Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

At Café ×××× in Ginza, Yukichi finished lunch with his colleague Sugita. Upon leaving, he parted ways with Sugita—who had business requiring him to go toward Ueno—and started heading back alone to the magazine company in △-cho where he worked.

It was a day not long after June had begun.

A light breeze rustled through the avenue trees lining Ginza's paved streets, though not strong enough to stir up dust. The office workers passing by had mostly switched to pale lightweight clothing, with neckties in gaudy colors suited to summer neatly knotted at their chests.
The pale pink and aqua jackets of foreign women passing by in their early summer attire also provided a pleasantly refreshing sight.

Yukichi was steeped in the leisurely state of mind that follows a finished meal.
Moreover, he had finally become aware of the good fortune beginning to visit him these days and was relishing it.
His creative works, long unrecognized, had finally been accepted by a corner of the literary world, and his future—which until now had seemed rather unpromising—was beginning to be illuminated by a single bright beam of light.
Within his heart existed a blend of pride and hope, mingling together.
Above all, when he recalled his own bleak youth, he could savor his present good fortune with humility.

He was walking along the well-trodden pavement with a bright, buoyant mood, at any rate.
In his heart, there existed neither anxiety nor worry at the present moment.
It was a wholly uncomplicated, carefree state of ease.
If others had seen him, even a pride that might have made him appear to be slightly squaring his shoulders was mingled within his heart.
It was when he reached the front of Ginza’s renowned △△ Clock Shop.
He suddenly spotted a single face amidst the flow of the crowd moving toward him.
It’s a familiar face, he thought.
It was a mere instant.

Aoki!
When he realized this, his legs froze as if nailed to the pavement.
But what had been immobilized extended beyond just his legs.
Every emotion within him seemed to petrify mid-motion, turning to stone in his heart.
The carefree ease he'd carried until that moment suddenly hardened like setting glue.
One might say his entire heart had bolted its doors and armored itself—that description perhaps captured his mental state most accurately.
Yukichi stood braced for combat in both body and mind, waiting for Aoki to draw near.

Since Yukichi first spotted Aoki just a couple of meters away, it took no more than two or three seconds for Aoki to close the distance to him.
A turmoil no less great than that which gripped Yukichi’s heart must have existed within Aoki’s as well.
Moreover, when Aoki saw the fierce light in Yukichi’s eyes—a glare that seemed almost directed at an archenemy—he approached while keeping his gaze lowered.

The two exchanged glances.
Yukichi’s eyes burned with fierce moral reproach toward the other man and a certain kind of fear.
Aoki’s eyes shone with defiance in response, yet mysteriously mixed with a hue that seemed to beg for submission and pity.
The two men nonetheless bowed to each other.

“Ah!”
Yukichi uttered in a stiffened voice.

“Ah!”
Aoki let out a hoarse, trembling voice.
Yukichi had been desperately thinking about what attitude to take toward Aoki.
Aoki's departure from the capital!
That was something he had never even dreamed of anticipating.
Moreover, carelessly encountering that Aoki on Ginza Street was the last thing he should have anticipated.
He told himself he mustn’t panic.
In the past, through his dealings with Aoki, he had suffered a blow severe enough to ruin his life.
In the six years since receiving that blow, he could not comprehend how much he had suffered and how much unpleasantness he had experienced because of it.
But because he had endured that pain and unpleasantness, he had now been able to entirely compensate for that blow.
Now, he believed he had completely healed the wounds he had sustained through his dealings with Aoki.
However, even now, memories of past pain and unpleasantness would well up in his heart, disturbing his happy state of mind.
And with every instance of suffering all the anguish stemming from that blow and tasting every bitterness, he hated and resented Aoki.
And now, having finally recovered from those blows and just as a somewhat brighter future was beginning to open before him, the Aoki of old—the Aoki he hadn’t seen in five or six years—appeared before him as if to threaten his tranquil, carefree existence.

He asked, like opposing enemy armies attempting a reconnaissance skirmish.

“When did you get here?!”

"I arrived about a week ago," answered Aoki.
That powerful voice was exactly like the Aoki of old.
In the past, he had likely been intimidated countless times by that powerful, charismatic voice of Aoki's.
Yet here he stood in a position of considerable confidence and self-assurance, while Aoki—who should have remained buried in rustic obscurity after his disgrace several years prior—still made him feel this unpleasant sense of intimidation through his voice alone.
When he became aware of that intimidation, he thought he had to resist with all his might.

“What did you come to Tokyo for? What in the world are you?!” he demanded.
In a sense, it was akin to a declaration of war.
He feared nothing more than Aoki coming to Tokyo and staying on permanently.
Aoki—with his recklessly bold disposition that disregarded others as human and his flawed moral sense—might do who knew what to Yukichi next.
Moreover, Yukichi simultaneously felt both a certain charm and terror toward Aoki’s mysterious personality.
The thought that if Aoki—unchanged from before—were to start disrupting his life with his inherent audacity would be unbearable.

Having asked, "What did you come to Tokyo for?", Yukichi had resolved that if Aoki's reply suggested permanent residence in Tokyo, he would immediately declare, "I want no dealings with you for life."

The words "What did you come to Tokyo for?" were, on their own, nothing more than a slightly brusque utterance of an ordinary greeting. However, the emotion Yukichi had poured into those words was all-consuming resentment and hatred toward Aoki. Yukichi later found it unpleasant even to recall what evil look his eyes had borne in that moment. Given this, it was only natural that Aoki—who had looked directly into those eyes—wore an expression beyond description. His face bore the appearance of anger-shame-sorrow vying to surface. It was a face so terrifying it might as well have been called ferocious.

In all his life, he would remember only one face resembling Aoki's at this moment. It was during the time he had suffered from beriberi and frequented Sasaki Hospital in Shinagawa. One day, while waiting in the examination room with other patients, an eighteen-year-old girl appeared accompanied by a portly man around forty. Yukichi found the pair peculiar from the start. Then a man who seemed to be a doctor entered. The doctor appeared acquainted with the forty-year-old man and asked, "What's wrong? Is she unwell somewhere?" The man turned slightly toward the girl and replied matter-of-factly, "Since this one's to become a prostitute, I need her health examined." To him, this might have been a routine request. But that woman—likely a virgin—forced to undergo this inspection before numerous patients, doctors, and nurses bore an expression so unbearable that even the most arrogant soul couldn't endure looking directly at it twice.

The woman flushed faintly.
Those two eyes were bloodshot and burning fiercely.
It was a gaze that would not rest until it pierced through to the very depths of a person’s heart.
Yukichi still has not forgotten that gaze.
It was a gaze as though the heart of a human—ashamed, enraged, and sorrowful—were spilling out entirely from those two pupils.
That was already three or four years ago.
Yet even now, when he consciously closed his eyes, that woman’s face would resurrect itself in his memory with greater clarity than his parents’ faces, than the visage of a long-lost lover, than the countenances of any old friends.

Yet now, the eyes burning fiercely in the upper part of Aoki's pallid face bore every resemblance to those of the would-be prostitute from that time. He was both terrified of and loathed Aoki. Yet when he saw those eyes—profound and blazing with intense human anguish—their gaze pierced through to the very depths of his heart. Moreover, this very Aoki had until just six or seven years earlier been his revered friend and closest confidant. When Yukichi saw those eyes, his mental defenses wavered, and he inadvertently tried to utter some heartfelt words. But his reason—that reason tempered by six years of hardship-filled life—forcefully restrained the impulsive surge of his emotions. His reason spoke: "Have you forgotten how you once threw away half your life because of your impulsive sentiment toward Aoki? Be strong! Never compromise, no matter what!" He finally managed to hold himself back with those words. “I came to Tokyo about a week ago, but…” said Aoki. Unlike his gaze, it was a trembling, imploring voice. But Yukichi thought—he had grown tired of hearing Aoki’s tone like this countless times before. There was no way he’d fall for such an obvious ploy now. But Aoki resumed speaking.

“Actually, I’m taking tomorrow’s four o’clock train back.”
“This time, I’m supposed to go to Hokkaido.”
“Actually, today I went to the magazine company thinking I’d meet you, but…” he began, then trailed off despondently.
Yukichi clearly felt that Aoki was begging for his pity.
Yukichi could keenly sense how deeply Aoki—who, like himself, had been an extreme admirer of the city—cherished Tokyo after having returned following four or five years’ absence.
But this man who had lost all friends, though aware of being met with deep hatred, had still sought out Yukichi—with whom he’d once been close—likely wanting to share a cup of coffee at some café.
Yukichi could not help but feel goodwill toward Aoki’s humble, self-abasing wish.
Yet this goodwill amounted only to a presentable emotion surfacing within Yukichi’s heart.
At Yukichi’s very core existed a far more selfish emotion—unyielding and absolute.
“He leaves tomorrow at four.”
When hearing “Moreover, to Hokkaido,” he felt he had completely escaped Aoki’s threat.
Tomorrow at four p.m.—since it was now around two p.m., that left barely twenty-six hours.
Keeping vigilant against Aoki for just that duration would be nothing at all.
Rather than parting here with harsh words, he thought it would suffice to simply keep him company for twenty-six hours.
No—he thought keeping him company for six or seven hours of that span would suffice.

“Well, we can’t keep talking here on the street. Let’s go to that Café ×××× over there,” Yukichi said with deliberate calmness.
Yet when he realized this first act of ordinary social courtesy stemmed entirely from self-serving reassurance, he could not help feeling a pang of guilt.

When Yukichi led the way into Café ××××, the two or three waitresses there all stifled laughs.
This was because Yukichi, who had just left moments earlier, had returned within less than five minutes.
Yet Yukichi found himself unable to muster even a perfunctory smile in response.
Though he had escaped immediate danger, he still felt assailed by myriad anxieties and a creeping dread before Aoki’s uncanny presence.

II

In the past, Aoki had been Yukichi's revered friend, closest confidant, and simultaneously the malevolent companion who sought to destroy him.

Yukichi could recall the abnormal reverence he had felt toward Aoki when first coming to know him. His pale forehead and those limpid eyes inevitably left all who saw Aoki with an impression of genius. His demeanor radiated supreme arrogance. Yet several classmates had consciously tolerated this arrogance. Aoki stood haughtily, his intellect dominating the entire class.

The first time Yukichi felt Aoki's intimidation had been during their initial year of high school, in a mathematics class apparently required only for philosophy aspirants. It occurred when Professor Sugimoto—renowned as the school's foremost mathematics authority—lectured on probability theory. Even Yukichi, who had topped his middle school class, found himself utterly overwhelmed by the unfamiliar subject.

Then Aoki—sitting right beside Yukichi (whether Yukichi already knew his name then or came to remember it through this incident remained unclear now)—abruptly stood up and posed a question in a voice of crystalline clarity. Though incomprehensible to Yukichi, it evidently constituted an exceptionally lucid inquiry.

Listening intently, Professor Sugimoto—as if hearing his own thoughts voiced—acknowledged Aoki's doubt with a satisfied smile before delivering a clear response. This time Aoki smiled faintly and nodded. Between brilliant professor and brilliant student flowed a subtle understanding like shared telepathy.

The entire class remained earthbound while Aoki alone seemed to ascend into Professor Sugimoto's intellectual stratosphere—imparting what felt like miraculous inspiration to Yukichi and others. Particularly during that period when steeped in romanticism and extreme genius worship, Yukichi found himself utterly devoted to Aoki without reservation. As Professor Sugimoto's respect for his pupil grew proportionally deeper, so too did Yukichi's reverence for Aoki intensify.

Moreover, Aoki’s actions were intensely romantic and genius-like.
One night around eleven o’clock, as Yukichi was tracing the edge of the athletic field steeped in vast darkness while trying to return to the dormitory, a young man suddenly brushed past him and hurried toward the field as if being sucked into the darkness.
When he saw that pale profile, Yukichi immediately knew it was Aoki.

"Aoki-kun!"
"Where are you going?" Yukichi blurted out.
On a night without moonlight, Yukichi at that moment couldn't quite comprehend what drove Aoki to walk into the sports field's darkness late at night.

“I’m just going for a walk,” he said without paying the slightest attention to Yukichi’s presence, squaring his slender shoulders as the young philosopher disappeared into the darkness to immerse himself in some meditation—Yukichi must have certainly conjured those very words in his heart at that moment—how Yukichi watched his retreating figure with such reverent admiration remains beyond measure.

Moreover, during that period, whenever Aoki entered or exited the classroom, he invariably carried thick original books alongside his textbooks.
At that time, he had hardly ever let go of works by Schopenhauer and Spinoza—authors whose names Yukichi and others had just begun to learn—or related research books, keeping them almost constantly in his right hand.
Moreover, he would skim through them during ten-minute breaks and underline passages here and there with a blue pencil.

Such intellectual actions of Aoki’s—which Yukichi later came to regard as rather pretentious and unpleasant—at that time completely captivated him, only serving to heighten his reverent admiration for the genius Aoki.
Of course, he consciously and earnestly worked to draw closer to Aoki.
Rather than as his friend, it was as his absolute worshipper, as his obedient loyal servant.

It was around the time when the friendship between Aoki and Yukichi had continued without incident for about a year.
It was there that a great disaster for Yukichi—which was undoubtedly also a disaster for Aoki—had begun to take root.

It was probably during their third year of high school, in the second term.
It was around the time when a single olive tree near the weathered red-brick classroom bore small, vivid red fruit.
For two or three days prior, his already pallid complexion had grown even paler. Even when Yukichi tried speaking to him, Aoki had dismissed him with a contemptuous sniff—until finally, as if unable to bear it any longer, he threw himself against the classroom wall.

“Alright! I’m finally going back to the countryside!” he spat out.
To Yukichi, this was utterly unexpected.
Yukichi, flustered as though some calamity had befallen his own lord,

“Are you returning to your hometown? Why?” he asked.

“It’s nothing much.”
“My father went bankrupt—that’s all,” said Aoki in a somber yet composed tone.

As far as Yukichi knew, Aoki’s family had been country merchants of substantial wealth.
Given how Aoki bought more original texts than anyone in their class, the stipend he had received until then must have been considerable.

“So your stipend has stopped then,” Yukichi said, though he felt there must be better words for this situation yet ultimately voiced this plain observation.
Aoki dismissed the question as utterly trivial,

“Well! That’s how it is,” he said, then fell silent.

Sentimental, romantic, and prone to strong emotions, Yukichi was of course profoundly shaken when he learned of the calamity that had suddenly befallen Aoki.
He resolved that no matter what happened, he must save Aoki.
For Yukichi, the only means to rescue Aoki was ultimately to rely on the financial power of the Kondo household where he was currently staying.
When Yukichi reached this conclusion, he returned from school that day and tearfully pleaded with Mr. Kondo—the head of the household where he served as a live-in tutor and student—to save Aoki.

“Truly, that man is a genius—the professors are utterly astonished by him. In the future, he will undoubtedly become a great philosopher who stands unrivaled in Japan’s academic world,” he expounded at length on Aoki’s merits, fully convinced of his own words.

Then, Mr. Kondo, with the magnanimous attitude characteristic of a businessman,

"I haven't the faintest notion what philosophy even is as a field of study," he said, "but since it must be something useful for the nation eventually, sheltering a genius in that area can't be entirely pointless. If you insist this much, having this Aoki fellow come to the house won't pose any problem." With this, he agreed to take Aoki under his care as though acquiring some rare antique unearthed at a bargain.

At no time had Yukichi ever thought so highly of Mr. Kondo as he did in this moment.

Yukichi couldn’t fathom how overjoyed he was at having saved Aoki through his own efforts.
The next day, Yukichi hurried off to school bearing this good news.
Even en route, imagining how Aoki would rejoice at hearing this and how profoundly he’d appreciate his kindness made Yukichi’s heart flutter and pulse quicken.

Yet when Yukichi—leaning against the dormitory window—found Aoki gazing vacantly at the frost-covered sports field below and excitedly relayed Mr. Kondo’s generous offer, Aoki—appearing freshly risen with deathly pale features that didn’t so much as twitch—merely uttered, “Is that so!” Yukichi regarded Aoki’s composed, nearly indifferent demeanor with something akin to awe.
Faced with this attitude—Aoki dismissing looming perils as trivial and wholly disregarding Yukichi’s kindness—Yukichi found himself less angered than utterly dumbfounded, reduced to staring in speechless amazement.

“Well then! I suppose I could take up Mr. Kondo’s offer. School doesn’t matter much—not that I’m stopping out of choice,” he declared with his usual arrogance, letting slip that bitter smile unique to Aoki—sardonic, mocking from the very start. Though Yukichi’s wholehearted kindness was being treated so harshly for Aoki’s sake, he nonetheless rejoiced as if it were the greatest honor—that Aoki had finally accepted his goodwill, enabling him to rescue the young philosopher he revered beyond measure from peril.

It was not long after that Aoki took up residence at the Kondo household and came to share a room with Yukichi.
To some extent it had always been this way, but once their lives became thoroughly intertwined in every matter, Yukichi’s life came entirely under the dominion of Aoki’s will.
Every task ordered by the Kondo household fell entirely upon Yukichi’s shoulders.
In contrast, the majority of benefits bestowed by the Kondo household were monopolized by Aoki.
Yet Yukichi did not in the least regret his subordinate lifestyle.
His reverence for Aoki as a thinker and young philosopher not only remained wholly free of disillusionment but expanded and deepened all the more as their acquaintance progressed.
Above all, the several philosophical papers Aoki had consecutively published in the alumni association magazine since entering his third year could not help but inflame Yukichi’s reverence to its utmost.
One was titled “The Flaws in Bergson’s Philosophy,” the other “God as Reality.”
The stir these two papers caused throughout the school was truly remarkable.
Genius Aoki!
This phrase had ceased being merely a class slogan within Yukichi’s circle and progressed to demanding acknowledgment throughout nearly the entire school.
Yukichi could not fathom how astonished and delighted he was that Aoki’s genius had begun receiving such brilliant recognition.
Thus, as Aoki came to be recognized by many, his confidence and arrogance grew in direct proportion.
This certainly occurred after he had moved into the Kondo household.
Around that time, Dr. Kitada—a philosophy professor at Kyoto University who was renowned and drew the attention of the intellectual world—made a rare trip to the capital and lectured at the university’s auditorium.
Aoki, having gone to hear it, returned and—seeing Yukichi’s face—spat out as usual: “Strip away that philosopher-like face from Dr. Kitada, and there’s nothing left behind,” then fell silent.
Though Yukichi himself held considerable respect for Dr. Kitada, he couldn’t help but find exhilaration in his revered Aoki’s audacity of dismissing the preeminent scholar with a single remark.

Yukichi’s reverence for Aoki had not diminished in the slightest; however, since coming to the Kondo household, Aoki’s life began to take a strangely wayward turn.
He had of course suffered a significant blow from his family’s bankruptcy, but as someone who had lived quite hedonistically in his daily life, Aoki’s existence now seemed thoroughly oppressed by—above all else—the constraints of his dependent lifestyle at the Kondo household and the meager five-yen allowance provided monthly.
He rapidly sold off his book collection—an extremely extensive one for a high school student.
To him, even after taking up lodging and meals in another’s household, altering his hedonistic lifestyle appeared agonizing.
He used the money from selling his book collection to indulge in glasses of fragrant and pungent Western liquors at cafés around Hongo.
Before long, the things disappearing from Aoki’s surroundings were no longer limited to his book collection.
Unbeknownst to him, his pocket watch vanished from his desk.

Amidst all this occurring, Yukichi remained completely unaware of the disaster gradually closing in on both him and Aoki.
Yukichi watched over even Aoki's dissolute lifestyle with goodwill, regarding such indulgence as characteristic of a genius's temperament.

It was around the time when the March exams were drawing near.
Yukichi returned from school somewhat late after running an errand.
Then Aoki—who had apparently been home for some time—suddenly spread out a small slip of paper before Yukichi’s eyes.

That was a rather unusual check for Yukichi, who was unfamiliar with financial transactions and such.
Moreover, the amount—100 yen—was what could be called a considerable sum of money for students like Yukichi.
Yukichi stared at the check in Aoki's hand with a strange mix of anxiety and excitement.

“What’s with that money?” Yukichi’s voice was noticeably strained.

“It’s nothing,” Aoki said calmly, as usual.
“Mr. Yabe sympathized with my predicament and found me some translation work.
“It’s a rather substantial translation project. Since I was in a bind, they advanced me this much upfront,” he laughed nonchalantly.
Mr. Yabe was a senior at their school and an up-and-coming philosopher already well-established in literary circles, and Aoki had visited him two or three times.
Yukichi rejoiced in the good fortune that had come Aoki’s way as if it were his own.
At the same time, he could not help but admire Aoki, who—though still a student—was engaged in such a substantial translation.

“So, I want to ask you—could you go get this check for me? Since the ○○ Bank branch isn’t far, you should make it by four o’clock. You need to sign the back and stamp it, but since I don’t have a seal, could you do it under your name?”

Of course, Yukichi obediently complied with Aoki’s request. Yukichi, regarding his role as Aoki’s proxy in withdrawing such a large sum as if it were an honor, eagerly rushed to the ○○ Bank branch.

Clutching ten crisp ten-yen bills in his sweaty hand, Yukichi hurried back, whereupon Aoki, with magnanimity,

“Ah, thank you for your trouble,” he nodded. After counting the bills received from Yukichi, he extended two of them before him and said, “Just a small token—please keep this.”

Ever since middle school, having grown up in a poor household, it wasn’t an experience Yukichi had often had—grasping a large sum like twenty yen all at once.

Yukichi bowed his head as though receiving a sacred gift from the sovereign he revered—

“Ah, thank you,” he said while deferentially receiving it.

Aoki, having pocketed eighty yen, indulged in a sparkler-like extravagance—dazzling yet fleeting. He dragged classmates to Maison Konosu, that café near Yumihashi Bridge then gaining notoriety, treating them all by flaunting his cash. For two or three nights running, under pretext of dormitory stays, he never returned to the Kondo residence.

But after a week had passed and ten days gone by, Aoki once again seemed to be forced back into his former modest lifestyle.

That was an unforgettable evening of April 11th for Yukichi.

After finishing dinner, Aoki went out saying, “I’ll take a short walk,” and did not return for quite some time.
Yukichi, alone and struck by that peculiar melancholy so typical of spring evenings, was leaning dazedly against his desk when suddenly—without a sound—the sliding door behind him opened, and the familiar voice of the maid spoke,

“Sir has some business with you,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered, and Yukichi stood up.
While thinking he would be made to write another thank-you note for a gift—as usual—he walked through the long corridor to the master’s room.
The master, who usually greeted Yukichi with a faint smile, sat without so much as a grin, his face contorted in bitterness. Feeling somewhat at a loss, Yukichi sat down and bowed.
The master said, “This is a most unpleasant matter,” and took a small piece of paper from the wallet resting on his knee, thrusting it before Yukichi’s eyes.

“Well? Do you recognize this?” came a voice as stiff and frozen as winter earth.
Yukichi felt an odd sense of familiarity.
He reached for it with trembling hands.
The moment his eyes focused on the paper’s surface, his body shuddered like a man drenched in icy water.
There could be no mistake—this was the 100-yen check.
The very same check he had obediently withdrawn from the ○○ Bank branch at Aoki’s command.

Having observed the panic surfacing on Yukichi’s face, the master spoke in a voice even colder than before:

“The signature and seal on the back are yours without a doubt, aren’t they?”
Yukichi turned over the check with hands trembling like autumn leaves.
There, rendered in meticulous block script almost excessively clear, lay the signature “Hiroi Yukichi” accompanied by its seal.

“I have nothing more to say,” he began, his voice rigid as frost. “When I first discovered that check missing from my document safe, I assumed it was the maid’s momentary folly or something of that sort. That this proved a miscalculation on my part—I can only express regret.” His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the wallet’s edge. “I neither intend to pursue legal sanctions against you nor demand repayment. However—” here his gaze sharpened like honed steel “—your departure from this household constitutes an absolute obligation under these circumstances.” A muscle twitched near his jawline as he added with lethal calm: “Let me offer one final counsel for your own benefit: should you persist in such conduct hereafter—sanctions notwithstanding—you will render yourself socially extinct.” Though bitterness lined every syllable, he maintained a glacial composure, containing his seething contempt as one might cork a vial of volatile acid—the very model of restrained gentility.

Yukichi could only stare blankly at the edge of the tatami mat between himself and the master—dazed like someone stripped of all capacity for thought. That Aoki, whom he had revered so deeply, could have stolen the check from the master’s personal safe was beyond anything he could have conceived even in nightmare. Nor could he fathom how Aoki—someone supposedly endowed with common sense—had dared order him to cash the stolen check in broad daylight. Yet as he crouched there before the master, Yukichi believed extricating himself from this calamity would prove effortless.

“That check was in Aoki’s possession”—if he were to say that, he thought he alone could effortlessly escape this calamity.
But at that moment—Yukichi, who had been utterly intoxicated by Aoki’s charismatic personality—could not bear to shift the suspicion falling upon him onto Aoki and rise above the disaster alone.
At that moment, he suddenly felt compelled to examine Aoki’s morality through his past actions.
He wondered whether Aoki truly possessed a thieving vice.
Then, abruptly, a scene from one month prior involving Aoki surfaced in Yukichi’s mind.
It was in their school classroom: Aoki had been examining a German dictionary he claimed to have newly purchased from a used bookstore when Fujino—a male classmate seated beside him—

“Oh! Where did you buy this dictionary?” he asked.
Then, Aoki—as if to say, “What an impertinent question”—responded in his usual high-handed manner,
“Why on earth do you need to ask such a thing? Where I bought it is my own business,” he replied coldly, his tone offering no opening for further discussion.
The timid Fujino seemed cowed by Aoki’s fierce demeanor and fell silent.
But some time later, Yukichi heard from one of his friends that Fujino had said,

“Strange things do happen.”
“It seems Aoki bought the German dictionary that was stolen from me at some used bookstore,” Yukichi heard one of his friends say.
Because he thought informing Aoki would only cause displeasure, Yukichi had kept this entirely to himself. Now standing before Mr. Kondo as he reflected on Aoki’s past behavior, this dictionary matter stirred great doubt within him.
Was Fujino’s well-meaning interpretation—that Aoki had acquired the stolen book through a used bookstore—truly correct? When considered alongside this check incident, could that dictionary have transferred directly from Fujino’s possession to Aoki’s without any intermediary?
As Yukichi followed this line of thought, it began seeming like an irrefutable fact.

As Yukichi was internally verifying Aoki’s bad habits, Mr. Kondo seemed to think that Yukichi was being tormented by a guilty conscience,

“Ah, enough of this. Go and retire there. You have a splendid physique—if you change your ways and strive, there’s no reason you can’t become a proper person. Now, go and retire there,” he said.

The master, having interpreted Yukichi's silence as a confession of guilt—whether because he thought no further reproach was needed, or because he wanted to hasten the end of this unpleasant meeting—repeatedly pressed Yukichi to leave.

“The truth is, Aoki was the one who had that check,” Yukichi suppressed the words that were about to burst from his lips as he desperately considered the course of action he should take. He recalled the concept of genius coexisting with pathological traits. Aoki, despite his thieving compulsion, possessed a brilliant talent. Yukichi wondered: Was it not our natural duty—we who had grown into mediocrity—to protect, shelter, and nurture such genius? I’m being expelled from the Kondo household! Even if this brought him ruin, Yukichi thought, it meant nothing compared to dimming a single genius’s future. With his robust physique, there was no hardship he couldn’t endure—working menial jobs or worse. Yet for Aoki—that frail shadow of a man—the mere thought of manual labor was inconceivable. As these thoughts coalesced, romantic fervor and sentimental intoxication—though how bitterly he would later regret and despise these impulses remained unknown—filled his heart completely. “I’ll shoulder Aoki’s crime myself,” Yukichi resolved. “Then he’ll surely be moved by my sacrifice and freed forever from this vile compulsion.” Of course, should Aoki return home and confess himself, that would settle matters. But regardless, he would temporarily assume the guilt and quit this room. Let the master scorn his retreating back with all possible contempt—he would exit like a warrior emboldened by heroic resolve, saving both genius and friend through this noble act. Having thus determined his course, Yukichi grew strangely calm,

“I deeply apologize,” he said with a bow, taking his leave from the master’s room.

The long corridor glimmered in the darkness before him.
Yukichi felt as though he were performing in a play.
All reason seemed to have shrunk into a tiny crouching form within some corner of his swelling emotions.
At that moment, the faces of his white-haired parents—left behind in his hometown—floated into Yukichi’s mind.
Next came the faces of his younger siblings, innocently playing and frolicking around them.
A chill ran through Yukichi as if he had been doused with cold water.
“Is it acceptable,” his conscience whispered, “to willingly plunge your responsible self into peril merely because of some strange exhilaration?”
But for him—immersed as he was in intoxication and exhilaration (not toward life’s true essence, but toward its perilous falsehoods)—such voices of conscience held almost no power at all.

That night, he found himself waiting for Aoki's return. There was also a hollow hope that Aoki might offer some clear explanation regarding the check. That Aoki might shoulder his own guilt and confess before the master. Then the master would be moved by Yukichi's innocence and sacrificial act. And out of deference to Yukichi's friendship, he might overlook Aoki's crime as well. Yukichi was indulging in such foolish, baseless hopes.

Aoki returned sometime after eleven o'clock.
He was, just as always, the same stiffly composed version of himself.

Today, not a trace remained of the habitual restraint Yukichi had always shown toward Aoki.

“Hey! Aoki, there’s something I want to ask you,” Yukichi said calmly, as if usurping Aoki’s customary composure.

“What?!” Aoki retorted, visibly irritated by Yukichi’s attitude as he stood abruptly before him.

“Well! Sit down, will you? We can’t have a proper conversation if you keep standing there. Actually, about that 100-yen check from before—did you really receive that as an advance for the translation?”

“What? You’re doubting that? Didn’t I tell you before? I ended up collaborating with Mr. Yabe to translate Bergson’s works one after another. Mr. Yabe received it as an advance,” replied Aoki, his answer flawlessly composed without a single thread out of place.

In that moment, Yukichi even wondered if Mr. Kondo’s accusation might have been some sort of mistake.

“I see. In that case, that’s splendid then. The truth is, when I was summoned by the master here earlier and went to see him, he produced that check and asked if I recognized it. When I admitted that I did, the master said that check was something he had kept in his document case and that I must have stolen it. But if what you say is true—that you really did receive it as an advance for the translation—then I’m greatly relieved. So now, won’t you go to the master and explain things?”

To this day Yukichi cannot forget how panicked Aoki became upon hearing those words.
Aoki lost all composure to such an extent that it seemed the calmness and arrogance he had maintained until now were entirely false.
His face flushed bright red momentarily, then turned a pallor two or three times paler than before,

"Is it true? Did the master really say such a thing?" Aoki pleaded in a voice that trembled on the verge of breaking.

“It’s true. If you go before the master now, you’ll see for yourself,” Yukichi declared sternly.
In that moment, he found his servile position toward Aoki had reversed—he now stood as the stronger one over him.
He took pleasure in that.

“Ah! What should I do? My ruin is at hand!” No sooner had he let out a voice like a scream than Aoki buried his face in his hands and collapsed forward before Yukichi’s eyes. The arrogant Aoki of before—the Aoki who had ceaselessly oppressed Yukichi—had now completely transformed, crouched there as a pitiful weakling.

“Why would you do something so absurdly foolish? If you’re going to be a thief, why not at least show some cunning worthy of one?” Yukichi rebuked him—the first time he had ever chastised Aoki since their acquaintance began.

“Don’t say that. Mine—I just end up acting recklessly. I always thought that would be my ruin someday,” he said, raising his pale face.
What a desperate face it was.
His entire face was filled with the anguish of a human being burdened by an irresistible vice—kleptomania—a vice that defies conscious control.

“What should I do, Hiroi-kun!” (This was the first time Aoki had addressed Yukichi with kimi.) “Please. Save me—I bear the heavy responsibility of restoring my bankrupt family name.” “My parents, struggling to make ends meet in seclusion, are waiting with bated breath for my success.” “If I’m driven out of here, even surviving with this body of mine will be uncertain.” “Oh, what should I do, Hiroi-kun!” “Please save me! The master—you wouldn’t do something like reporting me, would you?”

In Yukichi’s heart, sympathy for Aoki—now reduced to such a pitiful state—and a strange satisfaction at seeing the same Aoki, who had always looked down on him, pleading as if pressing his hands together in supplication, had become strangely entangled.
And both of these served to solidify his resolve to shoulder Aoki’s guilt.

He, with the same self-satisfied feeling as when he had left the master’s room,

“Actually, I’ve been taking responsibility before the master all along.”
“I intend to shoulder this sin for your sake and leave this house.”
“Even if you were to be condemned, I cannot escape responsibility for introducing you to this household. Nor can I properly justify having cashed the check without knowing the truth. If this were to become public knowledge, that would be another matter—but since simply leaving this house would settle everything, I made up my mind immediately.”

When he heard this, it was only natural that Aoki’s face momentarily lit up with vitality.
But Aoki, trying to suppress that vitality as much as possible, let tears—which Yukichi later thought might have been tears of joy—stream down his face as he said, “Such a thing!
“Entrusting my sin to you—how could I remain composed and unperturbed? I am not such a base person.”
“There’s no time to waste—let’s go see the master at once.”

Yukichi would come to regret in later years why he hadn't gone to the master's place with Aoki at that time.
But Yukichi, his very core corroded by this strange exaltation and intoxication, only grew all the more domineering,

“Don’t say such foolish things.”
“What do you think will happen if you leave this house?”
“With that weak body of yours, even earning your bread must be difficult, no?”
“All the more so, what will you do about school?”
“You mustn’t forget to cherish your own talent, you hear?”
“Even if I leave this house, I’ll manage somehow,” he declared with fervent conviction.

“No matter what you say, I can’t let my conscience rest if I have you take my place. Please, let me confess, I beg of you!” Aoki shouted, his words themselves so impassioned that they couldn’t be dismissed as entirely false.

“But regardless, it’s too late tonight,” Yukichi replied. “The master must be asleep. Rather than that, let’s both get a good night’s sleep and think things over.”

Aoki, too, had no objection to this.
Yukichi and Aoki placed their pillows side by side and spent a sleepless night.

Yukichi’s resolve had not wavered even after dawn broke.
But Aoki, who had vowed to confess to the master, acted as though he had completely forgotten that promise come morning, merely repeating “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” like a mantra through tear-filled eyes.

That afternoon, Yukichi disposed of his meager belongings and left the Kondo household where he had been looked after for nearly three years.

Having left the Kondo household, Yukichi had no trusted friends to rely on besides his robust physique. From the very next day, he engaged in intense labor. Only three months remained until graduation. If he graduated from school and entered university, he believed he could easily find a way to support himself. Yet even amidst such arduous struggles, he even considered making the gratitude and solace he received from Aoki the driving force behind his own hardships.

But there lay the first garlic chives Yukichi had to endure.
Contrary to Yukichi’s expectations, Aoki began to avoid him.
When they met and talked, Yukichi couldn’t help noticing a strange rift had begun to form between them.
Regarding Aoki—Yukichi realized with a start—he had unconsciously begun addressing him as simply “Aoki!”
“Aoki!”
He discovered himself dropping all honorifics.
He found himself adopting a commanding, intimidating attitude toward Aoki.
This marked an inversion of their former positions.
The Yukichi who had once been trampled underfoot now seemed to have conquered Aoki through some desperate stratagem, crushing him from above.
The arrogant, self-obsessed Aoki appeared oblivious to how deeply Yukichi’s demeanor had wounded him.

“I’m your benefactor! The benefactor who saved you from ruin!”
A consciousness—as though declaring, “You wouldn’t dare object to what I say”—flowed ceaselessly beneath Yukichi’s attitude toward Aoki.
Aoki was likely evading the pressure arising from Yukichi’s demeanor.
Even during class hours, Aoki avoided conversing with Yukichi whenever possible.
That Yukichi harbored resentment and fury over this was inevitable.
A profound fissure had begun to gape between them.

Upon graduating from high school, Yukichi entered a university in Kyoto to secure tuition funds. True to form, even Aoki—who had been avoiding Yukichi—lamented their parting.

“Now that I’m a university student too, taking on side work for ten or fifteen yen a month is nothing,” Aoki declared emotionally, his large eyes brimming with tears. “I’ll work and send you ten yen every month without fail. That’s naturally my duty to fulfill.”

Yukichi’s life in Kyoto became one of harsh misery. Through an acquaintance’s help, he took work as a teacher at a workers’ night school. Yet this consumed nearly all his time while offering only meager compensation. He felt profoundly constrained even when buying notebooks. He began regretting how excessively he had sacrificed himself for Aoki during that burst of fervent intoxication. He contemplated the concept of substitution he’d often seen in plays—discarding one’s life for one’s lord in a passionate moment. That was merely a fleeting act. A transient state where fervor blinded reason. Yukichi found it unbearable that even after such ardor cooled, one still had to bear the dreadful consequences of those impulsive decisions made in passion’s grip.

The remittance that Aoki had tearfully pledged never materialized, no matter how much time passed.
Yukichi could no longer bear it and sent two or three letters of demand.
From Aoki, not even a single postcard came in response.
He finally sent a letter whose text practically trembled with outrage.
To this as well, Aoki continued to maintain his silence.

By that time, Yukichi had already begun to deeply regret his act of substitution from the bottom of his heart.
At the same time, the hardships of his current impoverished student life bitterly gnawed at his very being.
Because of this, he resented his own past foolishness and Aoki’s betrayal.

But the second bitter trial Yukichi was to endure had already been prepared there.
It was the spring of the following year after Yukichi had come to Kyoto.
A man named Harada, who had been in the same class as Yukichi and Aoki, stopped in Kyoto to visit Yukichi while traveling from his hometown of Okayama to Tokyo.
When he saw Yukichi’s face, he immediately—

“You probably don’t know anything about Aoki.”
“He’s been in a bad way lately, I tell you.”
“He’s turned into a complete prodigal, you know.”
“Everything from taking friends’ belongings without permission to borrowing money and never paying it back—it’s been one thing after another.”
“He finally got kicked out of Mr. Kondo’s place too.”
“Apparently, he took out quite a lot of Mr. Kondo’s jewelry and sold it off, I hear.”
“Everything about him is pure nonsense.”
“Whether it gets exposed later or not, he couldn’t care less.”
“There’s talk that he’s a genius even at doing evil… Now that it’s come to this, I might as well say it—when you left Mr. Kondo’s house, he went around telling all of us you’d done something wrong.”
“Of course, none of us believed a word of that,” he said.

As Yukichi listened to this, he felt as though Aoki had trampled him underfoot with muddy shoes. "Do you fancy yourself my benefactor? Any debt from you—I've ground it into the dirt!" Yukichi could vividly imagine Aoki's sarcastic face—as though declaring, "You staked your entire being to preserve the Kondo household's protection for me? Well I dismissed it myself!"

What had wounded Yukichi’s heart to its core was that—despite his continuing agony over the sacrifices he had made for Aoki—Aoki had so shamelessly, so maliciously, so treacherously trampled upon the protection Yukichi’s suffering had barely managed to preserve.
After hearing this, Yukichi could not help but resent, curse, and seethe with rage against Aoki with his entire being.
He had lost all favorable feelings toward Aoki, his whole self now filled with hatred and contempt for him.
Moreover, this hatred deepened as his student life of hardship grew increasingly difficult.

It was not long after that Yukichi heard the rumor that Aoki had caused another scandal at university and been expelled.
But by that time, not even enough goodwill to lament Aoki’s buried talent remained in Yukichi’s heart.

III

Now, across a corner table at Café ××××, Aoki sat directly before Yukichi.
Yukichi thought Aoki might not know at all about the ill will toward him that clung like a tick to Yukichi’s heart, refusing to let go.
Yukichi thought Aoki might be misunderstanding—might even believe—that fragments of his past goodwill toward him, goodwill so intense he would have risked his own destruction, still lingered in Yukichi’s heart.
But let him think whatever he liked—only twenty-six hours remained.
No—if he could just efficiently conclude this meeting, everything afterward would quickly fall away—that was what Yukichi thought.

But as he looked at Aoki sitting before him—silent, eyes cast downward—Yukichi could not help but think of the life Aoki had buried in the countryside over those six long years. When Yukichi considered the frustration, anguish, and regret of Aoki—stubbornly competitive and ambitious—rotting away his youth in a desolate rural town while watching classmates graduate from university and gain their places in society one by one, he found himself forgetting his own resentment and unable to refrain from grieving for Aoki.

But despite having endured what could be called a purgatorial life of hardship, Aoki had hardly changed.
The face that should have invited Yukichi's compassion had scarcely lost any of its former youth.
Moreover, the summer clothes Aoki wore were both newer and of finer quality than Yukichi's.

To Yukichi, Aoki's unchanging nature left him vaguely dissatisfied.
Yukichi's demonic curiosity had wanted to see Aoki somewhat more degraded and withered.

Yukichi thought to find some topic.
But recalling their past life was bitter for both Aoki and Yukichi, and yet, in their current lives, there were no common topics worth discussing.

"You haven't changed a bit."

"Oh, I haven't changed a bit," Aoki answered. That voice, unchanged from the Aoki of old, sounded intimidating to Yukichi. The two fell silent again. Yukichi considered bringing up gossip about friends. But every one of their classmates had splendidly attained success, and any mention would inevitably sound like a taunt toward Aoki. Yukichi finally recalled a man named Okamoto. Not only had this man graduated university a year late, but even after graduating, he remained unemployed and adrift. He thought mentioning this man's circumstances wouldn't wound Aoki.

“Have you heard any rumors about Okamoto?” Yukichi asked.

“Okamoto! Ah, that guy.”
“So that guy’s still alive?” Aoki said dismissively.
“Aoki! Ah that guy.”
That Aoki—for whom “Is that guy still alive?” would have sounded more natural—persisted in retaining this same old arrogance struck Yukichi as rather lonely.
When Yukichi showed signs of struggling for topics, Aoki,

“So, you and Kuwano still keeping up with your studies?”
“Burning through foreign works these days, are we?” he asked with a tone both sarcastic and combative.
This remained utterly unchanged from the Aoki of old.
Yukichi felt self-disgust at still detecting that peculiar pressure behind Aoki’s aggressive words.
Though Yukichi carried their past dealings carved into his heart, Aoki appeared to have wiped them clean from memory—showing not a shred of restraint toward him regarding those matters.

“So when’s that single-volume book of yours coming out?” As Yukichi faltered, Aoki pressed harder still, unleashing questions that dripped with mockery—or could at least be taken as such. For Yukichi, who had published a mere three or four works to date, releasing a standalone volume remained an impossibility.

The more Yukichi kept talking face-to-face with him, the more he found himself unable to escape an uncanny pressure.

For Yukichi—who had hated Aoki for six years and now considered even his past admiration of that talent a delusion—Aoki still retained a strange magnetism and intimidating presence. Though when they first met after all this time Aoki had been too ashamed to lift his face, as he sipped his tea Yukichi felt him somehow gaining the upper hand before he knew it. Yukichi found this profoundly disagreeable. That Aoki—a man of utter failure who had wronged Yukichi beyond redemption—still maintained this same formidable personal intimidation as of old when they faced each other was unbearable to Yukichi. He thought of somehow escaping this discomfort. But having met Aoki less than thirty minutes prior, he couldn’t gracefully take his leave.

“How about it! How about we go see Kuwano?” Yukichi finally devised a plan. Kuwano was indeed one of their classmates, the man who as a writer had been recognized by society the earliest.

Aoki also agreed.
Yukichi called the waitress and tried to pay the bill.
Then Aoki, who had somehow produced a five-yen note, said, “No, I’ll pay,” and handed the five-yen note to the waitress.
Yukichi saw no reason to insist, so he let Aoki have his way.
Yukichi found Aoki’s attitude—that refusal to show weakness, that insistence he hadn’t fallen from grace—rather lonely.

The two boarded the Ueno-bound train from Owari-cho.
Suddenly, Yukichi glanced at the clock on the utility pole at the stop—it showed exactly three o'clock.
If tomorrow at four was the deadline, that left only twenty-five hours.
Once those hours passed, Aoki—this man who represented what Yukichi might call an eternal adversary, this perilous presence—would vanish from Tokyo.
Just a little more endurance, he told himself.
As this thought formed, Aoki—

“You! They say being a magazine reporter pays an utterly miserable wage—don’t they? I hear there are companies handing out year-end bonuses of just five yen these days. What about yours?” he said.

Yukichi thought, Here we go again.

“Mine isn’t like that,” he answered, repeating “twenty-five hours” to himself.
And he thought that if he took him to Kuwano’s place, Kuwano would surely find some way to help them kill time again.