Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One: The Flying Parasol

It was a morning when the white, dazzling sun suddenly shone down from a rainy season sky saturated with water vapor. It was precisely the busy farming season - not only were local newspaper readers steadily decreasing, but we were also entering the summer news drought period. At Fukuoka Jihou where I worked, as well as all other papers, everyone had become eagle-eyed in their search: Was there any major story to attract readers?... Any floods?... Mine explosions?... Any special features lying around somewhere?... I, the roving reporter who felt this unbearable competitive pressure as acutely as the Editor-in-Chief, had been sauntering toward the red-brick main gate at the outskirts of Hakozaki-machi in Fukuoka - intending to pursue a minor incident that had recently occurred at Kyushu University's Engineering Department - when, overwhelmed by the heat, I readjusted my straw hat tilted back like a Buddhist statue's halo and casually glanced behind me... only to freeze in shock.

In front of the Engineering Department’s main gate, separated by a wide road, lay rice fields stretching endlessly two or three ri south to the foot of Wakasugi Mountain. Within their boundless expanse of shimmering muddy water, countless rice-planting hats were scattered. In those rice fields, along the narrow path between paddies from the road before my eyes to the railway tracks about a hundred meters ahead, there walked a woman in fine attire—holding a parasol aloft in one hand, advancing with perilous steps. The parasol appeared sky blue at first glance but revealed upon closer inspection a striking pattern of ultramarine and pale crimson stripes. Beneath fabric resembling Kokura crepe’s distinct stripes, plump limbs showed glimpses of pale red beneath as she hurried along the rain-soaked muddy path interspersed with green grass. Carrying a glittering beaded bag in her left hand, wearing white tabi socks and mid-teeth geta with leather soles, she swayed like a tightrope walker dancing forward. The white nape and limbs visible below her slicked-back hair reflected the backlight, flexing and contracting with fluid grace. Each time, the tip of that vibrant Western parasol traced large and small circles and arcs across the sky.

The rice-planting hats that had been swarming in those fields began rising one by one, starting to gaze in apparent wonder at the woman’s figure. As I watched, I became aware of the roaring sound of a down train charging straight from beyond Jizo Pine Grove on the left—crossing Tatara River's iron bridge—toward Hakozaki Station on the right, growing ever louder. As this happened, the woman’s footsteps appeared to begin quickening ever so slightly... ……Once again, my heart leapt with a start. Involuntarily,

“Stop! She’ll be killed by the train!” I started to shout, but in the next instant I swallowed hard. ...This will make a newspaper article... No sooner had this thought surfaced than I was already retracing my steps along the road before the main gate—diverging at a right angle from the woman’s path across the rice fields. Then from the shadow of that adjoining farmhouse, veering into a mulberry field path that ran parallel to the woman’s course through young leaves bordering paddies, I suddenly crouched and lunged toward the tracks like a predator closing in on prey—but when leaping over the narrow stream demarcating mulberry fields from rail line, I found myself drenched in sweat, heart hammering violently, vision threatening to blur.

The woman had already finished crossing the rice field ridges by then and emerged onto the tracks some fifty meters ahead, walking along the narrow sandy red dirt path beside the rails with apparent nonchalance—advancing toward the approaching train in an affected manner.

I hesitated mid-stride upon seeing the woman's demeanor, coming to an abrupt halt. Could this be an intentional train suicide... I wondered... Before the thought fully formed, a pitch-black locomotive burst from the green waves of Matsubara pine grove ahead, charging at full speed while shrieking its white whistle like madness. The engineer must have spotted her figure. The woman gently placed her open Western parasol on the trackside grass. She neatly removed her geta sandals and laid a beaded bag atop them. Adjusting her collar with her right hand while firmly gripping her kimono's hem with the left, she flashed white tabi socks sideways in a desperate lunge toward the locomotive - only to stumble on gravel and collapse sideways. Clutching the rail with her right hand in an attempt to rise, she suddenly went limp again and fell prone across the sleeper beside the track. Her pale hands stretched forward as her shoulders heaved violently, appearing to release one profound sigh.

I think I remained there, petrified like stone, staring transfixed. Unable to move a muscle, incapable of even blinking... Before I could process this thought, the pitch-black shadow of the locomotive engulfed her entire body like an arrow. Then from within that shadow emerged the ultramarine and pale crimson parasol, floating up beautifully like a will-o'-the-wisp with a whoosh, fluttering several yards high toward the left-hand side; but the instant my gaze was stolen by that sight, an emergency whistle splitting the void and an earth-shaking pitch-black roar roared past three feet beside me like a tempest.

Covering my ears and eyes, I stood frozen—but the moment that roar passed, my journalist instincts immediately reawakened. I sent my lace-up boots flying through the air and rushed to the corpse lying thrown about thirty-six meters ahead. ...all while letting the incomprehensible shouts that kept arising from the rice fields on both sides of the tracks flow past me. When I flipped over the woman’s corpse—still warm as if alive—onto its back to see how the wheels had struck her, the head retained nothing but one ear and the clean line of her neck. The rest had become a mixture resembling hair and blood tossed together, dragged and scattered messily along one side of the tracks for about eighteen meters. Scattered along this path were patches of something resembling chicken lungs, their surfaces glaringly reflecting the sunlight—could this be brain matter? The right wrist was nowhere to be found, likely having been carried away by the wheels. From the cleanly severed wound, fresh blood gushed out thickly, staining the mugwort leaves clustered alongside the tracks. Apart from slight mud on the tabi sock soles and kimono hem, the body—remarkably unblemished for a train collision victim—lay supine in the grass, its left hand still tightly clutching the front hem.

While glancing back at the train, I tried to detach the left hand from the kimono and examine it. The back of her hand and palm showed no roughness whatsoever, but the thick application of iodine tincture on her middle fingertip—despite no visible swelling or injury there—suggested it had been disinfected after removing a splinter or similar object. Thinking *Now that I look—could this woman be a nurse…?* I hastily tore open her chest. Pale, dewy-glowing breasts and dark, purplish nipples appeared—but already across them scurried a single large black ant in panicked circles.

So that's it... I held my breath. Immediately searching through what appeared to be an inexpensive white Hakata obi... There it was... swelling rhythmically... I could distinctly feel the faint twitching of fetal movement... This was unmistakably a pregnancy of five months or more. As a final check, I ran my hands between the sleeves and obi. From within the folds emerged one unvalidated red ticket from Hakozaki to Saga, along with two small stacks of name cards—about ten each—wrapped in blank paper. One set read "Hayakawa Yoshiko," the other "Tokieda Yoshiko."

While stuffing those business cards into my pocket, I raised a triumphant cry for the time being. Hayakawa was a medical scholar and staff physician at the Terayama Internal Medicine Department of Kyushu University’s Medical School - none other than that notorious womanizer well-known among us reporters. Behind him stood an obstetrician called Dr. Haneha; I’d even caught whispers about someone pulling strings behind the scenes. Moreover - wasn’t Tokieda Yoshiko herself the famous beauty nurse from that university’s ophthalmology department? I had indeed heard rumors about their relationship two or three months back - but between a celebrated beauty and infamous lecher, I’d stupidly dismissed it as baseless gossip... My overactive imagination had been my undoing. So it had come to this... I thought while flipping over the geta sandal - still fresh from the wholesaler with its Kanza Shoten label from Ōhama Tate-machi in Fukuoka City, the shop’s 『サ』 emblem stamped into the heel within a right-angle bracket. Next I opened the beaded bag - from beneath two new handkerchiefs emerged a drawstring pouch holding six yen and twenty-odd sen coins alongside modest cosmetics - followed by two pawn tickets addressed to Yanagawa Yoshie. The four items - an omeshi coat, haori jacket, gas-patterned herringbone underrobe, and lady’s platinum wristwatch - had been pawned at Mitsumasu Pawnshop in Hakozaki Umadashi for eighteen yen total across two days: yesterday and the day before.

Once again, while stuffing those pawn tickets into my pocket, I raised a second triumphant cry. ...With this much material in my grasp, if I can't write a three- or four-column special feature, then I'm no newspaperman... Of course the police and those industry bastards won't be able to lift a finger against me... Got them... Clenching my back teeth tight while keeping a straight face, I surveyed the area. Around me stood only two or three rice planters, their faces frozen in horror. From the windows of the train that had rushed headlong into Hakozaki Station, passengers’ faces pressed densely against the glass, and two or three uniformed figures who had leapt down from it could be seen running along the tracks. In addition, another figure resembling a policeman gripping a saber also seemed to be hurrying down belatedly from the platform—but since they were still four or five *chō* away, there was no worry of my face being recognized.

I leisurely stood up while wiping the woman’s blood clinging to my shoe heels with mugwort leaves. Without looking back at the parasol fallen in the distant green rice paddies, stepping repeatedly on the geta marks along the ridge path the woman had just traversed, I calmly retraced my steps to the front of the Faculty of Engineering. Watching the rapidly growing crowd on the tracks out of the corner of my eye, I slipped through the nearby gate of the Faculty of Law and Literature, passed through the basement where students were loitering, and emerged onto the quiet streets of Kaimon-do—finally removing my jacket to wipe away the sweat. By this point, there was no longer any worry of being caught. When I checked my wristwatch, it was exactly 10:30 a.m.

...Exactly two and a half hours left until the evening edition deadline... If I roughly estimated one hour to write the article... there was probably no time to swing by the pawnshop... Though I did find that platinum wristwatch a bit odd... ...It would be wiser not to meet Hayakawa the lothario or Haneha the mastermind... No point going out of my way to get them begging... I'd ambush them with a sneak attack and give them a good scare... ...As long as it didn't start raining before I got back...

While calculating these figures in my head, I first put the cigarette holder between my lips and struck a match.

Several hours later, inside the Imagawa Bridge-bound train, I was smiling as I compared the city editions of the two evening newspapers in Fukuoka City. While other newspapers had merely reported the unidentified young woman’s death by train collision under a four-line headline like “Another Female Train Suicide,” devoting only five lines without even mentioning her pregnancy, my newspaper featured a massive headline in boldface type spanning three columns. It included a clear photograph of Dr. Hayakawa wearing a summer kimono alongside Yoshiko Tokieda with her hair in a traditional chignon, followed by an extensive article of the following nature.

▼Headline…… “Under the Gaze of Rice Planters… Pregnant Beauty’s Railway Suicide… Around 10 a.m. near Hakozaki Station… Lover is Kyushu University’s Notorious Womanizer… Woman is Heiress to Saga Prefecture’s Wealthiest Family… Runaway Daughter of the Tokieda House”…… “On her way back to apologize to her parents… Driven by despair… This tragic incident”…… ▲Article…(abridged)…Four years ago, Tokieda Yoshiko (20), yearning for Tokyo, ran away from home. Yet for reasons unknown, she disembarked at Hakata Station instead of proceeding to Tokyo, and through an acquaintance in Fukuoka, became a nurse in the ophthalmology department of Kyushu University’s Medical School. Upon hearing this, Yoshiko’s parents were enraged and immediately disowned her. Yet despite her renowned beauty, she had fought off all temptations and dutifully persevered through these four years without incident.……(omission)……Even Dr. Hayakawa (30), notorious womanizer though he was, upon becoming involved with Yoshiko and moving into their current boarding house in Ōhama, not only reformed his conduct as if he were a different man but even gave up his beloved billiards, devoting himself wholeheartedly to their romance. Needless to say, Yoshiko’s attachment to Hayakawa ran even deeper than his. ……(omission)…… Thus, when Yoshiko became seven months pregnant, she resolved—against the vehement protests of Dr. Hayakawa and his friend Dr. Haneha (who had long been fretting over their affairs in every regard)—to secretly gather travel funds and journey alone to her parents in Saga while avoiding prying eyes……(omission)…… She deliberately purchased a red ticket from Hakozaki Station (two stops before Hakata) to Saga. But while awaiting the train, having contemplated her bleak future from every angle until driven to extreme despair over her fate, she ultimately threw herself before the wheels of the very downbound Train No. 421 she was meant to board, meeting such a gruesome… et cetera…

Having read this far, I raised my face with an inwardly triumphant expression and looked around the train. I gave a purposeless cough and arched my back.

However, the next day... To recover yesterday’s missed article about Kyushu University’s Faculty of Engineering, I boarded a train from my lodging at Imagawa Bridge toward Hakozaki Terminal. As we passed the Medical Department stop, Inspector Otsuka of Hakozaki Police Station—a professional acquaintance—suddenly boarded, startling me with my guilt-ridden conscience. Inspector Otsuka was about fifteen years my senior, but since we’d gone drinking together two or three times, he treated me like a peer. Though quite cunning, when he spotted me in a nearly empty corner of the train, he feigned surprise, briskly came to my side, and plopped down his hulking twenty-kan frame. Then he wedged his saber between his legs, tilted his hat into a rounded shape, and repeatedly wiped sweat from his flushed face. With intense tension, he pulled a newspaper from his inner pocket and thrust it wordlessly under my nose. There lay yesterday’s evening edition articles I’d written—all slashed with venomous red lines.

I deliberately smiled and nodded. Inspector Otsuka fixed me with a cold glare, his face twisted in bitterness. "This is unacceptable… Doing something like this… Outmaneuvering us…" "Hmph, I didn’t do anything. When I tried to enter the main gate of the Faculty of Engineering, there was a pitch-black crowd gathered on the railway tracks. When I went to check, it was just this train suicide… That’s all there was to it." "How did you trace her identity?"

“The corpse’s left middle fingertip had been coated with iodine tincture. Since there was no particular swelling or injury, it seemed she’d disinfected after removing a splinter or something. A woman who uses iodine tincture that way would most likely be a doctor’s family member or a nurse.” “Hmm… Is that how it was?” “When I examined her clothing, there was no doubt she was a nurse. At the same time, when I checked the mark on the geta, they’d been purchased near Hayakawa’s boarding house. So I immediately flipped through Kyushu University’s nurses’ dormitory roster and found a prominent name—Tokieda—who’d been on leave for about three months. When I checked the family registry on a hunch, I was shocked. It lists Tokieda Mozaemon of Kamino Village, Saga Prefecture—and his fifth daughter, isn’t that right?”

“You figured that out just from that?”

“Outrageous... Unlike you people, I don’t conduct investigations based on mere conjecture. It’s clearly written in the physical examination records. Her height was five shaku two sun—about 157 centimeters—and her weight fourteen kan seven hundred momme—roughly 55 kilograms—as recorded last autumn. It perfectly matches the corpse, doesn’t it? Of course, the seven-month pregnancy part is 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 about this case, don’t you…”

“Work half a year as a university correspondent, and you can fool most doctors.… But just to be thorough, when I checked with two or three nurses who idolize me, they’d been saying such things about Dr. Hayakawa from Internal Medicine since around New Year’s.” “I even discovered that Hayakawa was Dr. Terayama’s pet and that everyone resented him.” “What do you think?” “…Pretty impressive, eh?” “Hmm… Then how’d you get that photo?” “If this is an interrogation, do me the favor of conducting it at the station—I’ll never confess.”

“Ahahaha! No no, this is actually quite useful, you know. I don’t want you getting angry… but truth be told, this article… might work for amateurs, maybe. From our standpoint, it’s riddled with oddities.” “Yeah. Then I’ll spill it. That photo came from nurse gossip after all. That Ebisu Street photo studio—uni nurses frequent it. They must’ve snapped it on the sly—guess someone caught wind. Heard murmurs about such a photo existing, so I took a shot—bullseye. Recipient used ‘Yanagawa Yoshie’ as an alias. They’d even kept the original negative… Never been so thrilled.”

“Exactly… Then how did you uncover that Dr. Haneha—the midwifery school director and medical scholar—was working so hard to help those two?” “It’s about activity in internal medicine’s office.” “Dr. Haneha’s been visiting their department frequently lately to whisper with Dr. Hayakawa.” “Rumors say Yoshiko suddenly started demanding to return to Saga—throwing such fits that those two got desperate.” “See? Matches perfectly with facts.”

“You’re as quick as ever…”

“This much is child’s play.” “But this time I’ll turn the tables—how did you know that man Haneha is a medical scholar and director of the midwifery school?” “Even though I deliberately kept it out of the newspaper…” “Th-that’s enough—spare me this.” Inspector Otsuka widened his eyes and, flustered, waved his hands as he leapt back. He rubbed his face with a handkerchief that bore traces of a strained smile. I solemnly sat upright.

“Hmm… If that’s your plan, then I have my own strategy.” “W… w… wait.” “Let me think…” “There’s no need to deliberate.” “I have not once interfered with your work until today.” “I’ve kept secrets as secrets properly, and I’ve even informed you first about leads I’ve obtained.” “Even now, actually…”

“No.” “That much I fully…”

“Now listen here… Aren’t you validating your own article even now? To tell the truth, it’s an unwritten law among us journalists never to disclose our articles’ contents to anyone but the Editor-in-Chief—much less spill how we dug up the story...”

“No.” “I’m well aware of that.” “I’m deeply grateful…”

“I don’t need your gratitude—just your trust. You could’ve at least told me whether Dr. Haneha’s one of the good guys or bad guys…” “Fine, I’ll talk.”

Inspector Otsuka wiped his sweat again, adjusted his hat, and leaned even closer. His small eyes glittered as he lowered his voice.

“Well… You see.” “If this gets exposed, the station staff won’t approve… but Haneha’s a craftier villain than Hayakawa.” “Well… He’s been egging Hayakawa on—getting women pregnant, then taking charge himself to squeeze money from their parents as a side business.” “In other words, he’s collecting both severance payments and abortion fees, but apparently doesn’t give Hayakawa even a scrap.” “It appears there are quite a few victims in my jurisdiction as well—letters sometimes come that are fiercely written about it.”

“Thank you—now everything’s clear. I did think it was odd Yoshiko threw such a tantrum about going back to Saga alone... Guess I’d already sensed how things stood there.” “Right.” “That’s exactly it.” “Caught between Haneha and Hayakawa’s schemes and her parents cutting her off—that’s why she died, eh?” “Damn... This’d make one hell of evening edition scoop... Could be huge...” “No. No. Still can’t write a word of this in the paper yet.”

“Ahahahaha, I won’t write it. …But why aren’t you arresting Haneha?”

Inspector Otsuka gave a wry smile. He vigorously twisted his red beard streaked with a few white hairs. “We don’t have solid evidence.” “That Haneha has a history of impersonating the chief professor back when he was in the university’s gynecology department—visiting hotels near campus to examine pregnant women and extort money.” “The midwifery school he runs now only has three or four students. We’re certain it’s really an abortion clinic in disguise, but Haneha’s too damn agile and clever for us to pin down.” “If rumors and complaints could shackle someone, he’s no doubt made thorough preparations to test those bonds.”

“Hmm. This seems a bit too elaborate for some worn-out quacks around here.” “That might be the case. Especially with this incident—since we’re dealing with Saga’s wealthiest family—there was an anonymous letter claiming Haneha really went all out. Of course, you can’t take every word at face value—but I’ve had my eye on him from the start, thinking it’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do.” “Do you know where the anonymous letter came from?”

“It’s not entirely clear,” he said, “but we’ve got a rough idea it’s someone from within the university.” He adjusted his hat brim, sweat glistening at his temples. “We know for certain Haneha arranged Hayakawa’s current boarding house. If Yoshiko had delivered that child, Haneha would’ve launched his real scheme—hiding them both to extort Tokieda’s father. We’d planned to coordinate with Saga Station, secure evidence, and make arrests... but it all collapsed.” His red beard twitched. “Left us helpless.”

“Ahahaha, it’s because their precious jewel died, see.”

“Th-that’s not it.” “It’s because you wrote this article, see.” “You’re being utterly reckless…”

“There’s nothing reckless written here at all.” “You can tell fact from fiction once you’ve heard enough different accounts.” “First of all, doesn’t this photograph back up every fact?” “That may be… but this article is rash.” “Outrageous. Is there anything that contradicts the facts?” “Is there anything that contradicts the facts?” “Plenty…” “What…?” “Moreover, as it stands now, it’s completely groundless.”

I started so violently I nearly jumped up. The realization that I'd failed to confront Hayakawa directly—that oversight—left me too agitated to stand still or sit. Inspector Otsuka wore a troubled expression too, manically twisting his saber's pommel until he thrust his florid face right up to mine, blasting me with alcoholic fumes.

“Truth is… I’m at my wits’ end too… The thing is… You mustn’t write a word of this.” “Tokieda’s old man saw this article in yesterday’s evening Saga edition—he raced here by car last night and was pounding me awake before dawn today.” “He seemed like a decent… composed old man… so I let my guard down… Told him since timing worked out… ‘Go check your daughter’s body at university dissection room.’” “‘Since it’s your child,’ we said… ‘We’ll release her without autopsy.’ Sent an officer with him.”

“I see… And then…” “However, after that old man thoroughly examined her belongings from the time of death by train collision and such, he took one look at his daughter’s corpse and declared flatly: ‘This is not my daughter.’” “–Hmm– And his reasoning?” “The reason was this: …‘Our daughter was inherently strong-willed—she even left a note vowing to establish herself independently in Tokyo while advancing women’s rights. She would never engage in such disgraceful conduct.’” “‘The newspaper photo bears some resemblance but absolutely cannot be Yoshiko.’” “‘Though she ran away four years ago, my recollection remains perfectly clear—there’s no possibility of error,’ he stated decisively before departing promptly.”

“That’s absurd. Do they think they can sugarcoat things with such a flimsy excuse…?”

“…Without shedding a single tear.” “Without changing his complexion one bit, he said that right in front of me.”

“Hmm.” “What a terrible man.” “And then…”

“Yeah. Then regarding yesterday’s matter—when we had Kanasa Store in Ohama checked out where they sold the woman’s geta sandals—the seller turned out to be their shop apprentice. And since it was early yesterday morning, he couldn’t clearly recall her clothing or facial features at all.” “When we later took the newspaper photo to show them, since she was wearing a marumage hairstyle, they got all the more puzzled.” “Hmm. Troublesome.” “Then Hayakawa’s landlady also looked at the newspaper photo and said something evasive like ‘Hayakawa-san is definitely him, but who the woman is… I have no idea.’” “Just to be thorough, we called Saga Police Station to check—and the Tokieda family all insisted in unison that the photo wasn’t of their Yoshiko-san who ran away, I tell you.” “But around town, your newspaper’s selling like crazy, I tell you.”

“Of course it is… Hmph…” “In other words, Tokieda’s father is exploiting his daughter’s corpse having its face mangled beyond recognition to erase her existence for the family’s honor, isn’t he?”

“Hmm.” “Is honor really such a precious thing?”

“After all, he’s Saga Prefecture’s top taxpayer, see.”

“Isn’t that all the more cruel?” “What’s even worse is this lot here. First off, when we hauled in that lecher Hayakawa at his boarding house last night and grilled him, he swore he’d never laid hands on any such woman. Claims the dame in the evening paper’s one Yoshie Yanagawa—says he paid her off last night to split after finding out she’d been knocked up before they ever hooked up. But her real roots? Couldn’t pin that down if his license depended on it.” “Sticks to his story about it being some quick fling, and Dr. Haneha—that midwife school director—just stonewalls us. ‘Never lifted a finger to help,’ he says, cool as you please.”

“You’re utterly undisciplined in your work…” “Without evidence, there’s nothing we can do. What’s more, this morning that landlady Okami from Hayakawa’s boarding house went so far as to courteously call Hakozaki Police Station—‘The Yoshiko Tokieda in the newspaper photo must be Yoshie Yanagawa who was with Dr. Hayakawa, but her surname isn’t Tokieda. That Yoshie Yanagawa finished her breakup discussion with Dr. Hayakawa yesterday and seems to have gone somewhere. In any case, since I never referred to Yoshie Yanagawa as the Tokieda young lady, please proceed accordingly...’—all delivered in this patently rehearsed spiel. It’s like the whole damn town’s ganging up to mock the police.”

“If you take blood samples from Dr. Hayakawa, Tokieda’s old man, and the train collision victim to compare with the fetus’s blood, wouldn’t that immediately clarify everything?” “We’d bother with that level of effort for a murder case… But suicide? Not worth the trouble… We’ve got mountains of other cases keeping us swamped…” “What’s Hayakawa and Haneha doing now?” “Nothing worth mentioning. Once we track down where Yoshie Yanagawa went… Then you’ll see whether she matches the train victim or not… That’s the nonsense they’re spouting…”

“Aren’t you going to dig any deeper on your end?” “Pointless to probe further, I say. From what I’ve pieced together, every last one of them’s been strong-armed into compliance by Tokieda’s old man since last night—each in their own twisted way. That Haneha bastard’s pulling the strings, no question. Took one look at your evening edition and likely rang up the Tokiedas in Saga on the spot.” “Exactly. Couldn’t be otherwise.”

“Before your newspaper could publish it, if we’d cracked down through police channels first, there wouldn’t have been any complications—but they’ve completely pulled strings… Now they’re all claiming the newspaper article is baseless in unison.” “How dare they…” Cutting myself off mid-sentence, I bit my lip. Before I realized it, we had alighted from the tram at the Engineering Department terminal and were standing in the middle of the thoroughfare talking. Inspector Otsuka—who had been studying my face intently throughout this exchange—cast a brief glance around our surroundings before leaning closer until his face nearly touched mine, his yellowish eyes glinting sharply.

“Can you produce solid evidence with your own hands… Hmm?… Something concrete, not just conjecture… If you hand that over to me before publishing it in the newspaper, I’ll crush them thoroughly and supply material for your special article.” “We’ll naturally keep it absolutely secret that the tip came from you—and I’ll certainly owe you one down the line.” “If that article gets exposed as fiction, your newspaper would be in deep trouble.”

I suppressed the searing irritation—so intense I wanted to groan—and forced a smile. “Yeah… I’ll discuss it with the editor-in-chief and look into it.” “Yeah. Please, I’m counting on you.” “Anyway, since she’s undoubtedly Tokieda’s daughter… Once things are settled, give me a call.” “I’ll show you the corpse or whatever… Mm-hmm…” Inspector Otsuka, as if satisfied on his own, formally raised one hand in a perfunctory gesture, then swiftly turned his back to me and walked off briskly toward Hakozaki Police Station. While watching his retreating figure, I clutched Yoshiko’s business cards and pawn tickets—still in my coat pocket since yesterday—hard enough to make my palm sweat. Before I knew it, I had realized that I myself had fallen into Inspector Otsuka’s grasp…

I suddenly spun around, rushed into the familiar basement of the Faculty of Law and Literature, and had the telephone 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.” “It’s about yesterday’s evening edition article.” “Even if someone comes requesting a retraction, under no circumstances should you accept it.”

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

“Ah.” “I already know.” “Around six this morning...” “The old man from the Tokieda family of Saga came rushing to my place and asked for a retraction article.” “Then Dr. Terayama from Kyushu University came rushing to headquarters just now—saying that while there’s indeed a man named Hayakawa at his institution, there appear to be no facts supporting those lecherous allegations.” “Then—on behalf of Professor Shio from Ophthalmology—they droned on about how there was definitely a nurse named Tokieda in their department, but she quit four months back, so they can’t confirm if she’s the same person as in the newspaper photo... Just nonsense. I brushed them both off and sent them packing.”

“Thank you.” “Don’t you have any more articles?” “There is... There is the fact that Tokieda’s father and the head of Kyushu University’s Internal Medicine Department came to your office to suppress the matter.”

“Ahahaha, you got me there.” “But don’t you have any other definitive proof that she’s Tokieda’s daughter?” “There is… I have it here.” “The dead daughter screams at the bastard who…”

“Can’t you run that in the paper?” “I could publish it, but it’s something I obtained by rummaging through a corpse. I’d hate to get dragged into the Prosecutor’s Office, y’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.” “I see, I see.” “Goodbye…”

“……Goodbye…”

Thirty or forty days had passed when, on a certain muggy evening, I encountered plainclothes Inspector Otsuka 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 beer. As I looked at his face, I suddenly remembered something and decided to ask. “By the way… what do you plan to do… about that case…” “...That case?” “...Hmm… That case.” “That? It’s still the same.” “It seems both doctors were quite startled by your articles—they’ve been behaving rather meekly ever since.”

“No. The woman’s identity case.” “Yeah. That’s still the same too. By now she’s probably bones in the communal cemetery. Pitifully, thanks to you, a single nameless bone came into being—abandoned by parents and even deserted by a lover.” “……………………” “I’ve heard rumors that shortly after the woman collapsed on the tracks, a man in Western clothes—apparently some handsome medical scholar—rushed over and rummaged through her pockets and obi to fish out incriminating evidence. But according to reports, that very dandy was safely at his boarding house during those hours. There’s definitely something off about this.”

“Hmm... That’s odd...” “Anyway, that beauty was practically erased by you.” “That charmer might’ve been you for all I know... Ha ha ha... Well, never mind.” “Let’s have a drink—it’s been ages.” We drank beer vigorously after that, but I remained strangely fixated on Inspector Otsuka’s words, utterly unable to get drunk. Growing desperate, I impatiently waited for the inspector to leave before gulping down two or three whiskeys in rapid succession. At last drowsiness came—but the moment I began dozing, a single sky-blue parasol materialized in the space behind my eyelids, glowing radiantly. It floated up—wafting gently—disappearing ever farther to the left, shrinking smaller and smaller... Just as I thought it gone, another identical parasol bloomed softly in its original place. Each time I watched one dwindle into the distance toward the left-hand side, I began feeling an indescribable terror that pressed down like smothering weight.

I jolted my eyes open and darted my gaze around the area. To dispel that terror, I poured glass after glass—but the more I drank, the clearer those visions became. In the end, beautiful parasols emerged one after another until countless ones began to swarm chaotically through the space.

While staring intently at that dizzying space, I began to tremble violently.

Part Two: Rain-Soaked Carp Streamers

Ever since the previous Parasol Incident, I had completely stopped holding a cup. Still, my throat would occasionally growl with unbearable craving—but if I drank, I would inevitably get drunk... if I got drunk, I would surely see visions of that sky-blue parasol... then begin trembling violently... Terrified by this inexorable chain reaction, I ultimately fell into absolute abstinence from alcohol. Those unaware of this reason were apparently quite perplexed. After all, I had been at the peak of my drinking habits, so my former drinking buddies alternated between genuine concern and mockery, changing their approaches and tactics to interrogate me—but I merely grinned faintly without offering any proper explanation... No, I should say I didn't want to explain... which was likely the truest explanation there could be. It wasn’t exactly thanks to that, but in fact, it must have been precisely because of it—I soon took a wife through the company president’s arrangement.

The people who had been puzzled by my abstinence finally made faces as if they’d figured it out and began relentlessly mocking me. But I persisted with that same faint grin. And so I set up a new household for just the two of us in Kashii Village, about two and a half ri northeast of Fukuoka, commuting daily by train to the city. Yet even when my new wife questioned me directly, I merely grinned and avoided explaining why I’d stopped drinking... I found it unbearably repugnant that this would mean admitting—that I’d married you because I’d let that parasol woman die...

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

Within the pine grove lay a graveyard about a hundred meters square. At the southern edge, slightly apart from the rest, before a small unpainted wooden grave marker stood a low flagpole bearing three carp streamers—red, blue, and black, varying in size—and as I registered this sight, the scene became obscured by overlapping pine trunks.

......This must be the grave of a boy who died recently...... The thought filled me with an indescribably unpleasant feeling. The moment I firmly closed my eyes, the dim, limp form of the carp streamers once again appeared vividly behind my eyelids, making me involuntarily shake my head hard. However, when the train stopped at Hakozaki Station, I strangely wanted to get off and see. Even so, I hesitated and thought for a while, but just as the train was about to depart, I resolved to jump off. This time, I felt I absolutely had to visit that graveyard once more. This was partly due to a kind of journalist's instinct—that intuition that those carp streamers in the graveyard might yield some interesting article... yet... from another perspective, perhaps even then, the mysterious, demonic charm symbolized by those streamers was already powerfully drawing my heart toward them. In the end, postponing my arrival at the office, I retraced the railway tracks for fifteen or sixteen chō and came to the graveyard from before.

The flagpole had been erected at the southernmost edge of the cemetery where it overlooked wheat fields and villages. A slender cedar log—about twelve feet long—had been buried root-end in the sand. Three paper carp streamers of varying sizes hung limply from it, all apparently left dangling for several days. The largest scarlet carp at the top, the blue one beneath it, and the small black carp below had all lost their colors from being beaten by rain and night dew, now flattened and clinging limply together. Among them, the lowest black carp had turned more than half white yet lay utterly still—drenched in red and blue ink dripping from the two carps above as if smeared with blood. Garish, eerie-colored splatters were scattered everywhere: around its tail dragged across white sand, from the flagpole's base to the flank of an unpainted wooden grave marker. Only the arrow-feathered windmill attached to the flagpole's top—also having lost its color—occasionally caught faint wisps of wind, creak... creak... emitting a gloomy sound as it began spinning... The sky hung entirely overcast in gray, threatening imminent rain.

Careful not to step on the stained patches of white sand, I detoured widely and peered at the surface of the grave marker built from square-cut pine timbers—only to discover another bizarre fact that made me involuntarily swallow my saliva…… In jet-black ink soaked deep into the wood, crude block letters loomed boldly: “Grave of Tsuya-ko Hanabusa.” Turning to read the text on the back, it stated: "...Deceased April 31st... Aged twenty-three..." — indicating that the deceased had been enshrined barely ten days prior.

……A young woman's grave……and carp streamers…… Repeating these phrases to myself, I stood frozen like stone for some time—then, as if suddenly remembering, turned sideways and spat.

About twenty minutes later, I went to Hakozaki Town Office to examine the death certificates. Then, about ten minutes after that, I stood abruptly before a tenement-style latticed door bearing a nameplate reading “Keigo Hanabusa” in the shaded woods behind Hakozaki Hachimangu Shrine. “Excuse me… Please… Excuse me…” After repeating this two or three times with no response, the broken shoji door within the latticed entrance rattled open.

“......Keigo......?” Shortly after hearing that rasping voice, an old woman crawled out clinging to the shoji screen as if dragging herself through molasses. I startled again. Through the aged latticework, I saw her salt-and-pepper hair matted into wild tufts, her corpse-pale skin stretched tight over bones, milky blue eyes swimming unfocused beneath heavy lids. Her toothless mouth hung slack in what might have been mistaken for joy—a wet gash of faded pink gums against parchment flesh. She wore a grimy hand-towel yukata cinched with a frayed red obi. But when I removed my hat and her gaze met mine, that hollow expression crumpled inward like paper catching flame—shriveled lips tightening as her face collapsed into sunken shadows.

“Who might you be…… You……”

While bowing her head, she gulped down her saliva. I hesitated to respond. For an instant, I wavered—should I delve deeper into this inexplicable discomfort that had clung to me since first stumbling upon this news material... or cut my losses here and switch to some brighter, snappier story instead? But in that moment, driven by what could only be called the inertia of my past self, I ended up offering a makeshift reply.

“……Yes…… I once had the honor of associating with Keigo…… A man named Wada……”

“Ohhh, my, my.” “Oh, please do come in.” “Please come in.…… You……”

As she spoke, the old woman withdrew, flopping across the old, worn-out tatami mats like an infant while crawling. After seeing off her retreat and pondering, I eventually resolved to open the latticed door. The house had a two-tatami entrance, a kitchen and toilet spanning about one tsubo, and an eight-tatami living room with a closet and tokonoma—all part of an old, tenement-like structure with shabby tile roofing—but scarcely any furniture could be seen. The living room had its storm shutters closed on both sides and a mosquito net hung across it, making it as dark as a haunted house—and the moment I stepped inside, a musty, urine-like stench assaulted me. However, Grandmother Oshino, seemingly accustomed to the darkness, calmly crawled along the hem of the mosquito net and made her way from the veranda toward the kitchen. I followed behind her, pushing aside the mosquito net again and again until I emerged onto the wooden veranda inside the storm shutters, and taking the opportunity to peer inside the net, I saw three bedding spaces laid out—one cylindrical pillow before the alcove and two high pillows arranged on the kitchen side. Between the two high pillows and the cylindrical pillow lay a small new merino blanket and a red pillow neatly arranged—this must be the infant’s bedding. It would seem that the couple and the old woman had been sleeping there, but since the wife should be dead, having three bedding spaces laid out was peculiar. Moreover, the town office’s family registry only reported the wife’s death, with no mention of the baby… Those carp streamers… this small new futon… And wasn’t it broad daylight right now…

Feeling cornered, I crouched on the veranda, still holding my hat. Despite being broad daylight, it didn’t feel that way in the slightest. The light seeping through the storm shutters appeared white like moonlight, and a hushed stillness pressed in around me. As I entertained absurd thoughts—what if Grandmother Oshino suddenly whirled around with a shriek...—she crawled back unsteadily from the kitchen where she'd been rummaging about, clutching a bowl in one hand.

“Here... Cold tea... Nothing to serve with it... You...” “Ah! Thank you... Please don’t trouble yourself...”

While declaring this loudly, I had no choice but to sit down on the wooden floorboards. Grandmother Oshino sat directly across from me, using her emaciated white hands to straighten her collar and smooth down her wildly disheveled upright hair. According to the family registry, this old woman was Oshino—Keigo's grandmother born during the Kaei era—yet her eyes and ears appeared sharp, her mental state unexpectedly coherent. Feigning ease, I raised the bowl to my mouth and pantomimed taking a sip. Then I spoke brusquely.

“About when does Keigo-kun return…”

The old woman blinked her eyes rapidly and blearily. She twisted the wrinkles beneath her right eye along with her mouth, licked her lips once with a wet smack, then emitted a lonely, feeble hoarse voice— “Yes—” “I think it’s about time he returns… but… you…” As she said this and stared at me, she worked her mouth mumblingly. When I saw those suspicious white eyes, I was overcome with such an indescribably strange feeling that I forgot all about the newspaper and everything else, and bowed mechanically.

“Well then… I’ll come again another time…” “……Ah…… That’s right…… You……” As she said this, the old woman made a face as if she wanted to say something more, but after moving her mouth mumblingly again, she fell silent. “Please don’t trouble yourself… I’ll come again another time… Please take care…”

I said in fragmented phrases while moving to the entrance, thrust my feet into my shoes the moment I reached them, bolted outside, and slammed the lattice door shut with a sharp clack. I felt as though Grandmother Oshino might come crawling after me...

Then, walking briskly for about a block while feeling thoroughly disheartened, I came to a hardware store four or five houses before reaching the bustling Hachiman-mae street, where I abruptly stopped and entered the shop. “Do you have spills?”

“Welcome.” A wonderfully cheerful voice came from the back, and a chubby, fortyish shopkeeper emerged, cradling an infant sideways under her arm. When I saw that greasy smiling face, I felt a sense of relief wash over me. I accepted about three spills, then pulled one out, attached the mouthpiece, and tentatively asked. “There’s a house called Hanabusa over there, isn’t there?”

“Oh...” When Okami-san saw my face, she suddenly stopped smiling and nodded deeply. “Did the bride from that house pass away?” “Oh…” As she said this, Okami-san’s expression grew even more horrified and she swallowed hard; thinking I had her figured out, I approached the counter and pressed the spill against the charcoal briquette in the hibachi. “Do light it with a match. The fire doesn’t catch well on charcoal briquettes, sir.” While saying this, Okami-san plopped down right beside me and held out a box of matches. This Okami-san was itching to talk about that house… I intuited.

Then, as I pressed on with my signature line of questioning—probing every detail—Okami-san’s explanations began transforming into one intriguing newspaper scoop after another. However, the story was straightforward in essence. Hanabusa was a man working as a technician at Fukuoka Electric Light Company who had moved to his present home in this neighborhood last spring with his elderly grandmother Oshino and young bride Tsuya-ko. While the couple’s relationship went without saying, what had become the talk of the neighborhood was the unusually harmonious bond between Grandmother Oshino and the bride—remarkable even among blood relatives. When Keigo was away at work, locals often witnessed the young bride Tsuya-ko leading Grandmother Oshino by the hand to stroll through the nearby grounds of Hachiman Shrine or accompany her to the public baths. There were even rumors that Grandmother Oshino had urged the bride to pressure Keigo into resuming his evening drinking habit after he’d temporarily quit.

However, once it became known that the bride was pregnant, Grandmother Oshino stopped visiting Hachiman Shrine.

"If you were to fall or something happened, I'd have no way to face Keigo." "Since I'll be sewing the baby's clothes for you, you mustn't push yourself too hard." "In return, you must give birth to a boy without fail." She kept repeating this day and night. The bride would laugh obediently and say, "Yes... I'll definitely have a boy." ...this story of their pact was told to the shopkeeper by Keigo Hanabusa when he came to buy tobacco. Then when the bride contracted typhoid and died about ten days ago after delivering a stillborn five-month-old boy, her husband Keigo—who knows what came over him—started drinking heavily and raving from the night of the wake onward.

“My wife died, but right up to her end she kept raving about Carp Streamers in her delirium, so once the memorial service is over, I’ll erect a splendid one at her grave.” “That’s the best way to honor her memory, I tell ya, Grandma.”

As he shouted these words again and again at the top of his voice, the neighbors who had come for the wake found themselves unable to remain seated. Even on the way back from conducting the funeral procession for the fetus and mother, Keigo turned his glazed eyes toward the unpainted wooden grave marker, “I’ll put up a huge one for you soon.” “AHAHAHAHA!” he roared with laughter, making everyone avert their faces. Yet Keigo—whether from some sudden change of heart on that return journey—withdrew the remaining savings of about 200 yen from the post office and vanished without trace that very night. With Grandmother Oshino—an elderly woman—left behind at home, concerned neighbors split into two or three groups to search for him, but no sign of him could be found. Some claimed to have spotted him in Yanagimachi’s pleasure quarter, but even those reports proved unreliable now. Meanwhile, Grandmother Oshino made porridge from what little rice remained and ate it alone, though when neighbors took pity and offered her provisions,

“Keigo will return soon, so please don’t trouble yourselves… Oh… you…” saying this and pushing back, “After we’ve gone through all this trouble to worry about you...” there were also those who found her irritating. However, though this old woman seemed somewhat composed at first glance, she was in fact completely senile; peering through the storm shutter gaps revealed that she left the mosquito net hanging day and night, laid out bedding as usual, and even lined up the “baby’s red futon” she had sewn while waiting—a sight that left the neighbors thoroughly creeped out. Perhaps she imagined herself house-sitting for a couple and their three children who had gone out, but no one bothered to ask her about such things. In any case, since this abnormal old woman was cooking all by herself—a deeply concerning situation—they had been deliberating until today whether to report it to the police or what to do. However, since the two-week memorial would arrive in a couple of days, depending on circumstances Keigo might return... such was the gist of Okami-san's account.

I thanked her and left the hardware store, then doubled back to circle around Hanabusa’s neighborhood. After verifying a few facts, I returned to the main office.

“…A man who erected carp streamers at the grave of his deceased beloved wife and fetus before vanishing without a trace… Leaving behind an elderly grandmother awaiting starvation death…” An article along those lines, accompanied by photographs of the carp streamers at the grave and the old woman seated before the mosquito net, appeared in the next morning’s newspaper. My wife, who had read that in the kitchen, “Oh my…” “Who would write such an unpleasant article?”

When she said this, I couldn’t help but let out a wry smile.

“Mr. Reporter— I have had my eyes opened after reading your newspaper article. I, having lost my wife and child to grief, drowned myself in wine and women, forgetting my grandmother of profound benevolence and great kindness. I was drinking my way through Yanagimachi and Ohama, carousing madly with painted women. And then, after seeing that newspaper article, when I finally returned home last night, Grandmother was hanging dead from the mosquito net’s hook with my wife’s red obi around her neck. At her feet lay that section of your newspaper with the photograph spread out. It must have been some kind neighbor who threw it in for her.

Mr. Reporter— The pole of those carp streamers was something I erected in my drunken state, but I never dreamed that catching your attention would expose such unfilial shame. However, I resent no one. This all happened because my self-cultivation was insufficient. I will commit suicide as I have no excuse to offer to all of you. 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 company.

May 11th Keigo Hanabusa Fukuoka Jihou Reporter Sir” The Editor-in-Chief snorted and tossed this letter—written in pencil on Western-style paper—onto my desk.

“It just arrived. That man dropped the letter in a postbox, visited his wife’s grave, wrapped the streamer’s cord around his neck, and swung into the afterlife with the carp streamers. About two hours ago, passengers on that down train through Matsubara found him—they say there was a small whiskey bottle smashed at his feet... HAHAHAHA!” I stared blankly at the Editor-in-Chief’s face. The Editor-in-Chief spoke, still wearing his sneer.

“Your pen has become quite skilled, hasn’t it?”

I could neither laugh nor do anything, and somehow ended up hanging my head. With my hat in one hand, I sheepishly exited the editorial room and ran down the stairs in one go.

When I rushed into the café in Higashi Nakasu, the waitresses—old acquaintances—let out a rallying cry and stood up.

“Well… Isn’t this a rare sight… Well…”

“What’s wrong… with you… lately…”

“Welcomeee!” I glared fixedly from under the dim paper lantern’s shadow. “Shut up... Bring whiskey.” As I barked those words, the phantom image of those carp streamers surged before my eyes. Dragging trails of black, green, and red droplets across everything... Sagging limply...