Pathway to Japanese Literature

Gauche the Cellist

Gauche was the cellist at the town cinema.
However, he had a reputation for not being very skilled.
Not only was he not skilled—he was actually the worst among his fellow musicians—so he was always being bullied by the Conductor.

In the afternoon, everyone had gathered in a circle in the green room and were practicing the Sixth Symphony to be presented at the upcoming town music festival.

The trumpet was singing with all its might.

The violins sang like a two-toned gale.

The clarinet boomed in accompaniment.

Gauche pursed his lips tautly, eyes plate-wide as he glared at the score and sawed away with furious concentration.

Suddenly—*clap!*—the Conductor smacked his hands.
The music died mid-note.
The Conductor roared.

“Cello’s dragging!”
“Daa-daa-daa Daa-daa! From measure thirty-two!”
“Go!”

Everyone restarted from a little before where they had left off.
Gauche, his face bright red and sweat beading on his forehead, barely managed to get through the section he’d just been instructed on.
Relieved, he continued playing when the Conductor clapped his hands sharply again.

“Cello!”
“The strings are out of tune.”
“This is troublesome.”
“I really don’t have time to be teaching you Do-Re-Mi-Fa.”

Everyone looked on sympathetically, deliberately peering into their own scores or plucking their own instruments.
Gauche hurriedly adjusted the strings.
In truth, Gauche was also at fault, but the cello itself was quite troublesome as well.

“From the previous measure before now. Start!”

Everyone started again.
Gauche grimaced and strained with all his might.
This time they made considerable progress.
Just as he thought things were going well, the Conductor clapped his hands sharply again in a threatening manner.
Gauche's heart jumped at yet another interruption, but mercifully this time it was directed at someone else.
There, Gauche deliberately brought his eyes close to his score and pretended to be deep in thought, exactly as the others had done earlier when it was his turn.

“Next section immediately. Begin!”

Just as he thought “Now!” and started to play, the Conductor suddenly stomped his foot and bellowed.

“No good!
“It’s completely off.”
“This part is the heart of the piece.”
“And here it’s turned into such a clumsy mess.”
“Everyone.”
“We only have ten days left until the performance!”
“If we who specialize in music were to lose to that ragtag bunch of blacksmiths and shop boys, what would become of our reputation?”
“Hey there, Mr. Gauche.”
“You’re quite the problem, I must say.”
“You’re completely lacking in expression.”
“You can’t express any emotions at all—whether anger or joy.”
“And no matter what you do, it just doesn’t align perfectly with the other instruments.”
“You’re always dragging your untied shoelaces and trailing behind everyone—it’s a problem. You’ve got to pull yourself together.”
“If our glorious Venus Orchestra were to suffer disgrace because of you alone, it would be entirely unfair to everyone.”
“That’s all for today’s practice. Rest up and kindly be in the box promptly at six.”

Everyone bowed, then put cigarettes in their mouths, struck matches, and headed off somewhere.
Gauche, clutching that crude box-like cello, faced the wall, twisted his mouth, and let tears fall, but he pulled himself together and—utterly alone—began quietly playing the passage he had just attempted once more from the beginning.

Late that night, Gauche returned to his house shouldering something large and black.
To call it a house was generous—it stood as a broken-down watermill shed by the riverside on the town’s outskirts, where Gauche lived utterly alone. Each morning he would trim tomato branches and pick bugs from cabbages in the small garden surrounding the shed, always setting out again once afternoon came.
Gauche entered his house, turned on the light, and opened the black package from earlier.
It was nothing special.
It was that rough-hewn cello from the evening.
Gauche gently placed it on the floor, then suddenly grabbed a cup from the shelf and gulped down water from the bucket.

Then he shook his head once, sat down on the chair, and with tiger-like ferocity began playing the afternoon’s score. Flipping through the sheet music as he played—pausing to think, then playing again—he strained through to the end before starting over from the beginning once more, again and again, continuing with a thunderous boom-boom-boom.

Midnight had long since passed, and he no longer even knew whether he was still playing. His face turned crimson red, his eyes grew utterly bloodshot, and his expression became so fearsome that he looked ready to collapse at any moment.

Just then, there came a knock-knock-knock at the door behind him.

“Mr. Gauche?”
Gauche shouted dazedly.
Yet what slid open the door and entered was a large calico cat he’d glimpsed five or six times before.

Carrying a half-ripe tomato from Gauche’s garden as though it weighed a ton, she set it before him and declared:

“Ah, I’m spent.”
“What an ordeal transporting this was.”

“The hell?”
Gauche demanded.

“This is a gift.
Please eat it,”
said the calico cat.

Gauche unleashed all the pent-up frustration he’d been harboring since noon in a single roar.

“Who told you to bring a damn tomato?”
“In the first place, you think I’d eat anything brought by the likes of you?”
“Besides, that tomato’s from my own field!”
“What the hell?”
“You’re plucking ones that aren’t even ripe yet!”
“You’re the one who’s been gnawing on tomato stems and trampling them all this time, aren’t you?”
“Get out of here!”
“Damn cat!”

The cat had hunched its shoulders and narrowed its eyes, but with a smirk playing around its mouth, it said:

“Maestro, getting so angry can’t be good for your health.”
“Why not play Schumann’s Träumerei instead?”
“I’ll listen properly.”

“Don’t get cocky with me!”
“You damn cat!”

Gauche burned with irritation as he contemplated how to handle this insolent feline.

“Oh please don’t hold back.”
“Go ahead.”
“Truly, I can’t sleep a wink without hearing your music, Maestro.”

“Cocky.”
“Cocky.”
“Cocky.”

Gauche turned completely red and stamped his feet just as the Conductor had done that afternoon while shouting furiously—then suddenly changed his tone and said.

“Fine, I’ll play.”

Gauche locked the door and closed all the windows for reasons unknown, then took out his cello and extinguished the lamp.
Then from outside, the waning gibbous moonlight streamed in, filling about half the room.

“What’re you telling me to play?”

“Träumerei, Romantic Schumann composition.”
The cat wiped her mouth nonchalantly and said.

“I see.
“So this is what you call *Träumerei*?”

The cellist—for some reason—first tore a handkerchief into strips and stuffed them tightly into his ear holes.
Then, as if driven by a storm, he began to play the score titled *Indian Tiger Hunt*.

The cat tilted its head and listened for a while, but suddenly—as its eyes crackled with sparks—it darted toward the door.
With a sudden thud, it slammed its body against the door, but the door wouldn’t budge.
Now in full panic as though committing the blunder of a lifetime, the cat began emitting crackling sparks from its eyes and forehead.
Then sparks shot from its whiskers and nose too, tickling so fiercely that it scrunched its face like it might sneeze before frantically dashing about as if thinking, *I can’t stay like this!*
Gauche, thoroughly amused, threw himself into playing with even greater ferocity.

“Maestro, that’s enough.”
“That’s enough!”
“Please stop! You’ll be the death of me!”
“I’ll never take your baton again or anything!”

“Shut up. Now we’re about to catch the tiger.”

The cat writhed in distress—leaping up, spinning around, pressing its body against the walls—and wherever it touched, a blue glow lingered afterward.
In the end, the cat whirled round and round and round Gauche just like a windmill.

Gauche too started to feel a bit dizzy, so

“All right, I’ll let you off now,” he said, finally ceasing.

Then the cat too，as if nothing had happened，

“Maestro，there’s something wrong with tonight’s performance，” it said.

Gauche was again greatly irritated，but with a nonchalant air，he took out a rolled cigarette，put it in his mouth，and then picked up a match.

“How’s that?”
“Not sitting well with you?”
“Stick out your tongue.”

The cat derisively stuck out its sharp，elongated tongue.

“Hmm，a bit rough.”
Gauche said as he abruptly struck a match against his tongue and lit his cigarette.
The cat，utterly flustered，whirled its tongue like a pinwheel as it charged toward the entrance door—slammed its head against it with a thud，staggered back，then charged again—thud!—staggered once more，returned yet again—thud!—stumbling about as it desperately tried to forge an escape route.

Gauche watched for a while with apparent amusement—

"I'll let you out."
"Don't come back again."
"Idiot."

Gauche opened the door and watched the cat race through the pampas grass like the wind, giving a small laugh.
Then, as if finally relieved, he fell into a deep sleep.

The next evening too, Gauche once more shouldered his black cello case and returned home.
After gulping down water in great swallows, he began playing the cello with exactly the same vigor as the previous night.
Midnight soon passed, then one o'clock went by, then two o'clock too, yet Gauche still did not stop.
Then, as he kept playing fiercely—no longer knowing what time it was or even whether he was still playing—there came a knock-knock against the attic.

“Cat, haven’t you had enough yet?”

When Gauche shouted, there came a soft plop from the ceiling hole as a single gray bird descended. What had landed on the floor turned out to be a cuckoo.

“Even a bird now? What do you want?”
Gauche said.

“I wish to study music.”

The Cuckoo said calmly.

Gauche laughed and

“Music, you say?
“Your song’s just ‘cuckoo, cuckoo,’ isn’t it?”

Then the Cuckoo, with great seriousness,

“Yes, that’s precisely it.
“But it’s quite difficult, you see.”

“Difficult? As if!
“Your lot’s only problem is how horribly much you all call out—the way you do it isn’t anything special anyway.”

“But that’s precisely what’s so terrible.
“For example, there’s a big difference between a ‘cuckoo’ call and a ‘coo-coo’ call—or rather, between one ‘cuckoo’ call and another—when you hear them, don’t you think?”

“No difference, huh?”

“Then you wouldn’t understand.”
“If you say ‘cuckoo’ ten thousand times among our kind, every single one would be different.”

“That’s your problem.”
“If you’re so clever, no need to come crawling to my place at all.”

“Yet I must perform Do-Re-Mi-Fa precisely.”

“Do-Re-Mi-Fa my ass.”

“Yes—I must do this once before crossing overseas.”

“Abroad my ass.”

“Maestro, please teach me Do-Re-Mi-Fa.”
“I will sing along as you play.”

“You’re so annoying.”
“Alright—I’ll play it three times for ya! Once I’m done you better scram right away.”

Gauche took up his cello, clumsily tuned the strings, and played Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do.
Then Cuckoo flapped his wings frantically.

“No, no. That’s not how it’s done.”

“You’re so annoying. Then you try it.”

“Like this.”
Cuckoo bent his body forward, poised for a moment, and then—

The cuckoo let out one clear “Cuckoo.”

“What’s this? So that’s your Do-Re-Mi-Fa? So to you birds, Do-Re-Mi-Fa and the Sixth Symphony are all the same, huh?”

“That is incorrect.”

“How’s it different?”

“The difficulty lies in those instances where this must be sustained repeatedly.”

“So you mean like this?”
The cellist took up his cello again and played “Cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo” over and over.

Then Cuckoo, overjoyed, began chiming in partway through with his own “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”
And he kept at it with all his might, bending his body and crying out endlessly.

Gauche’s hands had finally begun to ache.
“Hey, cut it out already!” he snapped, stopping mid-play.
Then Cuckoo, eyes wide with disappointment, kept up his calls a while longer before finally—
“...Cuck-coo... cuck-cuck-cuck-cuck-cuck,” he trailed off, falling silent.

Gauche had become completely enraged.

“Hey bird, once you’re done with your business, get out,” he said.

“Please play it once more.”
“Your playing seems good, but it’s slightly off.”

“What’s that? I’m not the one learning from you.”
“Why don’t you get lost?”

“Please, just one more time.”
“Please.”
Cuckoo bowed his head deeply again and again.

“So this is the last time.”

Gauche raised his bow.
Cuckoo gave a sharp breath and—

“Please play for as long as you can,” he said, bowing once more.

“Ugh, I’m sick of this.”
Gauche began playing with a bitter smile.
Then Cuckoo, now fully committed, bent his body and cried “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” with desperate intensity.
At first Gauche seethed with irritation, but as he kept playing endlessly, he suddenly sensed that perhaps it was the bird who truly embodied the correct Do-Re-Mi-Fa.
The longer he played, the more convinced he became that Cuckoo’s way was right.

“Ugh, if I keep doing this foolish thing, I’ll end up turning into a bird!” Gauche abruptly stopped playing his cello.

Cuckoo staggered as if struck hard on the head and then again—just as before—
“Cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo... cuck-cuck-cuck-cuck,” he said, stopping.
With a resentful glare, he stared at Gauche.

“Why did you stop?
If it were us, even the most spineless wretch among us would keep crying out until blood poured from our throats.”

“Who do you think you are?
“How long do you expect me to keep up this stupid act?
“Get out now.
“Look.
“It’s almost dawn.”
Gauche pointed at the window.

The eastern sky turned a hazy silver, while jet-black clouds raced northward across it.

“Then please continue until the sun rises.”
“Once more.”
“Just a little longer.”

Cuckoo bowed his head again.

“Shut up!”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“You stupid bird!”
“If you don’t get out, I’ll pluck you and eat you for breakfast!”
Gauche stomped his foot on the floor with a thud.

Then Cuckoo, as if suddenly startled, abruptly took flight toward the window.
And then violently collided his head against the glass and flopped down to the ground.

“What an idiot—banging into the glass like that.”
Gauche hurriedly stood up and tried to open the window, but this window had never been one that slid open smoothly at any time.
While Gauche kept rattling the window frame, Cuckoo suddenly collided again and fell down.
When he looked, a little blood was seeping from the base of its beak.

“I’ll open it now—just wait there!”
When Gauche finally managed to open the window about two inches wide, Cuckoo rose up—fixing his gaze on the eastern sky beyond the pane with a resolve that *this time, no matter what*—and suddenly took flight with every ounce of his strength.
Of course, this time he collided with the glass even more violently than before, and Cuckoo lay fallen without moving a muscle for some time.
Just as Gauche reached out to grab him and fling him out the door, Cuckoo suddenly opened his eyes and leaped away.
And then he seemed about to hurl himself at the glass again.
Gauche involuntarily raised his foot and kicked the window with a bang.
Two or three panes of glass shattered with a tremendous crash, and the entire window frame fell outward intact.
Through the gaping hole where the window had been, Cuckoo shot outside like an arrow.
And then he flew straight onward and onward, farther and farther away, until at last he vanished from sight.
Gauche stared outside in a daze for a while, then simply rolled into the corner of the room as though collapsing and fell asleep.

The following night as well, after playing his cello past midnight until exhausted and drinking a glass of water, there came another knock at the door.

Tonight, whatever came, he resolved to start by frightening it off immediately like he had with last night's cuckoo. Gripping his cup at the ready as he waited—the door creaked open slightly and a raccoon cub entered.
Gauche then opened the door a little wider and stomped his foot with a thud,

“Hey, raccoon! Do you know what raccoon stew is?!” he barked.
Then the raccoon cub, with a blank look on its face, sat properly on the floor and tilted its head as if thoroughly perplexed. After a while,
“I don’t know what raccoon stew is,” he said.
Gauche almost burst out laughing when he saw that face but still forced a stern expression,
“Then I’ll teach you.”
“Well, raccoon stew is—”
“It’s when a raccoon like you gets mixed with cabbage and salt, boiled to mush, and made into something for me to eat,” he said.
Then the raccoon cub again looked puzzled,

“But my father said, ‘Mr. Gauche is a very nice person and not scary at all, so go and learn from him.’”
At that, Gauche finally burst out laughing.

“What did he say you were supposed to learn?
Don’t you see I’m busy?
And I’m sleepy!”

The raccoon dog cub suddenly perked up and took a step forward.

“I’m the snare drum player, see.
I was told to come and have you accompany me on the cello.”

“There’s no snare drum anywhere here!”

“Here, these.”
The raccoon dog cub pulled two sticks from his back.

“So what’re you gonna do with that?”

“Well then, please play ‘The Merry Coachman.’”

“What the—is ‘The Merry Coachman’ supposed to be jazz?”

“Here, this sheet music.”
The raccoon dog cub took out another sheet of music from his back.
Gauche took it in hand and burst out laughing.

“Hmm, what a strange piece.”
“Alright! Let’s play.”
“You’re the one playing the snare drum?”
Gauche, wondering what the raccoon dog cub would do, began to play while stealing glances in its direction.

Then the raccoon dog cub， holding the sticks， began tap-tapping the area below the cello’s bridge in time with the beat.
Since the raccoon dog cub’s tapping was quite skillful， as he played， Gauche began to think， *This is interesting!*

When Gauche finished playing to the end, the raccoon cub tilted his head and thought for a while.

Then, as if he had finally figured it out, he spoke.

“Mr. Gauche, you’re noticeably late when playing this second string.”
“It makes me start stumbling somehow.”

Gauche was startled.
Certainly, he had been feeling since last night that no matter how swiftly he played that string, the sound wouldn’t emerge unless he waited a moment.

“Well, maybe you’re right. This cello’s no good,” Gauche said sadly.
Then the raccoon cub looked pityingly at him and pondered again for some time before speaking.
“I wonder where the problem is… Could you play it once more?”

“Sure, I’ll play.”
Gauche began.
The raccoon cub kept tap-tapping as before while occasionally tilting its head to press an ear against the cello.
And when they reached the end, once again tonight the eastern sky had grown dimly bright.

“Ah, day has broken. Thank you very much.”
The raccoon dog cub hurriedly shouldered the music sheets and sticks, fastened them with a rubber tape that snapped shut, bowed two or three times, and then rushed outside.

Gauche stood dazedly for a while, breathing in the wind that came through the broken glass from last night, but then hurriedly burrowed into bed to sleep and regain his strength before heading into town.

The following night again, Gauche played his cello through till near dawn when he unintentionally grew weary and was dozing off while still holding his sheet music, and once more there came a knocking at the door.
It was so faint one could barely tell if it existed at all, but since this happened nightly now, Gauche immediately caught it and said, “Come in.”
Then through a gap in the door entered a single field mouse.
Leading a very small child by her side, she scurried up to Gauche.
As for that field mouse’s child—it was no bigger than an eraser—Gauche couldn’t help but laugh.
At this, the field mouse glanced about uneasily as if wondering why she was being laughed at, came before Gauche, placed one blue chestnut fruit before him, bowed properly, and said:

“Maestro, this child is in such poor condition they’re near death—please show mercy and heal them.”

“How the hell am I supposed to play doctor?”
Gauche said with a scowl.
The mother field mouse hung her head in silence before speaking again with resolve.

“Maestro, that is untrue! Do you not cure everyone’s illnesses so skillfully each day?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“But Maestro—thanks to you, you cured Mr. Rabbit’s grandmother and Mr. Raccoon Dog’s father and even that nasty old owl—yet you won’t help this child alone? It’s too cruel!”

“Hey now, that’s some kind of mistake.”
“I’ve never cured any owl’s sickness or anything.”
“Though the raccoon cub did come last night to imitate the band and leave.”
“Hmph.”
Gauche looked down at the baby mouse dismissively and laughed.

Then the mother field mouse burst into tears.

“Oh, if this child had to fall ill, why couldn’t it have happened sooner? Until just now, you were roaring away so magnificently, but the moment this child fell ill, the sound stopped dead, and now no matter how much I beg, you won’t play a note. What an unfortunate child this is.”

Gauche was startled and shouted.

“What?! You’re saying if I play my cello, owls and rabbits get cured of their illnesses? How does that even work? That’s—”

The field mouse rubbed her eyes with one hand and said.

“Yes, when all the creatures here fall ill, they enter beneath the floor of your house to be healed.”

“So they get healed?”

“Yes.”
“Their whole bodies feel much better with improved blood flow—some get cured right away, others heal after going home.”

“Ah, got it.”
“So when my cello goes roaring like that, it works like a massage and cures you lot?”
“Fine.”
“I get it.”
“I’ll do it.”
Gauche gave his strings a quick screechy tune-up, then suddenly snatched the mouse child and crammed it through the cello’s f-hole.

“I’m coming along too. That’s how it is at any hospital.”
The mother field mouse lunged at the cello like a madwoman.

“You want in too?”
Gauche tried to thread the mother field mouse through the cello’s f-hole, but only half her face went in.

The field mouse flailed about as she called out to the child inside.

“Are you okay there?”
“When you fell, did you land properly by bringing your feet together as I always taught you?”

“Yes.”
“I landed properly.”
The child mouse replied in a voice as tiny as a mosquito’s from the depths of the cello.

“You’ll be fine. So quit your crying,” he said.
Gauche set the mother mouse down, then took up his bow and began roaring and clanging through something called a Rhapsody or whatever it was.
The mother mouse listened to the sound with evident worry but finally seemed unable to endure it any longer.

“That’s enough. Please let him out,” she said.

“Oh. So this is all it takes?”
Gauche bent the cello and placed his hand over the hole to wait. Soon the child mouse emerged.
Gauche silently lowered it down.
When he looked, it was completely shutting its eyes and trembling uncontrollably.

“How are you feeling?”
“Are you okay there?”
“How do you feel?”

The child mouse didn’t respond at all, keeping its eyes shut for a while longer as it trembled violently, but suddenly sprang up and began to run.

“Oh, he’s better now.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Thank you very much.”
The mother mouse had been running along as well, but soon came before Gauche and began bowing repeatedly while

“Thank you very much. Thank you very much,” she said about ten times.

Gauche looked torn between conflicting emotions,

“Hey, do you eat bread?” he asked.

Then the field mouse, as if startled, glanced around restlessly and—

“I must inform you—bread is something made by kneading and steaming wheat flour into a fluffy, delicious thing, or so I’ve heard. But even setting that aside, we have never once visited your house’s cupboard, let alone presume to go there now to carry anything away after receiving such kindness from you.”

“Nah, that’s not what I meant.”
“I just asked if you eat it.”
“So you do eat it, then.”
“Wait a second now.”
“I’m giving it to that ill-tempered kid of yours, got it?”

Gauche set his cello down on the floor, plucked a pinch of bread from the cupboard, and placed it before the field mouse.

The field mouse, now acting like a complete fool, alternately cried, laughed, and bowed before reverently taking it in her mouth and leading her child out ahead of her.

“Aah.
“Talking to mice isn’t half exhausting.”
Gauche flopped heavily onto his bed and started snoring thunderously right away.

It was the evening of the sixth day thereafter.

The members of the Venus Orchestra, their faces flushed red, each carrying their instruments, filed back from the hall’s stage into the green room behind the town’s public hall.
They had successfully completed the Sixth Symphony.
In the hall, applause still roared like a storm.
The Conductor, thrusting his hands into his pockets and sauntering among everyone as if the applause meant nothing, was in fact brimming with joy.
The members held cigarettes in their mouths, struck matches, and packed their instruments into cases.

The hall was still filled with the clapping of hands.
Far from subsiding, it only grew louder and louder until it became a terrifying, uncontrollable roar.

A host wearing a large white ribbon on his chest entered.

“The audience is calling for an encore. Could you please play something brief for them?”

Then the Conductor snapped in response.
"That won’t do."
"No matter what we play after a major work like that, it won’t truly satisfy us."

“Then, Maestro, please come out and give a brief greeting.”

“No.”
“Hey, Mr. Gauche! Go out there and play something for them.”

“Me?”

Gauche was dumbfounded.

“It’s you, it’s you,”
the first violinist suddenly looked up and said.

“Go on out there now.”
the Conductor said.
Everyone forced Gauche to take up his cello, opened the door, and suddenly shoved him out onto the stage.
Gauche, holding his hole-riddled cello and looking thoroughly flustered, stepped onto the stage, whereupon everyone clapped even more fiercely, as if to say *I told you so*.
Some even let out shouts.

“How far are they going to make a fool of me?” Just you wait and see. “I’ll play *Indian Tiger Hunt* for you.” Gauche stepped out to the center of the stage, completely composed.

Then, just as when that cat had come, he played *Indian Tiger Hunt* with the force of an enraged elephant. However, the audience fell completely silent and listened with rapt attention. Gauche played on and on. The part where the cat strained and sent crackling sparks flying had passed. The part where he had slammed his body against the door many times had also passed.

When the piece ended, Gauche fled back to the green room with his cello without so much as glancing at the others—swift as that cat had been.
There in the green room sat the Conductor and all his fellow musicians, motionless and silent with fixed eyes like survivors of a fire.
Gauche, resolved to reckless abandon, strode briskly through their midst and plopped himself down on the far bench, crossing his legs as he sat.

Then everyone turned their faces toward Gauche all at once and looked at him, but they remained as serious as ever and didn’t seem to be laughing in the least.

“What a strange night this has been,” Gauche thought.

Gauche thought.

However, the Conductor stood up and said.

“Well done, Mr. Gauche! Even though it’s that sort of piece, everyone there was listening quite earnestly. You’ve polished it up quite a bit in just a week or ten days. Compared to ten days ago, it’s like a baby versus a soldier. You could’ve done this anytime if you’d put your mind to it.”

All his comrades stood up as well and said to Gauche, “That was great!”

“Well, it’s because his body’s sturdy that he can pull off something like this. If it were an ordinary person, they’d die after all,” the Conductor was saying from across the way.

Late that night, Gauche returned to his house.
And then he gulped down water again.
Then he opened the window and gazed out at the distant sky where he thought the Cuckoo had flown away some time ago,

“Ah, Cuckoo. I’m really sorry about that time. I wasn’t really angry,” he said.