Pathway to Japanese Literature

Account by Former 17th-rank Official Leonard Kuest Miyazawa Kenji Translated and Narrated

At that time, I was employed at Molio City's Museum Bureau. As an 18th-rank official—positioned near the very bottom of the bureau hierarchy with only a meager salary—I nevertheless worked each day with genuine pleasure, for my duties involved collecting and organizing specimens, a task I had loved since childhood. Particularly around that period, Molio City was converting its racetrack into a botanical garden. When the expansive grounds—with their scenic surroundings where acacia trees had been planted, still retaining ticket offices and signal station buildings—were transferred to our bureau's jurisdiction, I came to live alone in that guardhouse under the designation of night watchman, accompanied by a small phonograph purchased through monthly installments and about twenty records. I built a small wooden enclosure using planks in what had formerly been the horse stalls there and kept a single goat. Each morning I would milk it, soak my cold bread in the milk to eat, then place a few documents and magazines into my black leather bag, polish my shoes until they gleamed, and stride across the poplars' elongated shadows lining the avenue as I departed for the city office.

The translucent winds of Ihatov; the blue sky retaining a chill even at summer's core; Molio City adorned with beautiful forests; the waves of grass glittering in its suburbs.

And now, as I sat thinking in this dark colossal stone building, all those many people I had encountered there—Fazero and Rosaro; Miro the shepherd; red-cheeked children; Temo the landowner; Bogant Destupago of Dr. Wildcat fame—appeared before me like nostalgic blue magic lantern slides from a bygone era. Now, while attaching those small headings from before, I resolved to quietly write down that year in Ihatov from May to October.

I. The Escaped Goat

It was the last Sunday of May.

I was awakened by the lively sound of the city's church bells. The sun had already risen quite high, and everything around glittered. When I looked at the clock, it was exactly six o'clock. I immediately put on just my vest and went to check on the goat. When I looked inside the shed, it lay utterly silent with only an indentation in the straw—those short horns and white beard were nowhere to be seen. "The weather was just too splendid, so the General must've gone out on his own."

Half-laughing, half-muttering to myself, I swept my gaze around from the signal station ahead across the inner field of the racetrack where I usually let him roam, past the poplars to where the white church tower at the city's edge showed its face through the trees. But nowhere could I see that white head or back. I circled around the stable, but he was still nowhere to be found. "I wonder if goats ever remember their former homes or the paths they came by, like horses or dogs do, and return there."

I thought to myself. Well, once that thought took hold, I became unbearably eager to find out immediately. However, unlike inside the bureau offices, at the racetrack there were neither knowledgeable old clerks nor any dictionaries nearby that might have recorded such matters, so without any particular plan, I walked halfway around the racetrack and then set off across the field along the same path where villagers had previously brought my goat.

In those fields, both oats and rye were already sprouting, and there were areas that had been freshly dug up, apparently prepared for new plantings. Before I knew it, I found myself on the path leading from town toward the southwestern village. Ahead came peasant women in black garments with white cloths over their heads walking in my direction. Realizing my situation, I decided to turn back—there I stood in the middle of an open field wearing only a vest as I'd woken up, bare-faced and hatless, having rushed out without even knowing whether the goat was present. But by then retreating would have been awkward; the approaching group was nearly within clear view. Steeling myself, I strode forward energetically, bowed, and made my inquiry.

"You haven't seen a goat come wandering this way, have you?"

The peasant women all came to a complete stop. They seemed to be on their way to church, since they were carrying Bibles. "A single goat has wandered over this way—have you by any chance seen it?"

They exchanged glances. Then one of them answered.

“Well, we simply came straight here.” Exactly—when a goat strays off, it doesn’t walk along roads like people do. I bowed.

“No, thank you for your time.” The women had gone away. I should head back now—but turning back would mean passing those women again—so I resolved to meander further under pretense of strolling through fields where no goat could reasonably be found. What an utterly futile walk this was proving to be! A dry chuckle escaped me unbidden. At that moment appeared from yonder path a youth of five-and-twenty years accompanied by a lad near seventeen summers bearing shovel upon shoulder. No alternative remained but this pantomime of inquiry—so thinking—I inclined my torso once more in formal greeting.

"A single goat has wandered over this way—have you by any chance seen it?"

“A goat, you say? No. “Did you take it out for a walk and let it escape?” “No, it escaped from the shed. “No, thank you.” I bowed and set off walking again. Then the child spoke up from behind.

“Oh, someone’s coming from over there.” “I wonder if that’s it.”

I turned around and looked in the direction they had pointed.

“That’s Fazero—but could that be a goat?” “It’s a goat! “Ah, that’s definitely it! “There’s no way Fazero would be dragging around some goat at this hour.”

Indeed, it was a goat. But perhaps it was being taken to town for some other sale—well, I might as well go as far as that guidepost and see—I began approaching that direction. A ruddy-cheeked child of about seventeen, wearing only a vest, had fastened a leather strap around the neck of what appeared to be my female goat and now approached me laughing as he held its end. Though it did seem to be mine, I came to a halt while wondering what to say. Then the child also came to a halt and bowed to me.

“This goat is yours, right?” “It does seem so.” “When I came out, it was wandering all alone by itself.” “Do goats really remember paths they’ve walked once before, just like dogs do?” “Of course they do. Well—I’ll hand it over.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” “You see, I came out searching without even washing my face.” “Did you come all the way from there?”

“Ah, I’m at the racetrack, you see.” “From there?”

The child, removing the leather strap from the goat’s neck, looked across the field at the row of faintly bluish acacias shimmering and swaying in the heat haze.

“You’ve come quite a long way, haven’t you?” “Ah, well then, I’ll be going this way.” “Goodbye.” “Oh, wait a second. “I want to give you something, but I don’t have anything at all.” “No, I don’t need anything. “Bringing back the goat was interesting enough.” “But see here—that just doesn’t sit right with me.” “Right—you don’t need a chain.” Thinking I could manage without a watch chain, I removed the silver one.

“No.” “It has a magnet too.”

Then the child’s face flushed bright red, but soon returned to its usual composure, “It’s no use. You can’t find it with a magnet,” he murmured vaguely. “You mean you can’t find it with a magnet?” I asked in surprise.

“Ah.” The child became slightly flustered, as though something he’d been concealing in his heart had been seen through. “What are you trying to find?” The child hesitated for a while but finally seemed to resolve himself and spoke.

“Polano’s Plaza.” “Polano’s Plaza? Hmm, I think I’ve heard of that before. What was it again... Polano’s Plaza.” “It’s an old legend, but it exists again these days.” “Ah, that’s right! I heard about it many times when I was little. That place in the middle of the field where they hold festivals, right? You’re supposed to count the numbers on those clover flowers as you go.” “Ah, that’s just the old folktale version. But it seems like it’s actually been around lately too.”

“Why?” “Because when we go out into the field at night, we hear those sounds coming from somewhere.”

“Why not head toward where the sound is coming from?” “We’ve gone out together countless times, but we just end up getting lost.”

“But if you can hear it, it shouldn’t be that far away, right?” “No, the fields of Ihatov are vast, you know.” “On foggy days, even Miro would get lost, you know.” “That’s true, but we do have a map, you see.” “There’s a map of the field?” “Ah, it must span about four sheets, I suppose.” “With that map, you can see everything—roads, woods, all of it.” “It might be somewhat altered, but you can probably understand most of it.” “Well then, as a thank you, how about I buy that map and send it to you?”

“Yeah.” The child’s face turned red as he spoke. “So your name is Fazero, then. How should I write the address for you, I wonder?”

“I’ll find some free time and come to your place.” “If by ‘free time’ you mean today, that works too.” “I’ve got work.” “But today’s Sunday, isn’t it?” “No, I don’t get Sundays.” “Why?” “’Cause I gotta work.” “Is this your own work?” “At Master’s place. They’ve all gone out already and are working in the ridges. Weeding the wheat.” “So you’re employed at Master’s place then.”

“Yeah.” “What about your parents?” “Don’t have any.” “An older brother or someone?” “I have a sister.” “Where is she?” “She’s still at Master’s place.” “I see...” “But my sister might end up going to Dr. Wildcat’s place.”

“What’s that? “And this ‘Dr.Wildcat’?”

“It’s a nickname. Actually, his real name is Destupago.” “Destupago? Bogant Destupago? The prefectural assembly member.” “Yeah.”

“He’s a bad guy, I tell you. “Is his house around here?” “Ah, from my master’s house you can see…” “Hey! What’re you dawdling around for?” A loud voice came from behind. When he looked, an elderly but sturdy farmer wearing a red cap stood there angrily clutching a leather whip. “I came expecting another stretch of work done, but here you are still jawing away.” “Get back to work now!”

“Okay, then. Goodbye.”

“Ah, goodbye then. I’m always back from the office by five-thirty.” “Yeah.”

Fazero, carrying a water flask and a hoe, hurriedly entered the road ahead. The farmer now turned to me and said. “I don’t know where you hail from, but I’ll have no more of your meddling in my affairs from here on out.” “No, you see, I came searching after my goat had escaped, and since that child brought it here, I was simply expressing my thanks.” “No, that’s quite unnecessary.” “That thing called a goat does have legs and walks, you see.” “Hey Fazero! Get moving, you idiot! I said get moving!”

The farmer’s face flushed bright red as he raised his hand and cracked the leather whip with a sharp snap.

"Isn't it violent to crack a leather whip when employing people?" The farmer deliberately thrust his face forward and said: "This here whip? "You're talking about this whip? "This whip—it's not for using on people, you see. "It's a whip for driving horses. "There's four horses gone over there, you see. "There, like this." The farmer snapped the whip fiercely again and again right before my face. I felt blood surge to my head in a rush. But thinking this wasn't the time for confrontation, I looked toward the goat. The goat had wandered off into the distance while grazing here and there. The farmer headed in Fazero's direction, and I too started walking toward the goat. When I caught up and looked back, the entire field shimmered with heat haze stretching to an indigo horizon where farmers' red headscarves swayed chaotically. Beyond that fiercer glare, I saw a farm tool glinting white, a horse moving like a black shadow puppet, and what might've been Fazero or another child frantically waving hands to urge the horse onward.

II. The Clover Lights

Then, after about ten days had passed, one evening as I returned from the office and was removing my cuffs with both hands, suddenly Fazero popped his head in through the doorway. And while I was still taken aback,

“You’ve finally come. Good evening,” he said. “Ah, thank you for earlier. “I’ve got the map all prepared.” “That sound from before is still happening.” “You bet. Last night was just terrible.” “Tonight I just had to go searching no matter what, so I came out with Miro the shepherd.” “Is everything alright on your end?” “Yeah.” Fazero replied somewhat vaguely. “Your master’s quite a fearsome man, isn’t he? What’s his name?”

“It’s Temo.” “Temo... That name does sound familiar somehow, I must say.” “You might’ve heard it—he delivers fruits and vegetables to all sorts of government offices.” “I see. Anyway, here’s the map.”

I spread out the map I had bought and left by the doorway.

“Is it okay if I call Miro too?” “Is someone coming? Sure thing.” “Miro, come here. Let’s look at the map.” Then from inside the goat shed emerged a young man about three years older than Fazero, wearing proper gaiters and a tattered blue leather jacket, his complexion fair and pleasant, who bowed to me. “Hmm, I’m not very good with maps. Which way is west?” “The top is north. Set it that way.” Fazero matched the map to the outside scenery and placed it on the floor.

“There, this is east and this is west. Right now, we’re here at this curved section of the racetrack.” “Which one’s the dry distillation plant?” Miro asked. “The dry distillation plant—it’s not on this map... Maybe over here?”

I spread out another one.

“I don’t see it here. When was this built?” “Since last year.” “That’s not it. This map was surveyed much earlier. What kind of area is the factory located in?” “On the edge of Muraado’s Forest.” “Ah, this must be it. What kind of tree is this? Oak or birch, perhaps. It’s not Japanese arborvitae or cypress, right?” “It’s oak and birch.” “Ah, this must be it.” “I really think last night’s sound came from here.”

“Let’s go, let’s go! Let’s go take a look.” Fazero had already grabbed the map and jumped up. “Can I come too?”

“Of course! I’ve been wanting to say that myself.”

“Then I’ll come too.” “Wait a second.”

I hurriedly prepared. Though the moon would be out, I thought we still might not see the map, so I brought a glass-cased lantern too.

“Alright, let’s go.” I slammed the door shut and followed behind Fazero and Miro.

The sun had already set, and the sky had turned blue like an old pond. The grass around us and the acacia trees alike were at that hour of the day when they appeared their deepest green.

We had already crossed through the middle of the racetrack and were entering the narrow path that led straight into the field. When I looked back, my house appeared quite small, glowing yellow in the distance.

“What do you say is at Polano’s Plaza if we go?” As I followed Miro, I asked Fazero. “They say there’s orchestras and wine and everything.” “I don’t want to drink alcohol or anything, but I want to take everyone there.” “You did say that, didn’t you? I heard such things when I was little too.” “Moreover, first of all—if you go there, they say anyone can become good at singing.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said. But does that sort of thing even truly exist anymore?” “But I can hear it. I don’t need anything else—I just want to sing well. Right? Miro feels the same way, don’t you?” “Yeah,” Miro nodded. I’d always thought someone like Miro must naturally be quite a good singer. “When I was little, I’d always go out to play in the fields around this time,” Fazero said.

“Is that so?”

“Then Mother would say, ‘Go on then,’ and tell me not to be tricked by the owls.” “What did she say?” “Mother would say, ‘Go on then,’ and tell me not to be tricked by the owls.”

“By owls?” “Yeah, about the owls.” “Well, when I was even smaller—like really this little—I went out into the field.” “Then off in the distance, there’d be something going ‘Someone was eaten, someone was eaten.’” “That was the owl.” “Because I was a foolish little kid, I went charging ahead.” “And I went into the woods, got lost, and cried.” “And from then on, Mother would always say that.”

“Where is your mother now?” As I recalled what had happened before, I quietly asked. “She’s gone.” Fazero said sadly.

“The other day, you said your sister might go to Destupago’s place, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, Sister doesn’t want to go.” “But Master says she has to go.”

“Temo, you mean?” “Yeah, Master’s scared of Dr. Wildcat, you know.” “Why do they call him Dr. Wildcat?” “I don’t really know. Does Miro know?” “Yeah.” Miro turned toward us and said.

“They say he’s in the business of going around catching wildcats and selling them overseas.” “He catches wildcats?” “So it’s a zoo business，huh?” “It’s not a zoo business.” Miro，too，fell silent as if he didn’t know either. By then，the surroundings were completely dark，with only the western horizon glowing blue like an old pond’s light，and thereabouts，the grass turned a bluish-black. “Oh! The Clover Lights lit up.” Fazero shouted.

Sure enough, within the dark grassy thicket ahead, small white clover flowers resembling round paper lanterns were lined up here and there, and the entire area was filled with a thick, honeyed fragrance. “You know, those lights—if you look up close, they’re actually clusters of bluish-white lights shaped like tiny moths.” “Hmm, I thought they were just single markers.” “There, see? Right? Just like I said. And they’ve even got numbers on them!”

We squatted down and looked at the flowers. Indeed, upon closer inspection, each flower bore small, tea-colored markings that resembled Arabic numerals—exactly as one might imagine them. “Miro, what’s yours?” “One thousand two hundred fifty-six? No—seventeen thousand and fifty-eight?” “Mine’s three thousand four hundred twenty—six.”

“Is it really written that clearly?” No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t read them that clearly. But by then, the clover lights were already scattered everywhere, filling the entire area. “Three thousand eight hundred sixty-six. If we just count up to five thousand, Polano’s Plaza should be right around here by now. But…”

“But there’s not a single trace of that wonderful sound you guys described, is there?” “You’ll hear it any moment now.” “This one’s two thousand five hundred fifty-six.” “Counting those numbers will certainly prove futile.”

At last I spoke.

“Why?” Both Fazero and Miro stood straight and looked at me. “Why? First of all, I don’t believe those numbers are actually written on the flowers—it must be a trick of my eyes. If that sound truly does reach us soon, I think the best course would be to head straight toward it. Anyway, let’s keep moving further ahead. After all, I’ve come around here many times myself. This area still hasn’t even reached as far north as that fork in the road. Muraado Forest must still be quite a ways off. Hey, Miro.”

“It certainly is.” “Well then, let’s go. Come on—let’s move further ahead and check those flower numbers.” “They’re still around two or three thousand after all.”

Miro nodded and started walking. Fazero also followed silently. We, our clover lights glowing a pale blue in full bloom, walked steadily and silently across the field ahead, which stretched like some wondrous striped fabric streaked with countless stripes. At the edge of that field, where the pitch-black horizon met the sky, the heavens gradually shifted to a dull steel hue, several small stars began to glimmer, and the air around us grew ever sweeter. Before long, sensing somehow that our shadows now fell forward, I turned to look behind us—and there, oh! From within the hazy glow of distant Molio City’s lights, the sixteenth-day blue moon peered out peculiarly flattened at half its face. We all let out an involuntary cry. Fazero raised both hands as if greeting that direction and leapt up.

Suddenly, in the bluish-white dim field beyond, a trembling like that of a cello or double bass quietly arose. “There, see? There!” Fazero tapped my hand.

I too stood straight and listened intently. The sound trembled softly, softly, as if whispering. But which direction was it coming from? I stood frozen in bewilderment. No matter where I listened—south, west, north, even the direction we had come from—the sound seemed to rise and fall joyfully, joyfully, even beneath the ground. It didn’t seem to be just one or two of them either. They would disappear, tangle together, coalesce—it all defied description.

“It’s exactly as the ancient stories foretold. I’ve become utterly disoriented.”

“The numbers here are still around two thousand three hundred.” Fazero examined the clover lights—now grown even brighter under the risen moon—and spoke. “These numbers aren’t reliable at all.” I too crouched down. At that moment, I saw a small black bee move from one flower’s glow to another’s. “Ah, look—those bees buzzing and quivering since earlier? The moon’s appearance must have roused them to work.” “Look—the field’s already filled with bees.”

I thought they would understand now, but both Miro and Fazero fell silent and showed no sign of agreeing. "Hey, it's the bees, right? That's why we couldn't tell where they were coming from all over the field." Miro finally said. "That's not it." "If it's bees you mean, I've known about them all along," Fazero countered. "But last night I could even hear people's laughter much more clearly." "People's laughter—deep booming voices."

“Nope.” “Hmm, I wonder...” Once again finding myself at a loss, I crossed my arms and stood up.

It was at that moment. From far across the field in the northwest came a resonant "bwoom"—undoubtedly the sound of a trombone or bass. I turned firmly toward it. Then the sound could be heard from the west as well. I shuddered involuntarily. Had someone cast a spell over the entire field, or was Polano’s Plaza—that strangely joyous place from old tales—truly forming in the heart of this empty daytime field? My daytime tasks at the office—labeling specimens and delivering documents to the director—now seemed to belong to an entirely different world.

“So there really is something here after all, I wonder.”

“There is. Because this still isn’t the place yet.” “If we can’t get our bearings at all, then we really must follow the numbers like in the old legends—but how high do we have to count to reach Polano’s Plaza?” “Five thousand.”

“Five thousand? What number did you say this place was again?”

“About three thousand.”

“Then, should we check whether heading north or west will increase the numbers?”

It was at that moment.

“Ha ha ha.

“You lot want to go to Polano’s Plaza too, eh?” Someone behind us laughed loudly.

“What’s this now—you Dr. Wildcat’s Coachman?” Miro said. “So you three’re crawlin’ around countin’ up them lights, eh? Ha ha ha.” The bent-legged, one-eyed old man kept his hands stuffed in his coat pockets as he laughed raucously again.

“We’re counting them. Then, old man—do you know? Does Polano’s Plaza still exist now?” Fazero asked. “There is. There is, but there ain’t no Polano’s Plaza like you lot are looking for—crawling on your bellies counting flowers like that.” “Then what kind is there?” “There’s a better kind.” “What kind is it?” “Well, you lot probably have no use for it anyway.” The old man cleared his throat with a guttural sound.

“Do you go there often, old man?” “Ain’t like I never go—it’s a fine place, y’know.” “Old man, you’re drunk tonight, huh?” “Ah, ’cause they gave me top-shelf straw wine.” The old man cleared his throat again with a guttural sound. “Can’t we go there?” “You can’t go—can’t go! The devil’s finally got us.” The old man pressed a hand to his forehead and staggered. A staghorn beetle came flying in and seemed to collide.

Miro said.

“Old man—if you tell us which way Polano’s Plaza lies—I’ll sing you a devil’s song for your trouble.” “That’s an ill omen—why don’t you lot just keep crawling around then.”

The old man huffed with anger and strode briskly across the clover before disappearing southward.

“Old man.” “Wait.” “I’ll take your horse to cool it down again.” Fazero called out, but the old man kept marching away.

Miro remained silent for a while, but finally seeming unable to contain himself,

“Hey, I’m gonna sing now,” he declared. Fazero seemed in no state for that, but I had long thought Miro must be a good singer, so I clapped my hands. Miro undid the buttons on his coat and shirt and took a small breath. “The rhinoceros beetle, wild boar warrior, The moonlight too, the clover’s— The glowing lights too go unseen, comes flying recklessly collides with the Wildcat Coachman

In a panic, swaying unsteadily, barely catches itself from tumbling down, hastily tightens its helmet— The moonlight and the clover's glow— Neither catches its eye as it goes, flies off in a direction all wrong.

However, from the direction the old man had gone, a thin, high voice—

“Fazero, Fazero,” came a voice calling out. “Oh, Sis, I’m coming now.” Fazero turned toward the sound and shouted back. The distant voice ceased.

“It’s no use—the Master must be calling.” “We should’ve gone to check out the forest sooner, huh?” Miro abruptly gained momentum and spoke rapidly.

“It’s okay. “I’ve had my suspicions about that Coachman or that old man from the town’s dry goods store for a while now. “They’re always drunk these days—those guys must know about Polano’s Plaza. “Plus, I’ve run into carts piled all weird with dried grass out in the fields loads of times. “Fazero, you—pretend you don’t know anything and go home to sleep tonight. “I’ll definitely find Polano’s Plaza within five or six days.”

“Is that so?” “I don’t quite get it.”

Then another voice called out. “Fazero, come here. You’ve got an errand to run in town.” “Ah, I’m coming now. I’m heading straight to Master’s place—can you get back to the racetrack on your own?” “Of course I can return—this is an area I often come to during the day. Here, I’ll give you the map.” “Yeah, I’ll get it to Miro. I don’t have time to come to the field during the day.”

At that moment, amidst the clover flowers and moonlight ahead, stood a beautiful girl.

Fazero said. “Sis, this is the person. I got the map.”

The girl did not come over to us and silently bowed. I also silently bowed.

“Well then, goodbye—I’ve got to hurry.” Fazero started running. Rosaro bowed to us once more and then hurried after him. Miro silently faced north, cupping his ear. I said, “Polano’s Plaza is exactly what this place should be called,” thinking to myself that the Coachman and Miro were still half-asleep in their dreams.

“Miro,your singing is really good.” “You don’t needto go allthewaytoPolano’sPlaza tolearn.” “Wellthen, goodbye.”

Miro bowed politely.

And then I made my way back home through that beautiful field, inhaling the honeyed fragrance to my heart’s content.

III. Polano’s Plaza

It was the evening of exactly five days later—a Tuesday. That day, I had been arguing fiercely with my colleagues at the office about whether to taxidermize a dead polar bear, which left me thoroughly irritated. Hoping to calm myself down a little, I was drinking tartaric acid mixed into cold water when a clear whistle sounded from far away. The rhythm was unmistakably identical to that feeling when Fazero had brought his goat or hurried through the field, so before I knew it, I muttered, "It's finally come."

It was Fazero after all. Before I had even finished that cup of tartaric acid, he was already standing at the doorway, his face bright red.

“I figured it out—finally! I marked the whole path I took last night with direction signs. You can even tell by looking at the map. Tonight we’ll definitely reach Polano’s Plaza without fail. Miro went ahead during the day—he promised to come meet us. I’ll go check first—if it’s real, tomorrow I’ll bring everyone along.” My heart leapt with shared excitement. “Is that right? I’ll go too. What should I wear? I wonder who’ll be there.”

“What does it matter what you wear? Let’s hurry. I don’t even know who’s there.” I hurriedly tied my tie, donned my new summer hat, and went outside. When we reached the place where we had last parted ways, the evening’s blue light was dimly spilling over the clover, their leaves’ claw-like markings nearly faded from view. Fazero stood on tiptoe, scanning our surroundings for a moment before suddenly dashing ahead. After some time, Fazero came to an abrupt halt.

“Ah, this is it—there we go.” When I looked, there stood what appeared to be something Fazero had made—a single pole with a cardboard arrow shaped like a pointer fixed atop it, oriented northwest. “Come on, we’re going this way. “You can see two small birch trees ahead. “That’s our next marker. “Let’s hurry before it gets dark.” Fazero broke into a full sprint.

Truly, the clover lights had already begun to glow all around there. I once again followed after Fazero and ran.

“Let’s hurry, let’s hurry! If Dr. Wildcat’s coachman spots us, it’ll be trouble.” Fazero turned around and continued running as he said this.

However, reaching the two birch trees we had seen earlier proved far from immediate. Fazero ran hard. I, too, ran with genuine earnestness.

When we finally arrived there and Fazero came to a halt, the surroundings had already turned completely to night, and the birch trees stood silhouetted jet-black against the sky.

The clover flowers were bright in exact opposition to that, as if they were made of real quartz lamps. And upon closer inspection, just as we had all discussed the previous night, each light was composed of small white moth-shaped illuminations, which were truly shining splendidly. Here and there, tall red lights shone crisply, and at their stems were attached perky green leaves. Fazero swiftly climbed that birch tree. He gazed westward across the field for some time, then suddenly swung down, leaped, and descended.

“The next marker’s already out of sight. But since Polano’s Plaza should be straight west from here, let’s walk aiming for that slightly bright part of the clouds. It can’t be that far now.” We set off walking once more. Suddenly, from somewhere, came the abundant sound of beetles’ metallic wings droning through the air like taut wires. Amidst that noise, the clamor of other instruments and people’s voices would indeed flicker into earshot from time to time, only to fade away again.

After walking for a while, Fazero suddenly stopped, grabbed my arm, and pointed to the western edge of the field. I also peered in that direction, staggered, and rubbed my eyes. There, trees of some kind—seven or eight of them—were glowing blue as if emitting light from their very bodies on their own, and the surrounding sky had become dimly bright. “Fazero?” A voice suddenly called out from ahead.

“Ah, you made it. How’s it going?” “We’re holding up. It’s packed over there. Looks like Dr.Wildcat’s shown up too.” “Dr.Wildcat?” Fazero tensed. “Still—let’s head in together. Anyone who finds Polano’s Plaza gets to enter—that’s the rule.”

“Alright, let’s go.” Fazero declared clearly.

We walked toward those lights as our guide. Both Miro and Fazero seemed very worried about something. They completely stopped saying anything at all. Then, this time, I found my energy surging. Was this truly the old tales coming to life as they said, or was it something else entirely? And what in the world was Dr. Wildcat doing here? I just couldn't stand not going to see anymore. Particularly that day, I still had more than half of my salary remaining, and even if I had to pay money, I thought it would be safe enough to treat Fazero and Miro.

“Alright, this time, you follow me.” “There’s nothing scary about Dr. Wildcat at all.”

I now took the lead and pressed forward with increasing speed. The sound of beetles' wings grew ever louder, and every branch of the blue tree came into clear view. Beneath the tree, white shirts and black shadows flitted about among the crowd. I could also see someone raising a hand and saying something. As we drew nearer, I became convinced this must indeed be the genuine Polano’s Plaza. The blue shape from earlier revealed itself as a sizable Japanese alder tree, its crown strung with tinsel that made even the leaves glitter as they swayed. Above it, various butterflies and moths formed lines that spun ceaselessly in whirling circles.

In the beautiful summer sky, the Milky Way was now gradually shifting from the direction we had come toward that side, while near the southern pitch-black horizon, something had blurred into a white explosion-like appearance.

The fragrance of clover and various fruits, everyone’s laughter—and then finally everyone formed groups and began to dance. Though they appeared to be seven or eight people, a genuine orchestra indeed began playing a cheerful waltz. When the dance had completed one full round, everyone broke apart and took up their glasses. And they were gulping it down while shouting "Woo-hoo!" The shouts—whether it was just their imagination—also seemed to sound like "Long live Destupago."

“That’s Dr. Wildcat.” Fazero pointed at a broad-shouldered man sitting alone at a table across the way—a man in a yellow-striped shirt and red leather jacket, noisily gulping down liquor.

Six or seven people threw confetti and ribbons, which glittered like snow or blossoms as they fluttered down all around.

We had already come to the front of Polano's Plaza and stopped.

Just then, Destupago stood up with a cup in hand. “Hey, waiter! Why aren’t you pouring me any wine?”

Then the waiter in a white uniform came running over in a fluster. “Yes yes, most terribly sorry. You being seated and all made it slip my mind.”

“Whether I’m seated or standing, I am still I! “Ah, splendid. “So you gentlemen intend to toast in my honor, eh? “Very well, very well. Pr-pr-prosit!”

At that, everyone drank up.

I had become so timid that I even considered turning back, but since I’d made such bold declarations to Fazero and the others earlier, I found myself unable to either hold my ground or flee. Steeling myself to accept whatever might happen, I took off my hat and led the two into the light. At once, everyone ceased their commotion and stared at us with suspicious expressions. Then they turned their gaze toward Destupago.

Then Destupago tilted his head slightly and pondered. He looked as though he had seen me before but couldn’t quite recall. Then a man in a summer frock coat went to his side and whispered something. Destupago cast a displeased glance at me, then nodded reluctantly. Then, sure enough, Temo had come wearing a frock coat. That Temo brought three glass cups with handles and silently handed them starting with me, then to Miro and Fazero. While handing it to Fazero, he silently glared. Fazero recoiled backward. The waiter attempted to pour from a large, unlabeled bottle nearby the wine everyone had been drinking up until now.

It was there that I spoke.

“No, you see, we don’t drink alcohol, so give us carbonated water or something.”

“There is no carbonated water.” The waiter said. “Then just give us plain water.” I said.

For some reason, everyone fell silent and stared at us as if their gazes might bore holes through us. I also became somewhat embarrassed. “No, Mr. Destupago doesn’t treat people to water.” Temo said.

“It’s not that we’re expecting hospitality. In the middle of the field, at Polano’s Plaza where we counted clover lights, I am thirsty and want to drink water.” Thinking it was too late to turn back now, I stated clearly. “Clover lights? Ha ha ha!” Temo burst into laughter. Destupago also laughed. Everyone else followed suit and laughed. “As for Polano’s Plaza—I’m sorry to say—it belongs to Mr. Destupago now.” Temo said quietly.

At that moment, Dr. Wildcat said.

“Alright, alright. If they’re so keen on it, let them have their water. But I tell you, whenever those water-drinking folks come around, even Polano’s Plaza loses its luster a bit.”

“Yes.” Temo bowed, then quietly said to Fazero:

“Fazero, why’d you come out here? “Get lost. “When we get back, I’ll beat you so hard you won’t be able to stand—keep that in mind.” Fazero recoiled backward again. “What’s that child?” Destupago asked. “He is Rosaro’s younger brother.” Temo bowed and answered. Then Destupago turned away without replying. At that moment, the band began playing something folk-song-like. Everyone began forming a circle again to start dancing. Then Destupago,

“Hey, hey—not that one. I want you to play that thing called Cat’s Whiskers.”

Then the cellist from the band said, “We don’t have the sheet music for that piece right now.” Then Destupago, who was already quite drunk, “I said... do it! Do it! Do it!”

The band reluctantly began playing Cat’s Whiskers, all using the same sheet music.

Everyone reluctantly began dancing. Then Destupago started dancing too. He wasn’t dancing with everyone but rather moving around deliberately to obstruct them. Disgusted, everyone gradually stopped and ended up standing in a circle around Destupago. Then Destupago began clowning through a solo dance. Eventually he would step right before people as if trampling them, or suddenly leap up like someone picking a fight—each time causing the crowd to scatter in disarray. The gentleman in the summer frock from earlier tried to say something while anxiously wringing his hands, but Destupago intimidated even him into retreating. The band kept playing reluctantly for a while but finally quit in disgust. Then Destupago sat down in his chair as if exhausted,

“Hey, pour,” he said, then immediately downed two more cups in quick succession. Then two people who appeared to be Miro’s companions came out and said to him:

“Hey Miro, since you’ve come all this way, why don’t you give us a song?” “Everyone’s been singing and dancing since earlier—they’re tired.”

Miro, "No," he said, shaking off their hands—though truth be told, he had come from the start burning to sing—and when the band members readied themselves as if to accompany him should he begin, his face flushed full rose-red, his eyes gleamed, and his breath turned rapid. Before I knew it, I too—

“Go on, go on. Do it properly!” I said.

Then Miro, as if finally resolved, suddenly bared his throat and stood atop an empty crate beneath the han tree. "What shall we play?" The cellist asked with a laugh. "Please play Frozentory."

“Frozentory... We don’t have the sheet music for that one, and it’s such an old song.” The band members exchanged glances with wry smiles and conferred briefly,

“Well then, since only our clarinetist knows it, we’ll have the clarinet and drum just keep the beat. If that works for you, start singing from the second verse.”

Everyone clapped their hands. Temo tilted his head as if preparing to listen. The band began to play. Miro began to sing. “Around six o’clock this morning, at Waltrawara’s When I tried to cross　　　　　the mountain pass The morning mist at that moment　　　was just beginning to fade, A single chestnut tree　　　　　cast a halo. I sat down on the rock at the summit When I started nibbling on my breakfast hard bread,

That chestnut tree suddenly began to shake, What came down were two electric squirrels— “I hurriedly…” “Hey, hey! You can’t be making mistakes like that!” Dr. Wildcat suddenly barked. “What do you mean?” Miro stammered in astonishment.

“There’s no way electric squirrels were at Waltrawara’s pass this morning—that must’ve been a weasel you mistook.” “You need to think more carefully when you sing.”

“Who cares about that?” Miro angrily stepped down from the platform. Then Dr. Wildcat stood up. “This time, I’ll show you how it’s sung.” “Hey, band! Play ‘In thegood summer time.’” The band members, evidently having played this tune many times before, immediately began playing together. Dr. Wildcat started singing with unexpected skill. “On the evening when clover flowers bloom, Polan’s Plaza’s summer festival Polan’s Plaza’s summer festival

Drinking water instead of sake, When such riffraff come around, Polan's Plaza too sees the dawn, Polan's Plaza too turns pale.

Fazero seemed on the verge of tears as he listened in silence, but when the song ended, he rushed up to the platform before I could stop him.

“I’ll sing now.” “To the same tune.”

The band started up again. Dr. Wildcat, “Well now, this has taken an unusual turn,” he said as he took a couple of big gulps from his cup. Fazero began to sing with all his might. “On nights when clover flowers breathe their fragrance, Polan’s Plaza’s summer festival Polan’s Plaza’s summer festival The ill-tempered-from-drink Wildcat When he goes out in a yellow shirt Rain falls on Polan’s Plaza.

“Rain pours down on Polan’s Plaza.”

Destupago stood up indignantly. "What insolence! Let's duel! Duel me!"

I too instinctively stood up and shielded Fazero from behind. “Don’t spout nonsense! You were the one who started with the insults.” “How could there be talk of dueling a child?” “I’ll be your opponent.” “Hmph, this isn’t your stage to interfere.” “Stay back!” “This brat insulted me, the honorable county assemblyman.” “Therefore I challenged him to a duel.”

“No, you were the one who spoke ill of me.” “I’m challenging you to a duel! From what I’ve seen all along, you’ve been strutting around this field like it’s your own personal domain!” “Now choose—pistol or sword!” Then Destupago abruptly gulped down a drink.

Ah, with Fazero here, it’s alright. He must be incredibly weak. I laughed quietly to myself.

Sure enough, Destupago began shouting in a hollow voice. “Shut up! “You don’t even know the code of dueling.” “Alright. “A coward who can’t say a word without guzzling booze deserves nothing better than a child for an opponent. “Hey Fazero, give it your all! “This guy’s nothing but a pine moth caterpillar in the field! “Since I’m watching your back, go ahead and beat him to a pulp without holding back!” “Alright, hey! Someone act as my second!”

Just then, the man in the summer frock from earlier stepped forward.

“Now, now, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself with such a child. Since tonight is an important occasion, I beg you.”

Then Dr. Wildcat suddenly struck the man. “Shut up!” “I know that already.” “Keep quiet!” “Hey! Someone be my second!” “Temo.”

“Yes.” “Please forgive me.” “I will discipline him thoroughly later.”

“Shut up! Hey, Kurono! You handle it.” A man who seemed to be a farmer and was called Kurono “Well, I ain’t your man,” he said, retreating behind everyone else.

“Coward! Hey, Pōsho! You do it.” “I ain’t up for this at all.”

Destupago finally flew into a rage. “Alright! I don’t need seconds or anything!” “Now get ready!”

“You! Hurry up and get ready!”

I said to Fazero while helping him take off his coat. “Bring whatever you want—a sword or a cannon!” “Take whichever one you want!” I said while thinking, Where would such a thing even be? “Alright! Hey waiter! Bring two swords.”

Then the waiter said, as if he had been waiting for this. “There are no swords in a field like this. Would knives suffice?” Then Destupago, appearing relieved, “Alright, bring them,” he said in a loud voice.

“Right away, sir.” The waiter brought two meal knives and reverently handed them to Destupago. It was exactly like a play, I thought. However, Destupago was meticulously examining both blades. Then, “Here—take whichever one you want,” he said, handing both knives to Fazero. Fazero immediately threw one of them back at Destupago’s feet. Destupago picked it up.

Thereupon, I stepped into the center.

“Listen up. I’ll abide by duel protocol. No grappling permitted. One, two, three—begin!” As expected, Destupago gripped the short knife like a sword and desperately thrust at Fazero’s chest while backing away; Fazero seized the handle dagger-style and targeted Destupago’s wrist. After they spun around three times, Destupago abruptly dropped his knife and clamped his left hand over his right wrist.

“Hey, hey! I’m done in!” “Doesn’t anyone have iodoform?” “Doesn’t anyone have hydrogen peroxide?” “Done in, done in!”

And he plopped down into the chair. I laughed. “You certainly know a lot about various medicines.” “Someone, please bring water.”

However, it was Miro who brought the water. And since he showered him with the watering can, Destupago, drenched from his knees to his chest, stood up.

And as if to disguise his discomfiture, “Well then, I shall take my leave. You’ve all done quite enough!” he declared vigorously, then swiftly ran off into the field.

Then Temo, Natsu Frock, and four or five others hurriedly chased after him and were gone. When they had gone, everyone suddenly became lively. “Hey, Fazero! That was some slick work!” “And who on earth is this gentleman?”

“He’s someone from the racetrack.”

“What on earth is happening tonight?” I finally asked.

“No—that Wildcat bastard’s prepping for next year’s election.” “Polano’s Plaza where you drink for free—he sure thought that up cleverly.”

“Since this spring, they’ve been taking turns gathering everyone like this and making them drink.” “And that liquor…” “Don’t mention that. How about a drink?” “No, we do not drink.” “Oh, go on and have some.”

I became unbearably disgusted. “Hey, Fazero. Let’s go. Let’s head back.” I abruptly ran out into the field. Fazero immediately followed after me. Everyone was still chattering noisily afterward. The band struck up anew. I could also hear someone giving a speech. The two of us hurried through the clover lights, aiming for Molio City’s dim glow ahead.

At that moment, the pale twentieth-day moon rose quietly above the black horizontal clouds. When I looked back, the han tree and the lights had already grown small, the Milky Way had wheeled far to the west, and the red star of Scorpius had come fully into the south.

We soon arrived near the spot where the three of us had parted earlier.

"Are you going back to Temo's place?" I suddenly asked. "I'm going back." "Because my sister's there." Fazero spoke these words in an urgent voice thick with sorrow.

“Yeah. But you’ll be bullied.” I said. “If I don’t go back, they’ll bully my sister even worse.” Fazero finally burst into tears. “Should I go with you?” “No.” Fazero kept crying for a while longer.

“Will you come to my place?”

“No.” “Then what will you do?” Fazero remained silent for a while but suddenly declared with renewed vigor: “It’s fine. I’ll be okay.” “Temo won’t bully me that badly.” I—perhaps owing to that bureaucrat’s habit of mine—found myself vaguely thinking about tomorrow’s work at the office while concluding that if Fazero said so, it must be all right. “Then that’s fine. If anything happens, come let me know.”

“Yeah, I might go ask for help about my sister.” “Ah, that’s perfectly fine.” “Well, goodbye.” Fazero went south through the clover field, his long black shadow trailing behind him. I returned home, looking back again and again.

When I entered the house, the cup of tartaric acid from that evening remained on the desk under the glowing electric light, and the hands of the alarm clock pointed to two.

IV. Police Station

However, it was the afternoon two days later.

As I was copying from old ledgers at my government office desk, the attendant came and poked my shoulder,

“The Superintendent wants you to come right away,” he said.

I immediately set down my pen, passed between everyone’s chairs, opened the inner door, and entered the superintendent’s office. Then, the Superintendent—holding a scrap of paper—had been glaring at me with a fearsome expression even before I opened the door, but when I stepped forward and bowed respectfully, he silently handed me that paper after staring fixedly at my demeanor. When I looked at it,

I-Police No. 3256: You are hereby summoned for questioning; please present yourself to the Personnel Section of this police station by 3:00 PM today. Ihatov Police Station

June 29, 1927 To 18th-Rank Official Leonard Kuest, Esq. And that was what it said. Ah, so this concerns Destupago. How amusing, I thought, laughing inwardly. Then the Superintendent continued silently observing my expression, but

“Do you have any idea?” he said. “Yes, I do.” I answered with both hands straight down. The Superintendent finally relaxed his expression as if relieved and glanced up at the clock, but

“Good. Go immediately,” he said.

I once again bowed respectfully and exited the room. Then I returned to my seat, tidied up my desk, and quietly left the office. Walking under the large cherry tree-lined streets and standing before the red brick police building, even I couldn’t help but feel my heart pound a little. But since I hadn’t done anything wrong, I encouraged myself and energetically inquired at the main entrance’s front desk. “I have come as summoned. I am Leonard Kuest.”

Then, the receptionist policeman silently flipped through five or six pages of the ledger but, “Ah, the missing person case. Go to the personnel section—enter through that left entrance there and wait,” he said. "What could this 'missing person case' refer to? If they meant the duel incident, I already knew about that—after all, that duel had been fought using blunt-edged dinner knives, and I didn’t even know if Destupago had bled. Well, it must be some mistake," I thought as I entered the room. It was a spacious, deserted room with approximately seven windows, and there in one corner sat Dr. Wildcat’s coachman, his body rigidly stiffened and his face unnervingly pale as he waited.

“Ah, old man, good day. Were you summoned here as well?” I walked over to his side and greeted him with a laugh. Then the old man stood up, pacing restlessly as if searching for an escape route—as though fearing what misfortunes might befall him from conversing with such a villain—and plopped back down. “Is your master not present?” I asked again. “He ain’t here at all.” The old man finally managed to say, but then began trembling violently.

“What in the world has happened?” I asked while still laughing. “She’s being questioned right now.” “Who?” I asked in surprise. “Rosaro.”

“Rosaro, why?” By now, I was completely serious. “It’s because Fazero’s gone.” “Fazero?” Before I knew it, I shouted aloud.

Ah, so something had happened to Fazero on his way home that night... “Talking is not allowed.”

Suddenly, the inner door clattered open. “Summoned individuals are not to converse with one another. Hey, you! Get in here.”

The old man was summoned, staggered to his feet, and went into the next room. When I reflected on what had been said, it became clear that Rosaro was indeed being questioned by someone in the adjacent room—and I sensed she had been quietly repeating something again and again since earlier. My chest tightened unbearably.

Fazero was gone—Fazero was gone—and while harboring that indescribably harsh feeling lingering after struggling and winning under that blue half-moon’s light, Fazero cast a long, long shadow across the clover’s pale bluish-white glow as he dejectedly made his way home. There stood Destupago in his linen summer coat with its upturned collar, lying in wait with three or four henchmen. When Fazero saw them and halted, they approached him quietly with laughter. Suddenly one struck Fazero down; they all swarmed in, kicking and trampling him as he flailed his arms uselessly. Fazero stopped moving. Destupago stomped on him chaotically once more. “Right then—no use now. Take him away, take him away,” Destupago said. They put him into the dry-distillation plant’s retort. I had thought all this through alone, shuddered, and opened my eyes.

(Ah, why did I just return home and sleep then? Why did I—at that hour when I shouldn't have been able to sit still or stand still—succumb to such inexplicable slumber? And that kind and beautiful Rosaro was now in the next room being threatened with a sickle pressed against her.)

I could no longer bear it and paced round and round the room several times. Beyond the cherry tree outside the window, people of all sorts came and went. I couldn't help feeling that every single one of them might be Destupago or Fazero. When a boy passed by wearing a bird-hunting hat pulled low over his eyes, I imagined Fazero sneaking through here to escape; when I saw a stout figure, I believed Destupago had deliberately disguised himself that way to spy on us. Suddenly my head went utterly numb. From the next room came faint stifled sobs, then someone shouted something indistinct while stomping their foot threateningly. I nearly threw open the door and rushed in. After another stretch of silence came a feeble clatter of the door handle turning, and Rosaro emerged with wide eyes and faltering steps.

I was at a loss for words and completely flustered. Then Rosaro silently bowed with quiet dignity, passed before me, and went outside. When I came to my senses, I found myself watching as a man who seemed to be either the inspector or a police officer from earlier emerged from the door behind Rosaro and left. When I looked that way, his face drew back and the door closed. Inside, it now seemed that Dr. Wildcat’s coachman was being questioned—every time someone shouted loudly, the coachman’s panicked voice could be heard. I tried to sort out my thoughts thoroughly during that time, but everything became jumbled and I simply couldn’t manage it. In any case, having concluded that laying everything out to the authorities was best, I now sat perfectly still and composed. Then, before long, the same door clattered open, and Dr. Wildcat’s coachman emerged deathly pale, staggering unsteadily.

“Are you Mr. Leonard Kuest, 18th-rank official?” The same man reappeared and said.

“Yes.” “Now then, come this way.”

I entered. There, another man—likely an inspector with a splendid beard, seated at the front desk with documents—was blinking rapidly as if he had just yawned, looking in this direction.

“Sit there.” I bowed politely before the inspector and sat down. “Are you Leonard Kuest?” The inspector said.

“Yes.” “Occupation: government official. Rank: 18th-class. Age, registered domicile, current residence—as listed here?” The inspector showed me documents bearing my name and various details. “Yes.”

“Then I will ask: where have you hidden Fazero, the farmhand of Mr. Temo?” “The farmhand Fazero?” I tilted my head. “He’s a farmhand. Sixteen years or older—even a child is a farmhand.” The inspector said impatiently. “You’re hiding Fazero somewhere.” “No, I haven’t seen him since we parted west of the racetrack the night before last.” “If you lie, that too will be charged as a crime.” “No. At that time, the twentieth-night moon was shining and the field was filled with clover lights.”

“How could something like that serve as evidence? We don’t have time to write down every trivial detail like that.” “If you consider it false, then investigate wherever you wish—you’ll understand.” “Whether to investigate or not is our prerogative. You’re the one who hid him.”

“I don’t know.” “I’ll have you prosecuted.” “Do as you like.” The two exchanged glances.

“Then I’ll ask—how’d you get acquainted with Fazero?” “Because Fazero caught my runaway goat for me.” “Hmm. When and where was that?”

“It was the last Sunday in May, the 27th, I believe.” “Yeah. “The 27th.” “Where was it?” “What is that road called?” “It’s about one kilometer along the road leading from beside the church to the village.” “Yeah. On the evening of the 27th, you barged into the village garden party with Fazero, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t barging in. Since it was bright with various sounds, I went to look.” “Then what did you do?” “Then when we said we wouldn’t drink, Temo got angry.”

“How long have you known Temo?” “It was when I first met Fazero. At that time, Temo accused me of interfering with Fazero’s work hours and cracked his leather whip right in front of my face.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.” “What happened next at the garden party?” There, I recounted all that had happened at Polano’s Plaza.

One of them rapidly wrote it all down. The inspector said. “You didn’t know until just now that Fazero was missing?” “Yes.”

“Can you present any evidence?” “Yes, well, if you would examine my work at the bureau yesterday and today, you will understand.” “I thought the matter had been completely settled, so I had been working with a sense of relief.”

“That won’t count as evidence.” “Hey, you! Quit playing dumb already.” “A search request has been filed by Mr. Temo.” “If you tell us his whereabouts now, we can settle this quietly.” “Otherwise, it won’t do you any good.”

“I truly don’t know anything about it.” “Well, that may be your line of work, but please examine my voice and countenance closely.” “Does this still not make it clear to you?” I said all in one breath, a faint edge of irritation coloring my words.

Then the two exchanged glances again. "Yes, well, let it be as it may," I said again. "Why haven't you summoned Destupago before me?" "Anyone would think Fazero's disappearance is Destupago's doing." "Surely he wouldn't actually kill him, but..." "Mr. Destupago is not here."

I was startled. Ah, Fazero might have been serious—or perhaps he’d been killed by mistake. The inspector spoke.

“Your statement differs from Mr. Temo’s on various points.” “However, we consider that only natural.” “I’ll now read the deposition, so listen carefully to see if there are any discrepancies with what you’ve said.”

One of them began reading.

“No discrepancies.” I answered distractedly while thinking about Fazero. “Sign here.”

I wrote at the beginning of the document. I couldn’t bear it any longer—the worry had become unbearable. “You may go home now.” “We’ll summon you again tomorrow.” The inspector said.

I couldn’t bear it anymore.

“What happened to Fazero?” “Why aren’t you arresting Destupago?” “You have no right to say that.”

“But what happened to Fazero?” “If you’re so worried, go look for him yourself.” “Now, be off with you.”

The two men seemed already tired and eager to wrap things up. I frantically rushed out of the police station where the lights were already on. Then there at the exit, against the trunk of a cherry tree within that bluish evening haze, Rosaro leaned dejectedly, gazing sorrowfully at the distant sky. I involuntarily rushed over.

“You’re Ms. Rosaro, aren’t you? Where should I go to search?”

Rosaro said while looking down.

“He must be far away.” “If he’s alive.” “It was my fault.” “But I will definitely find him.” “Yes.” “Isn’t Destupago here?” “He isn’t here.” “What about the coachman?”

“I didn’t see him.” “Doesn’t your master know?” “Yes.” “He must have filed the missing person report on purpose.” “No.” “People from the police also came to investigate.” “Are you returning to your master’s place now?”

“Yes.” “Let me accompany you that far.”

We began walking. I attempted to engage her in conversation about various matters, but Rosaro appeared so despondent and would only respond with a word or two at most, leaving me ultimately unable to probe more deeply into affairs concerning Fazero and their shared circumstances. Then when we reached the spot where I had previously caught the goat, Rosaro—

“It’s almost time,” she said, bowing of her own accord before walking away. My heart was filled with loneliness and worries. And from that evening onward, I went out night after night to search for Fazero in the fields. On Sundays, I went out during daylight too. In particular, I searched the area between where I’d last parted with Fazero and Temo’s house for anything dropped, checked whether Destupago or Fazero had left footprints on the clover flowers, and walked around Destupago’s residence night after night listening for suspicious sounds.

From the area around the two birch trees, I went to Polano’s Plaza many times over. Before long, the clover flowers gradually withered and turned brown, while on Polano’s Plaza’s han-no-ki trees hung only a few torn and faded tinsel strands—I didn’t even encounter Miro there. With no further summons from the police, I went to inquire myself about developments, but at the station they kept repeating that while there were still no leads regarding Fazero or Destupago, there was surely nothing to worry about. And I too—whether through acclimation or exhaustion—came to feel that Fazero, being Fazero, must surely be somewhere out there.

V. The Poisonous Moths of Sendardo City

And it gradually grew hotter. At the office, yellow sunshades had been put up on the windows, and in the director’s room next door, a large fan with a diameter of seven decimetres donated by the electric company had also been installed. On particularly hot afternoons, the director himself would stand up and open the partition door,

“Now then, gentlemen, do take in some breeze,” he would say. Then a mighty gust roared forth from the large electric fan. Admittedly, since my desk lay slightly off the wind’s path, it brought no particular coolness, but even so, watching the documents and tablecloths across the way flap about proved genuinely pleasant. Yet during lulls in such work, whenever Fazero suddenly came to mind, my chest would blaze with heat until I no longer knew what to do.

In any case, the work I performed throughout that entire July was:

1. Inquiry to Teraki Specimen Production Office Regarding Polar Bear Taxidermy Methods

1. Matter of Estimating Transportation Costs for Volcanic Bombs at Yaksha Mountain Summit

1. Matter of Investigation into Fading in Plant Specimens

1. Matter of Preparing 2,300 New Number Plates and so on.

And August began. On the afternoon of August 2nd, as I drowsily transcribed the explanation of a painting carved into a stone from the Sina-Han period, the attendant suddenly poked me in the back of the neck from behind, “Mr. Director says to come.” When I turned around irritated, the attendant declared arrogantly again.

“Mr. Director says to come immediately.”

Without replying or saying a word, I silently passed behind everyone’s chairs, opened the familiar door, and entered respectfully. The director was reading a newspaper while resting his chin on his plump white wrist and basking in the electric fan’s breeze, but when I approached, he listlessly raised his eyes slightly, then took a single command document from the paper holder on his desk and slid it toward me. It stated: “You are hereby ordered to travel to the Ihatov Coast region for twenty-eight days from August 3rd for the purpose of collecting coastal bird eggs.”

It was written there. I was utterly delighted. That I should be ordered to search for nonexistent eggs along Ihatov's rocky, beautiful coast at this time of year—this could only mean a reward leave. To think both the director and everyone regarded me as working so diligently! How grateful, how grateful—my heart leapt like a sparrow within me.

Then, without looking at my face at all, the director continued reading the newspaper,

“Go to Accounting and collect your estimated travel expenses,” he said curtly. I politely bowed and left the room. Then I showed the official order to each person one by one, exchanging greetings as I made my rounds, and when I finally went to Accounting, the old accountant wore a somewhat sour expression but silently accepted my seal and handed over eight large banknotes. In addition, I also borrowed the bureau’s large photographic equipment and binoculars. When I returned home, I sold all the records I had to the town’s old clock shop. And I bought a Panama hat with a wide brim and eggshell-colored linen clothes.

The next morning, I locked up the guardhouse completely and departed on the first train for Samo Town, the northernmost point on the Ihatov Coast. Along that sixty-ri stretch of coast, I moved gradually southward over twenty-some days—from town to town, cape to cape, reef to reef—pressing seaweed into specimens, collecting rock samples, photographing and sketching ancient caves and model-like landforms, all while packaging these finds one after another to send back to the bureau. The coastal people found even a low-salaried clerk like me quite a novelty and welcomed me wherever I went. When I tried to cross to the offshore reefs, they put up red and yellow flags on the boat, with as many as sixteen people aligning their oars in unison to row for me. At night, they would build watchfires before the inn where I stayed and show me various dances. Time and again, I thought I could die content then and there. But Fazero—and Rosaro, beautiful Rosaro still toiling daily in that scorching field—when I thought of them, and saw before me these girls and young men dancing and singing with bodies weary from a full day's labor, time and again I shook my head fiercely and swore alone in my heart: Now we must act! We'll do this right! For everyone's sake!

And then around noon on August 30th, I arrived at Shiomo Port in the neighboring prefecture aboard a small steamship, and from there traveled by train to Sendardo City. On the 31st, I had already sent a letter en route requesting to view specimens at that science university as well. The moment I disembarked at Sendardo Station laden with photographic equipment and a knapsack coincided precisely with the streetlamps being lit. I boarded an automobile from the university-adjacent hotel—which had come to collect guests—along with five or six others. As we drove between those colossal buildings with my collected specimens, I felt like a general returning victorious from campaign. Yet upon reaching the hotel in this sweltering heat, I found every window tightly sealed. When shown to my room and confronted by its stifling atmosphere, I addressed the attendant:

“Hey, what’s going on here? Why don’t you open the window?” I said. The attendant ran a hand through his glossy hair and replied, “I sincerely regret to inform you that poisonous moths have proliferated severely in this region, and we are unable to open the windows from dusk onward. I will bring the electric fan right away.” Indeed, when I looked at the departing attendant, he wore a thick bandage around his neck like a stone ring, his face quite swollen—I concluded he must have been bitten by those moths. However, soon after, the attendant seemed to be arguing vehemently with a guest in the neighboring room. Overcome by heat and exhaustion, I left my room intending to visit a barber. Passing the neighboring room’s open door, I saw the same attendant standing dejectedly with bowed head. Across from him slumped an owl-like old man with ash-gray hair and beard in an armchair, being buffeted by the electric fan’s whir as he puffed out his cheeks to scold: “You call yourself an attendant yet know nothing of hotel etiquette?”

“You work as an attendant yet can’t even grasp proper hotel decorum?” he puffed out his cheeks and berated the attendant. As I thought Ah, this must be about the electric fan and attempted to slip past with a wry smile, the attendant turned slightly toward me and closed his eyes in unmistakable apology. That completely lifted my spirits. And then I stomped down the stairs to the street.

Now that I understood about the poisonous moths and walked through the town, even the various strange sights I had seen earlier on my way from the station to the hotel now seemed entirely reasonable. On the sidewalks were numerous remnants of bonfires, and everyone walked about bandaging themselves or wiping their faces with white cloths. Moreover, kerosene lamps hung from each willow tree along the avenue.

I entered a barbershop. That was quite a large barbershop. The mirrors on the opposite wall were skillfully joined into nine panels, making the shop appear exactly twice its actual size. Italian cypress and Japanese cedar bonsai pots stood lined up in rows, and besides a master-like man giving instructions in the corner, there were six workers in total. Immediately above on the wall hung a large frame where four of their names were impressively listed as barber artists, while two were written down as assistants.

“Would this hairstyle be to your satisfaction?” When I sat down in the high-quality chair draped with a white cloth in front of the mirror, one of them asked me. “Yeah.” Absentmindedly, I replied while thinking about the fields of Ihatov where I would return tomorrow. Then, the man beckoned to two other available people across the room with a finger and said, “What do you think? “The customer states that this style is acceptable, but what’s your opinion?”

The two came behind me and stared for a while at my face reflected in the mirror until one of the artists crossed his white-clad arms and responded. “Well now—considering the customer’s pale rounded chin and exceedingly gentle countenance, wouldn’t the Neo-Greek style harmonize better than the All-Back?” “Yeah.” “I agree too,” another chimed in. The barber attending me nodded as though he’d thought the same all along and addressed me.

“How would this be? The Neo-Greek style appears to harmonize more gracefully with your countenance than your current hairstyle.”

“Very well, let us proceed with that request,” I replied courteously, for I considered these men to be true artists.

Now, my head was steadily getting neater, and my fatigue had greatly eased. With this settled, I thought I could sleep soundly tonight and manage spending tomorrow in that underground specimen room at the university with their assistant all day. Contentedly, I gazed at the blue flower pots, the movements of the artists' white fingers, and the shadows of scissors making sharp metallic clinks.

Suddenly, the person next to me,

“Oh no! Restrain it! Damn you! Damn you!” he shrieked in a piercing voice. Startled, I turned to look. The barber-artists all came rushing over. The man who had cried out—with half his beard still unshorn and his frame gaunt beyond recognition—was none other than Destupago himself. I thought I’d cornered him at last. Destupago remained unaware of my presence, his face still twisted in terrified contortions.

“Where were you stung?” The master barber from earlier, wearing a linen morning coat and holding a large flask, stood there pushing through the crowd. Before long, two or three of the artists caught the small yellow poisonous moth with an insect net. “Here! Right here! Hurry!” Destupago exclaimed while pointing beneath his left eye. The master barber hurriedly soaked some cotton with water from the flask and rubbed it beneath his eye.

“What the hell is this medicine?” Destupago shouted. “A two percent ammonia solution,” the master answered calmly. “Ammonia doesn’t work—wasn’t that in this morning’s paper?”

Destupago stood up from the chair. Destupago was wearing a peach-colored shirt. "May I ask which newspaper you saw that in?" The master answered even more calmly. "The Sendardo Daily News." "That is incorrect. The prefectural health director has affirmed ammonia's efficacy." "That's worthless!" "Is that so? In any case, it seems to have swollen up quite a bit." The master barber, visibly somewhat irritated, turned his back abruptly and walked off still holding the flask. Destupago began fuming with anger.

“How outrageous! Tomorrow I have important dealings with Army veterinary officers. This mess will do nothing but offend them! I’ll sue your shop!” he declared, watching his cheek swell crimson in the mirror. The master barked back indignantly: “Nonsense! Poisonous moths infest every corner of this city. If you get stung walking down the street, go sue the mayor himself!”

Destupago reluctantly sat back down in the chair, "Hey, finish the rest quickly. Hurry up," he said. And all the while, he fretted over his face's increasingly odd shape as he had the remaining half of his beard shaved. I hurried too. Yet it was clearly I who would finish first. Still, thinking I'd rise immediately if he finished before me, I quietly felt for my wallet and took out a large silver coin to grip. But for some reason, my barber was hurrying more than I was. And he kept glancing at the clock.

My face had practically been shaved off in about thirty-five seconds.

“Let’s get you washed up now.” I stood before the marble washbasin, shielding my face with my hand so Destupago wouldn’t notice. The barber scrubbed my head vigorously with cold water and occasionally wiped my face with his fingers. Then I washed my face myself. And then I sat back down in the chair.

At that moment, the master barked, "You’ve got one minute left! Finish up the important parts while the electricity’s still on! And is the acetylene ready?" "It’s fully prepared," replied the child assistant in his small white uniform. "Bring them! Now! It’ll be too late once the lights go out!" snapped the master.

Then, that child assistant carried out four acetylene lamps, lined them up in front of the mirror, filled them with water, and lit the flames. With a fierce hiss, the acetylene began to burn.

It was then. The whistles of factories everywhere blared in unison, children shouted, even the bells of churches and temples began to ring, and then the electric lights swiftly went out. Due to the acetylene replacing the electric lights, the surroundings turned completely blue. Then I saw, beyond the black transparent glass door of the blue-lit room that resembled the depths of a sea reflected in the mirror, a fire burning that called to mind the crimson of ancient India. A barber was there, busily feeding firewood into it.

“Tonight, the poisonous moths will be wiped out.” Someone over there said. “Well, who can say?” My barber answered while sprinkling perfume from a gold-topped bottle onto my head.

Then the barber wiped my face thoroughly once more, then turned toward the doorway, “Take a look here,” he said. The barbers had been either standing in the doorway or going over to the bonfire to gaze at the scenery outside, but now they all hurriedly gathered behind me. And after inspecting my face in the mirror with the utmost seriousness, “Looks good,” he said.

There, I stood up from the chair. I paid with a silver coin that had grown warm from being tightly clutched. And then I exited through that large glass doorway and stood on the street. I resolved to follow Destupago. Standing there, I felt utterly strange and couldn't stop my heart from racing. There along Sendardo City's grand Western-style avenue, not a single electric light remained. Large yellow lamps hung from the willows lining the street, while crimson fires burned below. Their smoke rose into the gentle depths of the night sky, making Cassiopeia quiver unsteadily and Lyra twinkle hazily through the haze. No matter how I looked at it, this seemed exactly like a scene from a summer night in some distant southern land. I waited while peering into the shop at something. I saw various winged insects truly flying into those flames. Here and there, townspeople were lighting fires while applying bandages or holding cloths to their faces.

Before long, I heard a high-pitched, sharp voice with an odd intensity approaching from the opposite direction. As it drew nearer, it revealed itself to be a sturdy yet oddly small old man with a bent waist who carried a piece of board bearing four lit whale oil candles in both hands and kept shouting thus as he approached: “Put out the lights inside your houses! “Even if you turn off the electric lights, it’s no use lighting other ones. “Put out the lights inside your houses!”

Whenever there was a house with its lights still on, the old man would go to each and every one of their doorways and shout. “Put out the lights inside your houses! Even if you turn off the electric lights, lighting other ones won’t do any good. Put out the lights inside your houses!”

The voice echoed many times through the deserted street before fading into the darkness.

This old man seemed to command great respect from everyone. Every single person bowed courteously. The old man pressed onward, shouting with renewed vigor. “Put out those lights in your houses! “Turning off electrics just to light others does no good at all. “Put out those lights in your houses! “Ah, good evening now.” He marched down the street shouting orders while exchanging polite nods with people to either side.

“Who is that person?” I asked the barber warming himself by the fire. “He’s the fencing instructor.” Yet this fencing instructor came striding over. “Put out all lights indoors! Turning off electrics just to light others won’t do a lick of good.” “Out with them now!” “Ah, good evening.” “Well now—I suppose in your line of work there’s no helping it.” “Yes, sir. Good evening, and thank you for your hard work.” The master barber came out to greet him.

“Yes, sir. Good evening, and thank you for your consideration.”

The master came out and greeted him. “Ah, good evening. This dreadful heat is truly something, isn’t it?” “Oh, truly, with these insects overrunning us, it’s impossible to manage.” “Well then... Oh, goodbye.” The fencing instructor once again headed off into the distance, shouting as he went. As this voice gradually faded into the distance—likely after he had turned some street corner—Destupago finally emerged from within the barbershop that resembled the depths of a blue sea. After surveying the thoroughfare for a moment, he set off briskly southward. I had turned my back and was pretending to watch moths fall into the flames but immediately took up pursuit. Destupago appeared extremely unsettled from having been stung by the poisonous moth. Moreover, he seemed profoundly dejected in some way. As I followed behind, I found myself feeling a strange sense of pity. Of course, no one greeted Destupago, and Destupago himself was walking along the shaded area beneath the border trees separating the roadway, doing his utmost to avoid being noticed by anyone.

I couldn't help but think how utterly false it seemed that Destupago would openly associate with army veterinarians and such. Finally, Destupago came to a stop, glanced around for a moment, then turned from the main avenue into a narrow lane. I pretended not to notice and walked briskly onward. Shortly after entering that narrow lane, Destupago passed through a small gate with a front garden. I had been considering until that moment whether to investigate matters thoroughly before confronting Destupago or go to the police and have them apprehend him as the Destupago wanted in Ihatov, but upon seeing him enter his house now, I forgot all caution and ran up.

“Mr. Destupago. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” Destupago started and stood rigid as a post, but upon seeing me, he made no attempt to flee and simply remained standing there dejectedly. “I’ve come regarding Fazero. I must insist you hand him over.”

Destupago violently waved both hands.

“That’s a misunderstanding—a misunderstanding! As for that child, I know nothing.” “Then why on earth did you hide yourself away in a place like this?” Destupago turned deathly pale.

“The police in Ihatov are searching for you together with Fazero.” “The arrangements are already fully in place.” “No matter what happens tonight, you will be caught.” “Where is Fazero?” I ended up telling a lie without meaning to.

Destupago, his face grotesquely swollen from the poisonous moth’s sting, looked at me sideways while trembling violently and spoke so rapidly it was nearly unintelligible. "That’s impossible—utterly impossible! On my honor—on a gentleman’s honor!" "Then why did you hide yourself in a place like this?" Destupago finally ceased trembling and, after a moment’s thought, began speaking more slowly.

“I was merely summoned by the police, and I should have filed a travel notification and arranged for a proxy.” “Regarding that matter, I have obtained the police chief’s full consent.” “The police should harbor no suspicions toward me.”

“Then why did you file a travel notification and flee?” Destupago finally composed himself. “No, please come inside. Let me explain in detail.” Destupago led the way and pushed open the small entrance door. Then, evidently having been standing and watching from inside all along, an elderly woman came out to greet us. “Serve tea.” Destupago immediately entered the room on the right. I was probably safe now, but thinking it wouldn’t do to let him escape, I remained standing at the doorway. Destupago rattled some bottles and then emerged while pressing a white cloth to his face.

“Well then, please come this way.”

I was shown into the parlor. Destupago had finally composed himself. "The reason I’ve come here to avoid people stems from entirely different circumstances. As you’re no doubt aware, I established a wood distillation company in that forest as its president. But due to recent fluctuations in chemical prices, it gradually began incurring deficits until matters became utterly unmanageable. I tried every possible measure, but nothing succeeded. Naturally, I had staked my entire fortune on that venture. Then at a board meeting, one director proposed converting it directly into a distillery. We agreed and conducted a trial production of a minimal amount—without reporting it to the tax office. Yet using that as leverage, a certain subordinate of mine threatened me. That night presented an exceedingly dire situation. Everyone gathered there were shareholders. I had deliberately chosen that location. But their resentment proved overwhelming. I’d reached such reckless desperation that I ended up drunk in that manner. And then you appeared, you see…"

For the first time, everything from that time became clear to me. At the same time, the Destupago before me began to seem pitiable as well. “No, I understand.” “But oh—what has become of Fazero?”

Destupago said.

“I do not hate that child.” “Were I still in my former favorable circumstances, I would gladly support him and even send him to school.” “But mark my words—that child is definitely up to something somewhere!” “The police share this view as well.”

I abruptly stood up and bid farewell to Destupago. “Then I shall take my leave.” “You must vacate this place at once.” “For I cannot possibly refrain from reporting this matter upon my return.” Destupago said dejectedly.

“At present, I have absolutely no means of income whatsoever. Please try to understand.” I thanked him.

“Is Rosaro all right?” Destupago said rapidly. “Yes, she seems to be working.” For some reason, I replied in a voice unlike my usual one.

VI. Wind and Ears of Grass

On the morning of September 1st, I went to the office at the appointed time, carrying my itinerary and various reports. I made my rounds greeting everyone, and no sooner had the director appeared than I knocked on that door and entered. "Ah, you're back." "How was it?" The director said while reattaching his detached collar button with his left hand. "Yes, thanks to your consideration, I returned last night. This is the report. I will organize the collected specimens, prepare a catalog, and bring them to you at a later time."

“Hm, there’s no need to rush.” The director fastened his collar and straightened up.

I bowed and left the room. And so that entire day passed unpacking the arrived luggage and organizing documents piled on my desk until evening fell unnoticed. I too left the government office after everyone else, ate at the public cafeteria as always, and returned to the racetrack. Then evidently having been thoroughly exhausted, no sooner had I settled into the chair than I drifted into drowsy oblivion. In that saccharine evening dreamscape, I still rowed a small boat through Ihatov's reefs where tea-colored kelp lay dried smooth. Suddenly the boat rocked violently - some dreadful ancient-styled dragon emerged - and believing myself hurled against rocks, I startled awake. Someone was shaking me.

I focused my eyes several times and looked at that face. It was Fazero.

"Oh! What happened? Have you been here all along?" I exclaimed in surprise. "I came back on August 10th, see? You're the one who's been gone till now." "I wasn't here. I'd been away on coastal business." "Come to our factory tonight." "Your factory? What's happened? Where exactly have you been all this time?" "Well now, I'd been working at a leather-dyeing factory in Sendardo City."

“Sendardo? Why did you go all the way there? And now you’re telling me to go to Sendardo again tonight?” “That’s not it.” “Then what happened? First off, why did you go to such a place in the first place?” “I just couldn’t bring myself to go home. I walked right past my house and kept going. Then morning came. When I was sitting there in trouble, a leather buyer came by, let me ride in his cart, and gave me food. After that, I gradually started helping with work and ended up going to Sendardo.”

“I see. “That’s truly wonderful. “I thought you might have been thrown into one of those acetic acid factory vats and steamed to death.” “Well, I worked as an engineer’s assistant over there. Then that person taught me everything. He taught me all about pharmaceuticals too. When it comes to leatherwork, I can do anything now—tanning, dyeing, you name it.” “And why did you come back?”

“The police were looking for me, you know. But I didn’t get scolded too bad.” “What did your master say?” “He said, ‘Go wherever you want and do as you please.’” “And what’ll you do?”

“Well, the elders are at the factory in Murado Forest, see, and they’re telling me to do leatherwork.” “Can you do it?” “Sure I can. Plus, Miro can make ham, you know. We’ll all do it together.” “What about your sister?” “Sister will come to the factory too.” “Is that so…” “Let’s go. They’re surely coming again tonight.” I suddenly forgot my fatigue and stood up.

“Let’s go. But is it far?”

“Just a bit beyond where Polano’s Plaza used to be.” “It’s a bit far, isn’t it? But let’s go.” I quickly put on my traveling clothes and left the house with him. Fazero began running again.

The clouds, yellowed and fiercely glowing, raced swiftly from south to north. Yet the field lay silent and windless, with only various grasses thrusting up tall spikes or twisting into peculiar knots. The summer clover flowers had all withered to a hawk's-wing brown, their three-lobed leaves now shriveled to mere specks. We kept running without pause. “Look—there’s a marker over there.”

Fazero paused briefly and pointed into the grass on the right. In the shadow of the grass ears there, a tiny, tiny clover flower bloomed abruptly, pale and forlorn. Suddenly, a wind came whooshing from ahead, causing the dark field of grass ears to ripple like waves, and through the gaps in my clothes, that cold wind seeped into every part of my body. “Hmm. It’s autumn now, huh?” I took a deep breath.

Fazero, who had at some point taken off his jacket and was holding it under his arm,

“All the lights along the way have gone out though…”

Whatever he said at the end was snatched away as the wind rushed in with a whoosh, carrying off his voice.

At that moment, I saw two peasants carrying large sickles pass before us as if crossing our path. The two of them also seemed to glance our way briefly, but then they talked among themselves, stopped, and appeared to be waiting for us to pass. We hurried on.

“Well, look who’s back.” “It’s good to see you returned safe and sound.” One of them greeted me.

He seemed to be the man who had been ordered by Destupago to serve as his attendant at Polano’s Plaza previously and had run away.

“Yes, thank you.” “Fazero has also returned, and everything is completely back to normal now, hasn’t it?” “Dr. Wildcat isn’t around anymore.” “Dr. Wildcat? Destupago?” “I met Destupago in Sendardo City.” “He’d fallen into such dire straits it was pitiable.” “No way! You think Destupago’d ever fall into ruin?” “Boss, he owns plenty of land in Sendardo City.” “Hmm, but he’d said he invested all his assets into that dry distillation company.”

“No way, no way would Dr. Wildcat ever do such a thing? The company’s stock turned worthless—that’s why the Commander fled.” “But I heard an executive tried meddling in the brewing operations without proper procedures and had to take responsibility.” “No way! The whole liquor-making scheme was the Commander’s idea from start to finish!”

"But I heard they only made a small amount experimentally, didn't they?" "You've been thoroughly deceived, haven't you? All those barrels they shipped out from that factory labeled as acetone? Every last one was proper blended liquor, I tell you. In the bad batches, they even mixed in wood alcohol. That illegal operation had been running for two whole years." "So the stuff they used at Polano's Plaza was that too?" "Exactly so. No matter how you put it, the Commander's a sly one. Since everyone's got their weaknesses too, well...we'll just have to swallow our tears as things stand. But anyway, this time we're all going to put that factory to various uses—make as much of what we need ourselves as possible."

“I see...” “Is Fazero going to do something?” “Well, it’s not like we need any new capital or anything. We’re just planning to do various things—tanning leather, making ham, steaming and drying chestnuts, that sort of stuff.”

“Let’s get going now.” Fazero prodded me.

“Well then, see you again.”

“Good night.” As I started walking, I found myself unable to determine whether Destupago’s claims held truth or whether everyone else’s version was genuine. “Straight ahead—it’s straight ahead. I’ve come here many times since then, so I know.” I moved closer to Fazero and raised my voice to carry over the wind. Fazero gave a faint nod before breaking into a run again. Through the deepening dusk, only his white shirt swayed dimly as he ran.

Before long, I saw about five pale bluish-white lights at the edge of a distant field and, above them, the Japanese alder I had seen before, glowing dimly like a blue umbrella. As we drew closer, I came to perceive how its leaves surged forth one after another in the buffeting wind, how branches knocked against each other as if emitting their own bluish-white light, and I also saw about five dark figures standing beneath it holding acetylene lamps of the sort used for fishing. Today there were neither tables nor chairs nor boxes in Polano’s Plaza. There was only a single empty box. From within it emerged a familiar large hat and round shoulders—Miro came toward us.

“You’ve finally come. “Good evening, what a fine evening it is.” Miro greeted me. Everyone, who had apparently been waiting, all spoke at once. We passed straight through Polano’s Plaza and hurried onward. The field’s grasses grew increasingly coarse, black thickets rustled in the wind here and there, and every so often oak or birch trees stood jet-black against the sky, swaying and rustling incessantly. And before we knew it, we were walking in single file along a narrow path.

“Almost there!” Fazero shouted loudly from the front. Both sides of the path had before we knew it become fully wooded. After walking in silence for about thirty minutes, a sudden whiff of something like sawdust drifted by, and there immediately before our eyes appeared a long narrow ash-colored roof. “Someone’s here.” Fazero shouted.

Through the windows of that large black building, flickering lights streamed. "Hey, Mr. Kuest has arrived!" Miro shouted loudly.

“Hey!” Someone from inside also replied.

We entered that building. There, a gigantic iron tank sat facing us like a Sphinx, and on the earthen floor were lined up many large unglazed pots.

“Oh, good evening.” A barefoot elderly man greeted me on the earthen floor.

“This is the drying tank,” Fazero said. “How many people used to work here?” I asked. “Well now, when business was booming, there must’ve been thirty people working here at least,” Miro answered. “Why did it fail?” Everyone exchanged glances. The elderly person from earlier said.

“Because medicine prices dropped.” “Is that right...” “Is it truly beyond our means?” “But listen here.” “Fazero, I say we should use this tank to make acetic acid after all.” “When we tried running it as a company with too many hands before, we lost money. But if it’s just us handling it ourselves, we can manage the workload.” “The town pharmacy said they’d take ten bottles or even twenty off our hands, you know.”

“That’s right,” Fazero said. “We could channel the smoke from burning below here into the neighboring brewing chamber and make ham over there.” “Sart’s been saying the same thing,” the elderly person replied. “Anyway, if we load it into this tank here, we can extract all the charcoal. And even if the ham doesn’t sell immediately, we can distribute it just among our comrades.”

“All right, let’s do it. Kuest will likely come by often to check in on us.”

“Ah, I have friends in both livestock farming and forest product manufacturing – I'll invite them all to come. Just make sure you tell them about Polano's Plaza.” “That's right – we searched desperately for Polano's Plaza together! But when we finally found it after all that effort... it turned out to be just some election booze fest! Still... I can't shake this feeling that somewhere out there... the real Polano's Plaza from olden times still exists.”

“So why don’t we build it ourselves from now on with our own hands?”

“Right—instead of that cowardly, shameful Polano’s Plaza that’s built on self-deception, let’s all create a new plaza together! One where singing there at night or breathing its air fills you with such vigor that tomorrow’s work will overflow with energy and joy!” “I know I can make this happen—because we’re envisioning it right here and now.”

“No matter what we try to do, I believe we must study more.” “Even if we understand this path leads to our prosperity, we still don’t know how to begin.” “The town has many schools filled with students.” “They can devote whole days to study, with teachers instructing all they wish to learn.” “We don’t even get three hours daily for learning.” “And even that time finds us exhausted and drowsy.” “For teachers, we’ve only lecture notes.” “Questions we send about unclear matters rarely get answered.” “Yet we must keep studying with all our strength.” “I want us all to find some way—any way—to make study possible.”

The child sat down.

I involuntarily leapt to my feet.

“Gentlemen, your studies will surely succeed. They will surely succeed. The town’s students work and study. But they’ve already forgotten why they study. Even their teachers try to cram in as much as possible, draining the students’ minds until they’re exhausted. And they enthusiastically play tennis and run around, claiming these are necessary too. You don’t bother with tennis or baseball games. But when it comes to physical labor, you’re already pushing yourselves beyond limits. Yet which side will advance further? Ultimately, they’ll progress more. Then how could we ever catch up, beyond just enduring our grueling work? What you said earlier holds true. After a few years of specialized study, they’ll live comfortably off it—drinking, managing households—gradually abandoning their studies. But we’ll keep studying at this pace our whole lives.”

“Gentlemen, by abstaining from alcohol, you gain ten percent more strength than those who drink. By abstaining from tobacco, you gain twenty percent more strength. By determining a straight path forward and organizing all mental resources at your disposal, you gain over twenty percent more strength compared to those in disarray. That’s right—those people use the energy they spend thinking about women or quarreling among themselves to instead channel all their strength into bringing us true happiness. Look—before long, you will gain double the strength compared to those people. However, you must not force this approach upon others who came before. Those people were born in a time when, without drinking alcohol that way, they couldn’t endure the loneliness and cold enough to keep living.”

“Let us press onward in silence. From the wind and from the luminous clouds, gentlemen, new strength shall come to you. And soon—here in this very field—you shall create a Polano’s Plaza more splendid than the fairy tales of old.” Everyone cried out in jubilation.

Fazero said.

“Well, let’s study during winter.” “Let’s all read the same book beforehand, gather at that factory once every five nights, and take turns asking questions and teaching each other.” “Hey, Kuest.” “You’ll teach us something, right?”

“Ah, well—since I used to teach botany before, I can cover plant physiology and maybe three other subjects for you. That is...” “There’s no need to become walking encyclopedias by cluttering your minds with every unnecessary detail like before.” “You really just need to stick to the framework and essential points.” “After that, the work itself will teach you, and gradually you’ll be able to read independently.”

“Why don’t we gather at that factory during winter and make all sorts of things? Fazero can dye the leather—though I’m clumsy, I can make vests. Since Miro always skillfully crafts hats, if he applies himself to the work, he’ll do even better.”

“That’s right, that’s right.” “Let’s exchange what we make in winter with each other.” “I enjoy carving wood into things!” “Let’s do it! Let’s do it!” “In summer we’ll labor in fields and plains to gather food—then in winter craft what’s needed and trade among ourselves…”

Miro sat down while narrowing his eyes because the wind had suddenly begun blowing too fiercely. The alder trees bent completely like bows.

In that wind, I stood up once more. "That's right, gentlemen—the new era has already arrived." "In this field, soon a thousand geniuses will work together—respecting one another as they carry out their respective tasks." "Perhaps I'll finally join your group after all." "Ah, do join us!" "Hey everyone—Mr. Kuest is joining us!" "Why don't you take Rosaro?" Someone shouted.

I involuntarily stiffened.

“No, I still have much more studying to do. For me to have come to this field would not be beneficial. No, I won’t join. I can’t join. Because I haven’t reached a state where I can do everything. I was born the child of a poor teacher and have grown up reading nothing but books. I have not grown up being beaten by rain and blown by wind like you all. My thoughts are entirely your thoughts, but my body won’t follow through. But I will surely work in my own way. For a long time now, I’ve been thinking about how to triple the wealth this field can produce. I will carry it out.”

(Manuscript approximately one page blank)

And then we stood up. The wind roared in. Everyone inadvertently turned their backs to the wind and crouched, while I—having shouted so much earlier—choked full on the gust. The alder trees’ branches seemed to reach all the way to the ground.

“Alright then, let’s get to it. I’ve already soaked eleven hides over there, and a whole vat’s worth of wood is prepped and ready. Tonight’s the opening ceremony for the new Polano’s Plaza.” “So we’re celebrating by swigging water instead of sake, eh?” the elderly person said.

Everyone burst out laughing.

“Alright, let’s do it.” “Head outside.” “Hey Miro, I’ll go fetch the water, so you get the cups from the cupboard.”

Fazero went outside carrying a bucket.

Everyone went out to the lawn outside the factory with acetylene lamps.

Everyone sat in a circle on the grass. Miro handed cups to everyone. Fazero came back laboriously carrying the bucket, “Alright, let’s wash the cups,” he said as he used a ladle to pour water into everyone’s cups. I felt as though I might shudder from how cold the water was. Everyone washed the cups with stiff fingers. “Alright, wash them again.” Fazero said and poured water again.

Everyone discarded the previous water onto the grass and poured water again. “Wash them one more time.” “Because they still smell like the old liquor.” Fazero poured water again. “Fazero, are you washing the cups the most tonight?”

The elderly man who had been making acetic acid earlier said. Everyone burst out laughing again.

“Now we drink. It’s cold.” Fazero poured for everyone again. The cups shone cold and white, their surfaces rippling violently in the wind. “Alright, let’s drink! One, two, three!” Everyone drank deeply in one go. I drank and shuddered violently. “Then I’ll sing! The Song of Polano’s Plaza.” On the night the clover flowers fade,

“Polano’s Plaza’s autumn festival Polano’s Plaza’s autumn festival Without drinking water / They drink liquor When such people strut about Polano’s Plaza’s night won’t break Polano’s Plaza too— / will never see dawn.” Everyone clapped their hands and laughed. That sound too was immediately swept away by a roaring gust of wind, carried off toward the old Polano’s Plaza. “I’ll sing now!” Miro stood up.

“On nights when clover flowers wilt, Polano’s Plaza’s autumn festival Polano’s Plaza’s autumn festival The ill-tempered drunkard Wildcat— In a yellow shirt, fleeing far away— Polano’s Plaza greets the dawn. Polano’s Plaza breaks through the night.” “Alright, I’ll sing too!”

(Manuscript several lines blank.)

"Let's shout!" "For the new Polano's Plaza!" "Banzai!" I waved my hat high and shouted. "Banzai!"

And we passed through the pitch-black forest, went through the oak grove we had passed through earlier, and arrived at the old Polano’s Plaza. There, the usual alder tree glowed blue each time it was tossed by the wind. Our shadows fell into the turbulent waves of grass—long and black under the acetylene lamp’s glare—and it felt as though each of us were a steamship navigating some vast river. When we came to the usual place, we parted ways. There, another tiny clover light had been lit. I plucked it and pinned it to my lapel.

“So then, goodbye. “I’ll come again.” As he spoke, Fazero waved his hat along with everyone. Everyone else seemed to shout something as well, but the wind had already carried it away, rendering it inaudible. And I walked on, and they went their separate ways, until that blue acetylene lamp in the wind and its black shadow gradually grew smaller.

And then exactly seven years had passed. Fazero and his comrades' association had faced considerable difficulties at first, yet they somehow managed to persevere in keeping things lively. After that period, I made numerous visits—sometimes for casual outings, other times to consult on matters—and whenever issues arose, I would inquire through friends. Then three years later, Fazero and his group finally established a proper industrial association. Their ham, leather goods, acetic acid, and oatmeal came to be distributed not only through Molio City and Sendardo City markets but far beyond those regions. When that third year arrived, professional obligations compelled me to leave Molio City altogether. From then on, I became a university research assistant while also serving as a technician at an agricultural experiment station. Then yesterday—here in this friendless yet clamorous, unruly Tokio City—in a room adjacent to the relentless din of rotary presses, as I filled my allotted fifty-line column with some obscure natural history tidbit, I received a piece of mail.

That was a musical score printed on a single sheet of thick paper so that everyone could hold it in their hands and sing together. It had a song included. Song of Polano’s Plaza Clover lamps aglow—the plaza of night Singing the old largo together Clouds roil forgotten / in the night wind’s rush, As harvest nears, the year stands unshaken. Though we contend with righteous aspirations,

Beyond the Milky Way—together we laugh Burning all sorrows as kindling— a flourishing world—together let us build I was certain Fazero had created that score. Because within it were filled to the brim with those very melodies Fazero had always whistled in the fields. However, whether it was Miro, Rosaro, or someone else who had composed that song, I could not discern.