Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part 1: The Flying Parasol It was a morning when the white, dazzling sun suddenly blazed down from a rainy-season sky heavy with one part water vapor. It was peak farming season—not only were regional newspaper readers dwindling steadily, but the news industry itself was entering its summer drought. My own Fukuoka Jiji Times, of course, along with every other paper, had their eyes peeled like hawks: Was there no major story to hook readers?… No floods?… No mine explosions?… No special feature lying forgotten somewhere?… I—a roving reporter who felt the same stifling pressure of that relentless competition as the Editor-in-Chief—had lately been ambling toward the red-brick main gate at the edge of Hakozaki Town on Fukuoka’s outskirts, hoping to spin a minor incident at Kyushu University’s Faculty of Engineering into a story. But the heat was so oppressive that as I readjusted my straw hat—tilted back like Amida Buddha’s halo—and absently glanced over my shoulder, I froze mid-step.

In front of the Faculty of Engineering’s main gate, separated by a wide road, stretched endless rice paddies reaching all the way to the base of Mount Wakasugi two or three ri to the south; within their turbid waters that shimmered boundlessly, countless conical rice-planting hats lay scattered. There was a woman in splendid attire, holding a parasol aloft in one hand, making her unsteady way across the ridge path through the paddies—from the road before me to the railway tracks about a hundred meters ahead. At a glance, the parasol was sky blue, but upon closer inspection, it bore a splendidly gaudy pattern of ultramarine and pale-red stripes. Beneath a bold striped pattern resembling Kokura crepe—her well-fleshed limbs and something pale red showing through—she clutched a sparkling beaded bag in her left hand while wearing white tabi socks and geta with mid-height teeth and surface fittings. Hurrying along the muddy ridge path mingled with green grass from the lingering rains, she swayed as if on a tightrope. The white nape of her neck and limbs visible beneath her slicked-back hair reflected the backlight, supplely stretching and contracting with every movement. Each time, the tip of her vibrant parasol traced large and small circles and arcs across the sky.

The rice-planting hats that had been wriggling in those paddies began rising one by one, staring in apparent fascination at the woman’s figure. As I watched, from beyond the Jizo Pine Grove on the left came the roaring approach of a descending train—charging straight across the iron bridge over the Tatara River toward Hakozaki Station on the right—its sound swelled with visceral intensity. As this occurred, her footsteps too seemed to quicken slightly, taking smaller, more hurried steps... …Once more, my heart leapt in my chest. Before I knew it—

“Stop! She’ll be hit—!”

I started to shout—but in the next instant, I swallowed my words with a gulp. …This’ll make the papers… flashed through my mind—and in the very next moment, I was already retracing my steps down the road before the main gate, moving perpendicular to the ridge path the woman had taken. Then, from the shadow of a farmhouse at the edge, I veered into a mulberry field bordering the paddies—its young leaves brushing past—turning parallel to the woman’s path, suddenly crouched low, and dashed toward the tracks like a beast stalking prey. By the time I leapt over the narrow stream separating field from rails, I was drenched in sweat, heart pounding, vision blurring at the edges.

By that time, the woman had already finished crossing the rice field ridge and emerged onto the tracks about fifty meters ahead, walking along the narrow sandy-red path beside the rails—nonchalantly and with an air of affectation—in the direction from which the train would come. I—who had been charging forward—hesitated and stopped upon seeing her demeanor. Could this be an intentional suicide... I wondered... No sooner had this thought formed than from within the green waves of pine grove stretching before us, a pitch-black locomotive burst forth at full speed, howling its white whistle like something deranged. The engineer must have spotted her.

Seeing this, the woman gently placed her Western parasol—still open—on the grass beside the tracks. She took off her geta and aligned them neatly, then quietly placed her beaded bag atop them. Then, while adjusting her collar with her right hand, she firmly grasped her kimono’s front hem with her left, flashed a glimpse of white tabi socks sideways, and tried to leap before the locomotive—but tripped on gravel beside the tracks and collapsed sideways. In that instant she grabbed the rail with her right hand and strained to rise—only to slump again suddenly, collapsing facedown onto a sleeper beside the track. Her white hands flung forward, shoulders heaving in one great wave, she seemed to release a single deep sigh.

I remained rigid as stone, staring transfixed. Unable to move a muscle or even blink—in that instant, the locomotive’s pitch-black shadow engulfed her entire body like a loosed arrow. Then from within that darkness emerged the ultramarine-and-pale-red parasol, rising like some ethereal will-o’-the-wisp with a hollow *whoosh*, tracing gentle arcs three meters high toward the left—but the moment my eyes flickered toward it, a shrieking emergency whistle tore through the void and a black roar quaking the earth stormed past me, grazing my side by mere inches.

I stood frozen with hands clamped over my ears and eyes until the roar subsided, then reverted to my reporter’s instincts. Kicking off with my laced boots, I sprinted thirty-six meters to where the corpse lay sprawled. Shouts rose endlessly from rice paddies flanking the tracks as I ignored them all. Turning over the still-warm body face-up—so lifelike I half-expected movement—I found only one ear and an immaculate collar remaining on her head. The rest trailed eighteen meters down the tracks: a ghastly paste of hair and blood clotting in sunlight. Among this wreckage glinted matter resembling chicken lungs—could those glistening lumps be brain tissue? Her right wrist had vanished, likely dragged off by wheels, while thick blood pulsed from the clean-severed stump, dyeing mugwort leaves clustered by the rails. Apart from mud smearing her tabi soles and kimono hem, this train-crushed body lay bizarrely intact—supine in grass, left hand still death-gripping her garment’s front fold.

While fleetingly glancing back at the train, I pulled her left hand away from her kimono and examined it. Neither the back nor palm showed any roughness, but the black iodine tincture smeared on her middle fingertip—with no swelling or injury around it—suggested disinfection after removing a splinter or such. Thinking she might be a nurse, I quickly pried open her chest. Pale, dewy breasts and dark purplish nipples appeared, over which a large black ant already scurried in panic.

So it was… I held my breath. Immediately probing through the cheap-looking white Hakata obi—there it was—a fetal movement swelling rhythmically, twitching faintly… She was unmistakably over five months pregnant. Then systematically patting down between the sleeves and obi emerged an unpunched red ticket from Hakozaki to Saga and small name cards—ten each of “Hayakawa Yoshiko” and “Tokieda Yoshiko” separately printed—wrapped in blank paper from within the obi.

While stuffing the name cards into my pocket, I raised a triumphant cry for the time being. Hayakawa was a medical doctor at Terayama Internal Medicine in Kyushu University’s Faculty of Medicine—none other than a lecher notorious among reporter colleagues. Behind him was an obstetrician named Dr. Haneha, and I had even caught whispers that he was pulling strings behind the scenes. Furthermore, this Tokieda Yoshiko—wasn’t she the celebrated beauty working as a nurse in the same university’s ophthalmology department? ...I’d indeed heard murmurs about their relationship two or three months prior, but assuming it mere gossip linking a renowned beauty with an infamous lecher... How gravely I’d erred in dismissing it. So matters had progressed this far... I thought, flipping over the wooden clogs to find them fresh from Kanasa Shoten in Ōhama Tate-machi, Fukuoka City—the shop’s label still intact—with a "サ" within a right-angle symbol stamped at the heel. Next, opening the beaded bag revealed two new handkerchiefs, a frog-mouthed purse holding six yen and twenty-odd sen, and from beneath cosmetic tools at the bottom, two pawn tickets addressed to Yanagawa Yoshie. The four items—a silk crepe coat, a haori jacket, a gas-patterned yagasuri undergarment, and a woman’s platinum wristwatch—had been pawned at Mimasu Pawnshop in Hakozaki Umadashi for eighteen yen total over two days: yesterday and the day before.

Once again, while stuffing the pawn tickets into my pocket, I let out a second triumphant cry. ...With this much ammunition in hand, if I couldn't churn out a three- or four-column special feature, then I wasn't fit to call myself a newspaperman... Of course, neither the police nor those hacks from rival rags could lift a finger to stop me... Got them... I thought, grinding my molars even as I lifted my head with feigned indifference to scan my surroundings. Around me stood only two or three rice planters, their faces contorted in horror. From the windows of the train that had barreled into Hakozaki Station came passengers' faces clustered like grapes on a vine, while two or three uniformed figures who'd jumped from the cars could be seen racing along the tracks. Beyond them, another shape—likely a cop clutching his saber—appeared to be scrambling belatedly down from the platform too, but with four or five blocks still separating us, there was no danger of my face being recognized.

I rose leisurely, wiping away the woman’s blood clinging to my shoe heels with mugwort leaves. Without so much as glancing back at the parasol that had fallen into the distant green rice fields, I stomped again and again on the geta marks along the ridge path the woman had just traversed and with a composed expression turned back toward the Faculty of Engineering. Watching sidelong as the crowd on the tracks swelled by the moment, I slipped through the nearby Faculty of Law and Letters gate, moved past students loitering in the basement, and emerged onto the sparsely trafficked Kaimon-do—only then removing my jacket to wipe away sweat. Once I’d come this far, there was no longer any fear of being caught. Incidentally, when I glanced at my wristwatch, it was exactly ten-thirty.

...Exactly two and a half hours left until the evening edition deadline... If I roughly estimated an hour within that to write the article... there’d be no time left to swing by the pawnshop... Though I did find that platinum wristwatch a bit odd... It’d be wiser not to meet that lecher Hayakawa or the mastermind Haneha… No point in walking into a sob story… I’d give them a shock with one well-placed ambush… ……Just needed it not to start raining before I made it back…….

While running through the calculations in my head, I clenched a cigarette between my teeth and struck a match.

A few hours later, I was on a streetcar bound for Imagawa Bridge, comparing the city sections of the two evening newspapers published in Fukuoka and smiling. While other newspapers had merely reported the unidentified young woman’s train collision death in five lines under fourth-tier headlines like “Another Female Train Victim”—failing even to mention her pregnancy—my paper had published an extensive article under a lead-type three-column banner. It included vivid photographs of Dr. Hayakawa wearing summer yukata and Tokieda Yoshiko with her hair in a traditional chignon, the two posed side by side.

▼Headlines……“Under the Gaze of Rice Planters……Pregnant Beauty’s Railroad Suicide……Around Ten O’Clock This Morning Near Hakozaki Station……Involving Kyushu University’s Notorious Lecher……Woman Revealed as Runaway Daughter of Saga Prefecture’s Wealthiest Family—The Tokiedas”……“Midst Journey to Apologize to Parents……Perhaps Overwhelmed by Despair……This Tragic Affair”…… ▲Article…[Excerpt]…Four years prior, Tokieda Yoshiko (20)—yearning for Tokyo—had run away from home; yet for reasons unknown, she disembarked at Hakata Station instead, and through a Fukuoka acquaintance, entered service as a nurse in Kyushu University’s ophthalmology department. Upon learning this, Yoshiko’s parents reportedly flew into a rage and promptly disowned her; nevertheless, despite her famed beauty, she persevered through four years of resisting all temptations without incident. […] Even that notorious lecher Dr. Hayakawa (30), after becoming involved with Yoshiko and cohabiting at their present Ōhama boardinghouse, not only reformed his conduct as though reborn but even renounced his beloved billiards, appearing wholly devoted to nurturing their romance. That Yoshiko’s devotion to Hayakawa exceeded even his own requires no elaboration. […] Thus when Yoshiko reached seven months’ pregnancy, she refused all dissuasion from Dr. Hayakawa and his associate Dr. Haneha—who had long fretted over the couple’s affairs—secretly procured travel funds, and resolved to visit her Saga parents alone while evading public notice […] She deliberately purchased a red ticket from Hakozaki Station—two stops short of Hakata—to Saga. Yet while awaiting her train, contemplating her bleak prospects, she apparently grew acutely despondent over fate’s cruelty. In the end, she cast herself beneath the wheels of the very downbound Train No. 421 she was meant to board, meeting so wretched a… et cetera…

Having read this far, I raised my head with inner triumph and surveyed the streetcar’s interior. I cleared my throat with feigned nonchalance and arched my back.

But the next day...

To revisit yesterday’s missed article about Kyushu University’s Faculty of Engineering, I boarded a streetcar from my lodging at Imagawa Bridge bound for Hakozaki’s terminal. As we passed the medical school’s stop, Inspector Otsuka of Hakozaki Police Station—a professional contact—suddenly leapt aboard. With a guilty conscience, I felt a jolt of alarm. Inspector Otsuka was about fifteen or sixteen years my senior, but ever since we’d gone drinking together two or three times, we’d been interacting like equals. Though a rather cunning man, he wore a startled expression upon spotting me in the nearly empty streetcar’s corner. Striding briskly to my side, he plopped down heavily—his hulking frame said to weigh twenty kan—right beside me. Then, clamping his saber between his thighs and tilting his cap back like Buddhist prayer hands, he repeatedly wiped sweat from his flushed face. With an intensely strained expression, he pulled a newspaper from his inner pocket and thrust it wordlessly under my nose. When I looked, every article I’d written in yesterday’s evening edition had been slashed through with venomous red lines.

I deliberately smiled and nodded. Inspector Otsuka glared at my face with bitter intensity, his eyes cold and unyielding. “This is a problem… Pulling something like this… Outmaneuvering us…” “Hmph—I haven’t done a thing. When I tried entering the Faculty of Engineering’s main gate, there was a crowd so dark it looked pitch-black gathered on the railway tracks. I went to look, and it was just this death by train collision… That’s all there was to it.” “How did you identify the woman?” “There was iodine tincture applied to the tip of the corpse’s left middle finger. Given there was no particular swelling or injury, it seemed she’d used it to disinfect after removing a splinter or something—but a woman who uses iodine tincture that way would most likely be from a doctor’s family or a nurse.”

“Hmm… So that’s how it was?” “Now judging by her clothes, there’s no doubt she was a nurse.” “The mark on those geta showed they’d been bought near Hayakawa’s boarding house.” “So I flipped through Kyushu University’s nurse registry right then—turns out this star nurse Tokieda had been on leave for three months.” “When I checked her family registry on a hunch—bingo.” “There it was: fifth daughter of Tokieda Mozaemon from Kano Village, Saga Prefecture!”

“Did you figure it out just from that?”

“Outrageous… With all due respect, I don’t engage in such baseless investigations as you people do.” “It’s clearly written in the physical examination records.” “Last autumn, her height was five shaku two sun and weight fourteen kan seven hundred monme.” “They perfectly match the corpse, don’t they?” “The seven-month pregnancy was of course a shot in the dark—but judging by how developed the fetus’s movements were, she probably started her leave around the third or fourth month…” “Hmm… You sure know everything, don’t you…”

“Work half a year as a university correspondent, and most doctors get smoked out… But just to be thorough, when I checked with two or three nurses who worship yours truly, they said Dr. Hayakawa from Internal Medicine had been up to all sorts since New Year’s.” “Even found out Hayakawa was Dr. Terayama’s pet—and how everyone resented him for it.” “How’s that?” “...Knocked your socks off, didn’t I...” “Hmm… So how’d you get those photos?” “If this is an interrogation, do it proper at the station—I’ll never talk.”

“Ahahaha!” “Nah—truth is, this’s damn useful stuff.” “Don’t want you blowing your top… Straight talk—this article… might fly with amateurs, but…” “From our angle, it’s riddled with holes.”

“Yeah.” “Then I’ll lay it out.” “That photo—I tracked it down through nurses’ gossip after all.” “That photo studio on Ebisu-dori—university nurses frequent it, you see.” “They must’ve been spotted taking it together secretly—or something like that.” “I’d caught wind that such a photo existed, so I took a shot in the dark and hit the bullseye.” “The recipient used the pseudonym Yanagawa Yoshie, you know.” “They’d even kept the original negative plate properly—I was overjoyed at that moment!”

“Exactly… So how’d you sniff out that Dr. Haneha—head of that midwife school and a medical doctor—was busting his ass covering for those two?”

“It’s from the internal medicine department’s office.” “Dr. Haneha—head of the midwife school—has been dropping by the internal medicine office lately to whisper with Hayakawa.” “Rumor has it Yoshiko suddenly started throwing fits about going back to Saga these days, so those two are scrambling.” “See? Matches the facts dead-on, doesn’t it?” “Still quick on the draw, aren’t you…”

“This much is child’s play. But this time I’ll flip the interrogation—how did *you* know Haneha’s both head of the midwife school and a medical doctor? I deliberately kept that out of the paper...” “Tha... Spare me that.”

Inspector Otsuka widened his eyes in shock, waved his hands frantically, and stumbled backward. With a pained grin, he rubbed his face vigorously with a handkerchief.

I solemnly straightened my posture.

“Hmm… If you’re set on that course, I’ve got my own considerations.” “Wa... Wait!” “Let me think…” “There’s nothing to think about.” “I’ve never once interfered with your department’s work to this day.” “Secrets stay sealed tight—hell, I’ve even tipped you off first on scoops I caught.” “Right now, I’m—” “No—” “I’m fully aware—” “Now listen… Aren’t you validating my article as we speak?” “Truth be told, we reporters have an unwritten rule—never share article details with anyone but the editor-in-chief, let alone reveal how we got them…”

“No—” “I’m well aware of that.” “I’m deeply grateful…” “I don’t need your gratitude—just your trust.” “You could at least tell me whether this Dr. Haneha’s a good guy or a bad guy…”

“Yeah, let’s talk.”

Inspector Otsuka wiped his sweat again. He readjusted his hat and edged even closer. His small eyes glittering, he lowered his voice. “Well…” “If this gets out, the station brass won’t stand for it… Haneha’s a craftier villain than Hayakawa.” “Well… He’s been eggin’ Hayakawa on—knockin’ up women, then takin’ it upon himself to squeeze cash outta their parents as a side hustle.” “In other words, he’s double-dipping—taking both the severance payment and abortion fee—without giving Hayakawa a single red cent.” “In my jurisdiction, it seems there are quite a number of victims—we get fiercely worded letters about it from time to time.”

“Thank you. Now I understand everything.” “Yoshiko throwing a tantrum and trying to go to Saga alone did strike me as odd… but I’d already begun to vaguely sense the circumstances behind it.”

“Yeah. That must be it. She got caught between Haneha and Hayakawa’s schemes and her parents’ disownment—that’s why she died, see?” “I wanna write this damn thing… For the evening edition… It’d be a fucking hit…”

“No good, no good.” “I absolutely must not write about this in the paper yet.” “Ahahahaha! I won’t write it. …But why haven’t you people arrested Haneha?”

Inspector Otsuka gave a wry smile. He vigorously twisted his red beard streaked with a few white hairs.

“Because we don’t have enough evidence. That Haneha guy—there’s proof he impersonated the chief professor back when he was in the university’s gynecology department, barged into hotels near campus to examine pregnant women, and took their money. The midwife school he’s running now only has three or four students—we’re sure it’s actually an abortion clinic in disguise—but he’s too damn quick-witted and sharp for us to pin down. No doubt he’s got everything ready to tangle us up with rumors and anonymous letters if we even try.”

“Hmm. For a washed-up doctor around here, he’s a bit too sharp.”

“Could be. Especially with this latest case—since we’re dealing with Saga’s wealthiest family—there was an anonymous letter claiming Haneha really pulled out all the stops. Of course you can’t take every word at face value, but I’ve had that bastard in my sights for a while now—knew he’d try something like this.” “Can’t you trace those letters?” “No solid leads, but we’re pretty sure it’s someone from inside the university department. We’ve confirmed Haneha arranged Hayakawa’s current boarding house too. If Yoshiko had just delivered that baby, Haneha would’ve launched his real operation—hide them both and extort Tokieda’s old man. We’d coordinated with Saga Station to nail him when the time came… but now we’re left holding our dicks after getting blindsided.”

“Ahahahaha! ’Cause their precious little gem up and died, see?”

“Tha... That’s not it.” “You’re the one who wrote this article, ’cause.” “You’re really reckless…” “I haven’t written a single reckless thing.” “Whether it’s fact or not becomes intuitively clear once you’ve heard enough stories.” “First of all, doesn’t this photo corroborate every last fact?” “That may be… but this article is reckless.” “Outrageous.” “Is there even a single inaccuracy in the facts?”

“...There’s plenty...” “Wh-what…” “And what’s more, there’s not a shred of factual basis for any of it at this stage.”

I jolted, nearly leaping to my feet. ...Maybe not confronting Hayakawa directly had been my fatal oversight... The thought left me unable to sit or stand still. Inspector Otsuka made a perplexed face and frantically twisted the head of his saber, then brought his flushed face so close to mine it nearly brushed against me—the pungent stench of alcohol wafting from him.

“To tell the truth, I’m in a bind too… The thing is… You absolutely must not write about this one either.” “Tokieda’s old man saw this article in yesterday’s evening edition’s Saga section—he’d raced over by car from Saga last night and pounded me awake before dawn this morning.” “He was such a respectable, composed old man that I let my guard down and trusted him. Since it was a good opportunity, I told him, ‘Go to the university dissection room and take a look at the young lady’s corpse.’” “Since he insisted she was your child, we figured it’d be fine to hand ’em over without an autopsy—that’s why I sent a patrolman along.”

“I see… And then…?”

“But then that old man, after thoroughly examining the belongings from the time of her train death, took one look at his daughter’s corpse and declared, ‘This is not my child.’” “……Hmm…… And the reason……” “The reason is this: …My daughter was a strong-willed girl from the start—she left us a note saying she’d go to Tokyo and make her way as a single woman striving to expand women’s rights. She’s not the sort of girl who’d engage in such misconduct.” “The newspaper photo may bear some resemblance, but this is absolutely not Yoshiko.” “She ran away four years ago, but since he had a clear memory of her appearance, he declared there was absolutely no mistake and left in a hurry.”

“...That’s absurd.” “Do you think he can cover this up with such flimsy excuses…?” “...He didn’t shed a single tear.” “Without so much as a flicker in his expression—he declared that right to my face, I tell you.”

“Hmm.” “What a terrible person.” “And then…?”

“Yeah.” “Then, regarding yesterday’s matter—when we had Kinsa Store in Ohama where the woman’s geta were sold checked out, it turned out the seller was a shop boy. Since it was early yesterday morning, his clothing and facial features were completely unclear.” “Later, when we took the newspaper photo and showed it to him, he kept scratching his head ’cause she was styled in that marumage bun—made him even more confused.” “Hmm. This complicates things.” “Then Hayakawa’s landlady saw the newspaper photo too—said there’s no mistakin’ it’s him but mumbled evasively about not knowin’ who the woman was…” “Just to be thorough, when we called Saga Station to check, even Tokieda’s family all said in unison that the photo wasn’t of their Yoshiko who ran away—I tell ya.” “But around town, your newspaper’s selling like hotcakes, I tell ya.”

“Of course it is… Heh…” “In other words—Tokieda’s old man’s thinkin’ of eras’n his own daughter to protect th’family honor, takin’ advantage ’a how th’corpse’s face got all smashed up, eh?”

“Hmm.” “Is something like honor really that precious?” “After all, they’re Saga Prefecture’s top taxpayers, see?”

“Isn’t that even more cruel?” “The real monsters are these bastards here." “First off, when we hauled in that lecher Hayakawa at his boarding house last night and grilled him, he swore up and down he’d never touched any such woman.” “The dame in yesterday’s evening edition—Yanagawa Yoshie—claims he paid her off to end things, but says he booted her out once he found she was already knocked up before they hooked up. Where she’s really from? Your guess is as good as mine.” “He keeps yammering it was just a quick roll in the hay, and Dr. Haneha—that midwifery school director—slams the door with ‘absolutely no recollection’ of ever helpin’ her.”

“Your lot’s work has no follow-through…” “With no evidence, there’s nothing we can do about it—don’t you think? What’s more, this morning that damned landlady from Hayakawa’s boarding house put on airs and called Hakozaki Station all polite-like—‘While the Tokieda Yoshiko in the newspaper photo is undoubtedly Yanagawa Yoshie-san who was with Hayakawa-san,’ she says, ‘her surname isn’t Tokieda.’ “‘As for Yanagawa Yoshie-san,’ she goes on, ‘after concluding her breakup with Hayakawa-san yesterday, it seems she’s gone off somewhere.’ “‘In any case,’ she claims with that sickeningly sweet voice of hers, ‘I have no recollection whatsoever of ever referring to Yanagawa Yoshie-san as Miss Tokieda—please proceed accordingly…’ “It’s like they’re all ganging up to make fools of the police.”

“If you took blood from Dr. Hayakawa, Tokieda’s father, and the train suicide woman to compare with the fetus’s blood—wouldn’t that settle things in a heartbeat?”

“If it were murder or somethin’, we’d have reason enough to go through that rigmarole—but a suicide ain’t worth the bother, y’know…? Got stacks of other cases pilin’ up—we’re up to our necks here.” “What’re Hayakawa and Haneha doing now?” “Nothin’ worth a damn. “Once we suss out where Yanagawa Yoshie went, we’ll give you the nod… Then you can see for yourself if she matches your train-jumper… or so they keep jawin’ on about…”

“Aren’t you going to dig any deeper on your end?”

“I think it’s useless to press further.” “From what I’ve been piecing together, they’ve all been made to grab their cut from Tokieda’s old man between yesterday and last night.” “The real mastermind’s still that Haneha bastard—must’ve called Tokieda in Saga the moment he saw your evening edition piece.”

“That’s right,” I agreed. “No doubt about it!” “If we’d cracked down through police channels before your paper published anything, it would’ve been straightforward—but they’ve pulled every string… Now they’re all in lockstep denying your article as baseless.”

“How dare they…” I began to snap back but bit my lip instead. Before I realized it, we’d already disembarked at the Engineering Department terminal and stood conversing in the middle of the street. Inspector Otsuka—who had been studying my face intently—cast a furtive glance around us before leaning closer still, the sallow whites of his eyes gleaming. “Get me hard evidence with your own hands… eh?… Something tangible, not just theories… If you slip it to me before printing anything, I’ll hammer together a watertight case for your special report. My word on it.” “Of course I’ll keep your involvement buried—count on that. And mark my words—I’ll owe you one down the line.” “Your paper’d be up shit creek if that article gets exposed as hogwash.”

I suppressed a searing irritation that threatened to make me groan and forced a smile.

“Yeah… I’ll discuss it with the Editor-in-Chief and investigate.” “Yeah—I’m counting on you.” “Since she’s undeniably Tokieda’s daughter by surname… Once everything’s arranged, give me a call.” “I’ll show you the corpse or whatever… Mmm, mmm…” Inspector Otsuka, acting as if he’d unilaterally settled matters, raised one hand in a token gesture before spinning around to face away from me and striding briskly toward Hakozaki Station. As I watched his receding back, I clenched Yoshiko’s business card and pawn ticket—still tucked in my coat pocket since yesterday—until sweat dampened my palm. Before I knew it, I had realized… I was now firmly in Inspector Otsuka’s clutches.

I suddenly whirled around and rushed into the familiar basement of the Faculty of Law and Literature, where I had the operator call the Editor-in-Chief at headquarters.

“Hello?” “I’m calling from the exchange room at the Faculty of Law and Literature right now.” “This concerns yesterday’s evening edition article.” “Even if anyone comes requesting a retraction of that piece, you must absolutely refuse to accept it.”

The Editor-in-Chief’s cheerful voice resounded through the receiver.

“Ah.” “I know.” “Around six this morning, see…” “Tokieda’s old man from Saga came barging into my place demanding a retraction piece.” “Then just now, Dr. Terayama from Kyushu University showed up at headquarters saying that while this Hayakawa fellow is indeed at his department, there’s no evidence of him being some sort of lecher or whatnot.” “After that, acting as proxy for Professor Shio from Ophthalmology, they went on and on about how there was definitely a nurse named Tokieda in their department—but she quit four months back, so whether she’s the same woman in the newspaper photo remains unclear… All that drivel. But I gave both parties the brush-off and sent them packing.”

“Thank you.” “Do you have any more articles?” “……There is… There is the fact that Tokieda’s old man and the Head of Kyushu University’s Internal Medicine Department came to your place to suppress it.” “Ahahaha! You got me there! Hah!” “But don’t you have any other conclusive evidence proving she’s Tokieda’s daughter?” “There is… I have it here.” “The thing that makes the dead daughter scream…” “Can’t you run that in the paper?” “I could publish it, but it’s something I grabbed after rummaging through the corpse.” “I don’t want to get dragged into the prosecutor’s office, you know.”

“What’s wrong with that?” “I’ll take care of the rest.” “But…then I won’t be able to drink with you anymore…”

“Ahahaha!” “Right, right.” “Goodbye…” “……Goodbye……”

Thirty or forty days had passed when, on a certain muggy evening, I encountered Inspector Otsuka—dressed in plainclothes—by chance at a café in Higashi Nakasu.

The inspector seemed to be looking for someone, but when I called out to him, he immediately came to my table and ordered a beer. As I looked at his face, I suddenly remembered and asked. “So… what do you plan to do… about that case…” “……That case?” “Hmm… You mean that case?” “Oh that? It’s still the same as ever.” “Both medical doctors seem to have been shocked by your pen—they’ve been behaving meekly ever since.” “Nah. The matter of the woman’s identity.” “Yeah. That’s still the same as ever.” “By now, she’s probably just bones in the communal cemetery.” “How pitiful. Thanks to you, we’ve ended up with one nameless set of bones—abandoned by her parents and even cast aside by her lover.”

“……………………” “I’ve heard rumors that right after the woman collapsed on the tracks, what looked like some dandy of a medical doctor—a man in Western clothes—came running over and rummaged through her coat and obi to steal away any evidence. But according to reports, that very same dandy was supposedly holed up proper in his boardinghouse at the time.” “Something’s fishy here.” “……Hmm… That does seem odd…” “Anyway, it’s like you’ve wiped that beauty clean off the map.” “Hell, that dandy might’ve been you for all we know… Ha ha ha… Ah, never mind.” “Let’s have a drink—it’s been ages.”

The two of us then drank beer heartily, but I—strangely preoccupied by Inspector Otsuka’s words—found myself unable to get drunk no matter how much I drank. In the end, growing reckless, I impatiently waited for the inspector to leave and downed two or three glasses of whiskey in quick succession. Finally, drowsiness crept over me—but the moment I began dozing off, a single sky-blue parasol emerged in the space behind my eyes, glowing beautifully. Then it floated up and up, drifting further and further to the left, growing smaller and smaller until it vanished… No sooner had I thought this than another identical parasol materialized in its original spot, glowing faintly. Each time I watched one gradually shrink and disappear to the left, I began to feel an indescribable, suffocating terror.

I suddenly opened my eyes wide and darted my gaze around the area. To dispel that terror, I poured glass upon glass, but the more I drank, the clearer those hallucinations became. In the end, beautiful parasols emerged one after another until countless ones swirled chaotically through the space.

While staring at the dizzying space, I began to tremble uncontrollably.

Part Two: Rain-Soaked Carp Streamers

Since the Parasol Incident, I had entirely stopped touching a glass. Still, there were moments when my throat would clamor unbearably—but drinking would inevitably lead to intoxication... intoxication would summon visions of that sky-blue parasol... then uncontrollable trembling... Terrified by this inescapable chain of cause and effect, I had fallen into absolute abstinence at last—a state that apparently left those unaware of my reasons thoroughly perplexed. After all, I had been at the zenith of my drinking habits, so my former companions alternated between genuine concern and mockery, shifting tactics and angles to interrogate me—but I merely smirked without offering any proper explanation... No, the truth was I didn't want to explain... That itself likely served as the truest explanation. It wasn’t exactly due to that, but in truth, it must have been because of it—I soon took a wife through the company president’s mediation.

The folks who had been puzzled by my abstinence finally put on looks of comprehension and proceeded to mock me relentlessly. But I still persisted with my smirk. And so we established our new household—just the two of us—in Kashii Village, about two and a half ri northeast of Fukuoka, commuting by train from there to the city. Yet even when my new wife pressed me about why I’d stopped drinking, I merely smirked and avoided explaining… The thought that marrying her was only possible because I’d let the parasol woman die filled me with an indescribable disgust…

Yet less than a year later, on a gloomy morning of May 10th the following year… The Kyushu Main Line downbound train crossed the scenic Kashii Bay as usual, passed over the Tatara River’s iron bridge, made a sharp turn at the entrance to Jizo Pine Grove—the backdrop of the previous incident—and accelerated at a gloriously pleasant speed straight toward Hakozaki Station. But as I gazed absently through the pine grove at the patchwork mosaic of wheat and rapeseed fields stretching south of the tracks, something peculiar abruptly caught my eye.

Within the pine grove lay a graveyard spanning roughly one chō square. At the southern edge of the graveyard, slightly apart from the rest, stood a low banner pole before a small unpainted wooden grave marker—tethered with three carp streamers in red, blue, and black, large and small... But even as I registered this sight, it vanished into the overlapping shadows of pine trunks. ...Thinking it must be the grave of a boy who died recently... I was overcome by an indescribably foul feeling. When I squeezed my eyes shut, the dim, limply hanging form of the carp streamers once more materialized vividly behind my eyelids—I instinctively jerked my head violently.

But when the train stopped at Hakozaki Station, I found myself strangely compelled to get off. Even so, I hesitated and deliberated for a while—but when I resolutely leapt off just before departure, this time I felt compelled by any means necessary to visit that graveyard once more. It was likely due to a newspaper reporter’s instinct—an intuition that those carp streamers in the graveyard might yield some intriguing article… yet… considering it another way, even then, that inexplicable, demonic allure symbolized by those streamers may already have been relentlessly drawing my heart in. Finally putting off my arrival at the office, I retraced the railway tracks for fifteen or sixteen chō and came to the graveyard from before.

The banner pole had been erected at the southernmost edge of the cemetery, a spot overlooking wheat fields and the village. The base of a slender cedar log—about two ken long—had been buried in the sand. Three paper carp streamers, large and small, all seemed to have hung there since several days prior. The largest scarlet carp at the top, the blue one below it, and the small black carp at the bottom—beaten by rain and night dew, their colors had peeled away as they clung tightly together, flattened against one another. The lowest black carp among them had turned more than half white, yet appeared drenched in blood from the red and blue ink dripping down from the two carps above. Not only around its tail dragged across the white sand, but all at once—from the base of the banner pole to the flank of the unpainted wooden grave marker—it lay still, scattering ghastly splatters of sinister-colored droplets. Only the arrow-feather-shaped wind vane attached to the top of the pole—its colors likewise faded—occasionally caught faint gusts and began rotating with a gloomy creak... creak... The sky had turned a uniform gray, heavy with imminent rain.

Careful not to tread on the bloodstained patches of white sand, I circled widely around and peered at the surface of the grave marker—a small square timber of pine. Yet again, I discovered a bizarre fact that made me involuntarily swallow my spit…… Within ink so black it seemed to bleed through the wood loomed crude regular script: “Grave of Hanafusa Tsuya-ko.” When I looked at the inscription on the back, it read "...Deceased April 31st... Age at death twenty-three..." The deceased had entered Buddha-hood just about ten days prior.

"...A young woman's grave... Carp streamers..." Repeating these words in my mind, I stood frozen like a stone for some time, then abruptly turned away and spat.

About twenty minutes later, I went to the Hakozaki town office to examine the death records. And then, about ten minutes later, I stood before a tenement-style latticed door marked with a nameplate reading "Hanafusa Keigo" in the shadow of the woods behind Hakozaki Hachimangu Shrine.

“Please forgive me… I beg of you… Please forgive me…”

After she repeated this two or three times with no response, the torn shoji in the latticed entryway rattled open. “...Keigo... is that you?”

Shortly after hearing that hoarse voice, an old woman crawled out clinging to the shoji as if holding on for dear life. I was startled once again. Peering through the aged latticework, I saw her yellowed salt-and-pepper hair wild and disheveled, her entire body corpse-pale, her dull clouded blue eyes wide open, her completely toothless mouth hanging slack in apparent delight. She wore a grime-stained hand-towel yukata with a red narrow obi wrapped around her waist, but when she looked up at my now-bareheaded face, her expression rapidly darkened and withered.

“Who… are you…?” While bowing her head, she gulped audibly.

I hesitated to respond. For a fleeting moment, I wavered: Should I probe deeper into this indescribably foul sensation I’d carried since first stumbling upon this news material—or cut my losses here and switch to brighter, snappier stories instead? But at that moment, driven by what might be called the inertia of my past, I ended up giving a perfunctory reply.

“Ah… I was once acquainted with Mr. Keigo… My name is Wada…” “Oh my, oh my. Well, well.” “Oh, please do come in.” “Please do come in… You…” As she spoke, Grandmother Oshino retreated, flopping across the worn-out tatami like an infant as she crawled away.

After watching her retreat and thinking, I eventually resolutely opened the lattice door. The house consisted of a two-tatami entranceway, a kitchen and toilet spanning roughly one tsubo, and an eight-tatami living room with a closet and alcove—a dilapidated tenement-like structure with shoddy tiled roofing—but scarcely any furniture could be seen. Because the living room had its shutters closed on both sides and a mosquito net hung across it, it was not only dark as a haunted house but also filled with a musty-urine-like stench that assaulted me the moment I stepped inside. Yet the old woman, seemingly accustomed to the darkness, crawled nonchalantly along the hem of the mosquito net and made her way from the veranda toward the kitchen. I too pushed aside the mosquito net again and again from behind her and stepped out onto the wooden-planked veranda inside the shutters. Taking the opportunity to peer inside the net, I saw three bedding spaces laid out: one with a bound pillow before the alcove, and two high pillows arranged on the kitchen side. Between the high pillow and the bound pillow lay a small new merino futon and a red pillow neatly arranged—this must have been the baby’s bed. One might assume the couple and the old woman had been sleeping there, but since the wife was supposed to be dead, having three bedding spaces laid out was bizarre. Moreover, the town office’s registry only reported the wife’s death, with no mention of a baby… Those carp streamers… this small new futon… And to top it off, it’s broad daylight…

With a feeling of being cornered, I hunched down on the veranda still clutching my hat. Despite the broad daylight, not a trace of vitality lingered in the air. Moon-pale light seeped through the shutters as an eerie silence pressed against my skin. While imagining Grandmother Oshino might suddenly whirl around shrieking—lost in these grotesque fantasies—she crawled back unsteadily from the kitchen where she'd been rummaging through cupboards, clutching a bowl in one skeletal hand.

“Here… some cold tea… I’m afraid there’s nothing to go with it… You…” “Oh!… Thank you… Please don’t trouble yourself…”

I said loudly, then reluctantly sat down on the wooden floorboards. The grandmother sat facing me too, adjusting her collar with emaciated white hands and smoothing down her wildly disheveled hair. According to the family register, this grandmother was named Oshino—an elderly woman born in the Kaei era who was Keigo’s grandmother—though her ears and eyes seemed sharp, her mind unexpectedly clear. With feigned nonchalance, I brought the bowl to my lips and pretended to take a sip. Then I spoke bluntly.

“When do you expect Mr. Keigo to return…” The old woman blinked her eyes blearily. Twisting the wrinkles beneath her right eye along with her mouth, she gave a single long lick with her tongue, then let out a lonely, feeble rasp— “Yeees... I think it’s about time he comes home... You...” “I think it’s about time he comes home... You...” As she spoke, she stared at me, mumbling wordlessly as her mouth worked. When I saw those suspicious pale eyes of hers, I was overcome by such an unbearably strange feeling that I forgot all about the newspaper and everything else, and bowed hastily.

“Well then… I’ll come again another time…” “Ah… Yes… You…” As she said this, the old woman made a face as if wanting to say more, but after mutely working her mouth again, she fell silent. “Please don’t trouble yourself—I’ll come again another time… Please take care…”

Stammering out fragments of speech, I stepped into the entranceway, thrust my feet into my shoes, bolted outside, and slammed the lattice door shut with a sharp clack. Because I felt Grandmother Oshino was crawling after me… Then, walking briskly for about a block in utter disappointment, I came to a hardware store four or five houses before reaching the bustling Hachiman-mae street, where I suddenly stopped and entered.

“Do you have wicks?”

“Please come in.”

A wonderfully cheerful voice called out from the back, and O-Kami-san—a plump woman of about forty—emerged cradling an infant sideways against her hip. Seeing that greasy smile, I felt a sense of relief and accepted about three wicks. Then, pulling out one and attaching the mouthpiece, I tentatively asked.

“Is there a house called Hanafusa over there?” “Oh...”

When O-Kami-san saw my face, she suddenly stopped smiling and nodded deeply.

“Did the wife from that house die?” “Oh…” As she said this, O-Kami-san’s expression grew even more horrified, her throat convulsing as she swallowed hard. Feeling I’d cornered her, I pressed the wick against the charcoal briquette in the hibachi. “Use a match, please.” “Briquettes don’t catch easy-like.” Even as she spoke, O-Kami-san plopped down beside me and thrust out a matchbox. This woman’s itching to gossip about that household… The realization struck me like a live wire.

Then, when I continued my signature line of questioning—grilling her relentlessly—O-Kami-san’s explanations indeed transformed into intriguing news material one after another. However, the story was exceedingly straightforward. Hanafusa was a man working as a laborer at Fukuoka Electric Company who had moved into his present home in this neighborhood last spring with his elderly grandmother Oshino and young wife Tsuya-ko. While the couple’s bond went without saying, Grandmother Oshino and the young wife Tsuya-ko shared a rapport so unusually harmonious—even among blood relatives—that it had become a neighborhood legend. While Keigo was away at work, neighbors often saw the young wife Tsuyako leading Grandmother Oshino by the hand to stroll through the nearby Hachiman Shrine grounds or take her to the public bath. There were even rumors that Grandmother Oshino had persuaded the young wife to forcibly make Keigo resume his evening drinking—a habit he’d temporarily quit.

However, once it became clear that the young wife was pregnant, Grandmother Oshino stopped visiting Hachiman Shrine. “If you were to fall, I couldn’t face Keigo.” “Since I’ll sew the baby’s clothes myself, you mustn’t overexert yourself.” “In return, you must bear a boy.” She had been saying this day and night. The young wife also smiled meekly and, “Yes… I’ll certainly bear a boy.” The story about her assuredly promising… was recounted by her husband Keigo when he stopped by O-Kami-san’s shop to buy cigarettes.

Then, before long, the young wife contracted typhus, and about ten days ago now, after delivering a stillborn fifth-month boy and dying, her husband Keigo—what came over him?—starting on the night of the vigil began drinking heavily and raving.

“...My wife kept raving about carp streamers right up to her death, so once the memorial service’s over, I’m gonna put up a magnificent one at her grave. That’s the best way to honor her, I tell ya... Grandma.” As he repeated this loudly over and over, the neighbors who’d come to the vigil began feeling they couldn’t sit still anymore. Even on the way back from burying the fetus and mother, Keigo turned to glare at the unpainted wooden grave marker with glazed eyes.

“I’ll put up a big one for you real soon. Ahahahaha!” When he burst into loud laughter, everyone averted their eyes. However, on his way back, something came over Keigo—he withdrew the roughly two hundred yen remaining in his postal savings account and vanished into thin air that very night. After all, Grandmother Oshino—elderly and left behind in the house—had the neighbors so worried that two or three of them split up to search for his whereabouts, but as of now, there was no trace to be found. There were also those who claimed to have spotted him in Yanagimachi’s red-light district, but even that was no longer reliable. Meanwhile, Grandmother Oshino was making porridge with the little rice that remained and eating it, but even when neighbors took pity and offered her things,

“Keigo will surely return soon, so please don’t trouble yourselves… Oh… You…” she would say and turn them away, “After all the trouble we went through worrying about her…”

and some were growing annoyed. However, this old woman—though she seemed perfectly composed at a glance—was in fact completely senile, for peering through the gaps in the shutters revealed her constantly hanging mosquito nets day and night, arranging her usual bedding alongside the “infant’s red quilt” she had sewn herself—all laid out as if waiting. The neighbors found this utterly unnerving. Perhaps she believed she was house-sitting after the couple and their three children had gone out, but no one thought to ask her about it. In any case, this peculiar old woman was cooking all alone, which was deeply concerning, so they had been debating whether to report it to the police or what to do, leading up to today. However, since the fourteenth-day memorial service would arrive in another two or three days—depending on circumstances, Keigo might return…—this was the gist of O-Kami-san’s account.

I thanked her and left the hardware store, then turned back to canvass Hanafusa’s neighborhood and verify a few facts before returning to headquarters.

“…A man who erected carp streamers at the graves of his deceased beloved wife and fetus before vanishing into thin air… leaving behind an elderly grandmother awaiting starvation…”

An article along those lines appeared in the following morning’s newspaper alongside photographs of the carp streamers at the grave and the elderly woman sitting before the mosquito net. My wife, who had read it in the kitchen, “Goodness!” “Who on earth wrote such a dreadful article?”

When she said this, I found myself forcing a wry smile.

“Mr. Reporter— Reading your newspaper article opened my eyes. Overwhelmed by grief at losing my wife and child, I drowned myself in drink and women, forgetting entirely about my compassionate grandmother who had shown me such great kindness. I drank my way through Yanagimachi and Ohama, recklessly carousing with painted women. Then, after seeing that article, I finally returned home last night—only to find Grandmother strangled to death, my wife’s red obi sash hung from the mosquito net’s hook around her neck. Beneath her feet lay your newspaper’s page with that photograph spread open. Some kind neighbor must have thrown it in for her.

Mr. Reporter—

That carp streamer’s pole was something I erected in a drunken stupor, but I never dreamed in my wildest imaginings that catching your eye, Mr. Reporter, would expose such unfilial disgrace. However, I resent no one at all. All of this happened because my self-discipline was lacking. I have no excuse to offer any of you, so I will commit suicide. Please, use your pen to announce this utter fool’s final moments to the world as grandly as possible. I pray for the prosperity of your esteemed newspaper.

May 11 Hanafusa Keigo “Fukuoka Jiji Times Mr. Reporter’”

The Editor-in-Chief snorted derisively as he tossed this letter—written in pencil on Western-style paper—down before me. “It just arrived. “That man mailed the letter, visited his wife’s grave, wound the streamer’s cord around his neck, and swung like a pendulum into death alongside those carp streamers. “About two hours back, a passenger on the down train through that pine grove spotted him—they say he’d smashed a whiskey flask at his feet… Ha ha ha ha!”

I stared blankly at the Editor-in-Chief’s face. The Editor-in-Chief spoke, still wearing a sneer. “Your pen has become quite sharp.” I could neither laugh nor react; I simply hung my head. With my hat in one hand, I hurriedly exited the editorial room and dashed down the stairs in one breath.

When I dashed into the café in Higashi Nakasu, the group of waitresses I knew from before raised a spirited cry and stood up to come over.

“Well… Isn’t this a rare sight… Well…” “What’s wrong… with you… lately…” “Welcomeee!”

From behind the dim paper lantern shadows, I stared fixedly. “Goddammit… bring the whiskey.” As I snarled those words, the phantom of those carp streamers materialized before my eyes—black, green, and red droplets smeared across everything… trailing limply…