too good to be read.
This could happen.
Once reassured, I felt a stronger, broader love for Yuki than before.
When pity blends with love, that emotion appears to expand and intensify all the more.

“No, that’s not true. You’re more beautiful. The beauty of a face lies in the beauty of the heart. A person with a beautiful heart is inevitably beautiful. The first lesson in a woman’s art of beauty is the refinement of the heart. That’s what I believe.”

“But I’m impure.”

“I don’t understand! That’s why I keep telling you—it’s not about the body. It’s the heart! The heart!”

As I said this, I began to quiver with excitement.
I snatched the manuscript lying beside Yuki and tore it into shreds with a sharp ripping sound.

“Oh!”

“No, it’s all right.”
“I want to build up your confidence.”
“This is a masterpiece.”
“An unrecognized masterpiece.”
“But to instill confidence and save a single person—any masterpiece would gladly leap into flames.”
“That is the true masterpiece.”
“I did write this novel solely for you.”
“But if this has failed to save you and instead caused you pain—then I have no choice but to destroy it.”
“By destroying this—I want to give you confidence.”
“I want to save you.”

I still continued tearing the manuscript.

“I get it.”
“I get it. I get it.”
Yuki began crying aloud.
She screamed through her tears.

“I’m staying.”
“Hey, let me stay over.”
“More. More.”
“Talk to me.”
“I’m staying.”
“Who cares!”
“Who cares!”

Nine

Why did I kill such a kind being as Yuki!
Ah, I cannot utter a single word in my own defense.
Everything is my fault!
A child of vanity must commit even murder for vanity's sake.
I am not yet such a shameless villain as to hypocritically weave the grave sin I committed into some novel.

Henceforth, I will attempt to recount everything with a prayerful heart and penitent spirit, without falsehood.

That I killed Yuki was entirely from a heart of vanity.

That night, we pledged ourselves in marriage.
We exchanged blissful whispers that rivaled—if not surpassed—the happy ending of my unrecognized masterpiece, "Record of First Love."
I could not love a woman without envisioning marriage.

The next morning, I slipped out through the bathhouse's shadowed small crawl-door with Yuki once more.
Why did I go out with her?
To my youthful self, having shared such a night only to coldly send the woman away alone seemed an unforgivable discourtesy.
In the dawn-lit town, not one person passed.
We spoke of various future happinesses and felt our hearts quicken.
We wanted to keep walking like that eternally.
Yuki invited me to the inn's back mountain.
I followed gladly.
As we climbed side by side up the twisting mountain path, Yuki—mid-conversation—suddenly called me loudly by a certain new writer's name.
My chest took a heavy blow.
The man Yuki loved wasn't me.
It was that new writer.
I felt the happiness before me crumble away with a clattering din.
Had I confessed everything then, it would have been better.
At least I might have avoided killing Yuki.
Yet I couldn't do it.
I couldn't have borne such shame even unto death.
I became keenly aware of my own face paling.

Even Yuki finally seemed to harbor suspicion at my gloomy demeanor.

“What’s wrong?”
“I get it.”
“You’ve grown sick of me, haven’t you.”
“In your novel Flower Story, there was such a line, wasn’t there.”
“It said that a passion where you fall madly in love at first sight, then grow to hate even looking at their face by the second meeting—that’s what true refined passion is, wasn’t there.”
“I get it.”

“No—that was a stupid line.”

I had to maintain the guise of that new writer at all costs.
It would be discovered eventually.
That I was an utter fake would be discovered.
Ah, that moment!

I feigned composure as best I could and lined up words that might please Yuki.
Yuki's sulk lifted.
We reached the mountain summit.
Right at our feet began a sheer cliff of a hundred yards, and in the depths of the thick morning mist, the sea swayed gently.

“Isn’t the view splendid?”

Yuki smiled brightly and drew in a deep breath, puffing out her chest.

I pushed Yuki.

“Ah!”

She opened her mouth slightly, made an infant's pout, and glanced fleetingly at me.
She fell suddenly.
She dropped straight down feet-first.
Her skirt billowed open.

“What’re ye lookin’ at?”

I calmly turned around.
The old woodcutter stood silently.

“A woman.”
“I’m looking at a woman.”

The old woodcutter peered down the cliff with a look of bewilderment.

“Well, I’ll be damned.
A woman’s being washed up by the waves.
Aye, ’tis true.”

I was in a dazed state at that time.
Had that woodcutter said, “You pushed her off,” I would surely have confessed.
Yet now I understand—he couldn’t have suspected me.
This was an illusion born of the cliff’s hundred-yard height.
The man who had just killed someone with his own hands couldn’t possibly occupy such a distant place.
My ordinary mountain stroll might even become proof of absence.
Such preposterous illusions apparently exist in reality.
The woodcutter forgot me and spread word among his fellow mountain laborers.
They then spent over three hours hauling Yuki’s body from the sea.
Reaching the cliff’s base inevitably required that duration.
I wandered down the mountain alone.
Ah, yet inwardly—how relieved I felt!
Everything was now resolved.
No disgrace would touch me.
I’ll return to Tokyo.
None knew Yuki had stayed at my room last night.
I’ve merely returned from a morning walk.

Even at Ideyu, aside from Yuki, no one knew my pseudonym or whereabouts.
I should return to Tokyo before anyone finds out.
If I returned to Tokyo, then I’d be home free.
Ah, that I hadn’t given my real name and had borrowed another’s would prove useful at such a time.

X

Everything had gone smoothly.
I deliberately delayed my departure and secretly observed the town’s state.
It was concluded that Yuki had gotten drunk, gone for a walk along the coast, and likely slipped on some rocks.
Yuki seemed to have fallen into deep water and did not appear to have sustained significant injuries.
They said she had gone out to see off a guest—apparently a habit of hers when drunk—and would walk anyone out.
That such a slovenly habit had been her undoing—the inn staff said that too.
They casually mentioned that the guest was supposedly from Tokyo.
I could no longer afford to dawdle.
While slowly regaining my composure, I stayed one more day before returning to Tokyo.

Everything had gone smoothly.
It was all thanks to the cliff.
The cliff was too high.
If it had been a thirty-meter cliff, perhaps things wouldn’t have turned out this way.
However, what the woodcutter and I saw of Yuki was nothing but the faint red color of her kimono.
In an instant, two objects could separate as if through mist—this simple mystery was something the woodcutter couldn’t unravel.

Five years have passed since then.

However, I remain unscathed.
Yet ah—though I could deceive the law, my heart knows no such reprieve.
What explains this swelling tide of anguished longing for Yuki that grows fiercer with each passing day?
The new writer whose name I borrowed for those ten days now flourishes ever more splendidly in literary fortune, having become an undisputed master—while I, even I who acquired murder's grand credential befitting a great author, still cannot craft a single masterpiece, spending my days wheezing through helpless recollections of the girl I killed.

(THE END)