Pathway to Japanese Literature

October 3rd, 6:30 PM, Shōwa X.

The cloudy sky, heavy with typhoon clouds from the Genkai Sea, had already thickened into dusk. The 7,000-ton Kanpu Ferry Rakurōmaru had arrived at Shimonoseki’s pier when an emaciated Westerner emerged from its first-class cabin. He was a frail old man shorter than most Japanese people—reduced to skin and bones by some unknown malady. The neatly shaved wrinkles on his cheeks had lost their elasticity like damp paper, while his large pearlescent eyes gazed fixedly from the deck, reflecting Shimonoseki Station’s lights with a sleepwalker’s vacant stare. Dressed in a faded tea-colored woolen suit with a silver-gray felt hat pulled low over his brow, his kangaroo leather shoes moved soundlessly across the deck—a ghostly apparition of frailty. His luggage appeared entrusted to a redcap. In his emaciated pallid hands he clutched only a slender bamboo cane tipped with silver. He tipped his hat slightly to the ferry bellboys seeing him off at the deck rail, revealing a pure white scalp polished smooth as an egg.

The bellboys must have also somehow found his appearance strange. From the high deck, five or six of them gazed in unison, watching his retreating figure grow distant. He too, now alone, trudged toward customs when he seemed to feel some unease—stopping beneath a glaring electric light to scan his surroundings—but upon spotting a tall, pockmarked-faced gentleman in a morning coat descending from the third-class cabin among the crowd, he finally appeared reassured and began scurrying forward to trail after him.

The Korean gentleman, seemingly unaware of such things, briskly crossed the pier and exited through Shimonoseki Station’s ticket gate. He slipped furtively into the shadows of the crowd and glanced back with a nonchalant air, watching the small Western man totter toward the 8:30 PM Fuji Express while mopping his brow with a fresh handkerchief. Then he dashed over to the public telegraph office and sent a single message—apparently prepared in advance.

“RECORD” “SHIMONOSEKITSUKU” “FUJININORU”

The telegram’s destination was ×-chome, ×-banchi, Ginza Owaricho, Tokyo: Kondor Records Company’s Furukawa (first name unknown).

After sending it, the Korean Gentleman turned around and glared sharply at a stout, dark-complexioned, unpleasant-looking middle-aged gentleman who appeared to be waiting his turn behind him... but... however, that unpleasant-looking gentleman paid him no mind, instead placing his own telegram at the counter, licking a stamp, tapping it firmly into place, and handing it over. Then, without even acknowledging the clerk who received it, he exited the station just as indifferently and briskly entered the nearby Sanyō Hotel in front of the station.

In a luxurious room of the Sanyō Hotel overlooking the station-front street sat a giant man with a long beard and eyebrows, dressed in splendid damask Chinese-style clothes. From his pallid corpulence to the long-slitted single eyelids, he appeared unmistakably Chinese from every angle—yet when the unpleasant-looking gentleman who had briskly approached before him bowed respectfully, this Chinese-dressed giant began speaking in vivid, weighty Japanese.

“Ah.” “Well done, well done.” “How did it go?” “The results...”

The unpleasant-looking gentleman bowed his head with a wry smile. While mopping the sweat from his partially bald forehead, he took a seat on the chair and leaned his face close to the Chinese-dressed giant, lowering his voice. "As soon as we entered Manchuria, I immediately ordered the military police commander to treat him as a border escapee and subject him to harsh interrogation, but despite being a feeble old man, he stubbornly refused to confess anything." "Didn't he have a passport?" "He did have one, but I had pickpocketed it beforehand. It’s an old method… but the passport is fully valid, formatted as him being newly appointed as an employee of the Tokyo ×× Embassy and assigned there. I have it here with me, but…"

“Did you try to buy him off?” “He doesn’t respond at all and truly seems to know nothing. With no other choice, I introduced him to the ×× consul to have his passport reissued and let him go, but there wasn’t a single suspicious point.”

"I thought as much. Most men would fold immediately under your methods." "He truly appears to know nothing. He seems nothing more than an old man skilled at typing and versed in Japanese script, so we had no choice but to let him proceed here with the ×× Consul’s approval. Yet no matter how I consider it, suspicions persist—which is why I took the liberty of sending Your Excellency his photograph and followed him this far…"

“Hmm. “Your insight isn’t mistaken.” “I too believe he’s undoubtedly a secret envoy.” “With Europe’s situation growing tense lately and Soviet-German border relations turning hostile, the Soviet Union can’t afford to focus its efforts solely on Manchuria-Mongolia and Xinjiang anymore.” “That’s precisely why they’ll soon abandon military operations in East Asia and shift to communist propaganda campaigns – mark my words.” “What the Soviets fear most isn’t Japan’s military strength or scientific prowess.” “It’s our people’s inherent resilience.” “For three thousand years we’ve guarded and passed down as our sacred duty this belief in loyalty to the Emperor and love of nation – that’s what sustains us, you see.” “Once they’ve communized Japan itself, those red bastards are convinced all Eastern nations will fall into Russia’s lap like ripe fruit – that’s their grand design.”

“I see.” “That old man must be hiding and carrying some critical message related to their communist propaganda operations…” “After inducing a coma, we thoroughly inspected everything from his briefcase to the seams of his travel suit, his felt hat, and even the soles of his kangaroo leather shoes—but found not a single suspicious point.” “Just one thing…” “What…?” “Just one thing…”

“What’s this ‘just one thing’…?”

“The Korean man who saw off that old man from Harbin just now sent a telegram at Shimonoseki Station.” “It was sent to a man named Furukawa at a record shop in Ginza Owaricho, but…” “Indeed, indeed.” “That man’s being monitored—no issue there… but the telegram’s contents…”

“The Record has arrived—says he’s boarding the Fuji—” “—says he’s boarding the Fuji—” “Got it— That’ll do.”

The Chinese-dressed Giant suddenly struck his knee and let out a loud voice. “Ah!” The unpleasant-looking gentleman blinked rapidly.

The Chinese-dressed Giant stood up, his entire face wearing a smile so broad it seemed about to split. “Ha ha ha! So they’ve finally started using Human Records after all!”

“Huh… Human Record…” “Hmm.” “A Human Record invented in Russia.” “What they call a Human Record—applying a new medical discovery where complex phrases get implanted through electrical means into the brain itself, though the individual retains no memory.” “They’d been manufacturing these in the Neva River signal station’s basement for years, deploying them to European-bound envoys—but with Japan’s intelligence detection growing unbearably sophisticated lately, they must’ve found their usual methods untenable and turned to this.” “In fact, this might well be their first attempt…”

“Human Record… Human Record…”

“Hmm.” The Chinese-dressed Giant looked down at the dumbfounded man’s face and laughed heartily. “Ha ha ha! The arrangements have already been properly made! If it’s someone beyond your capabilities, he must be a Human Record by now．Ha ha ha!”

The Fuji Express limited express train, having just left Atsuya on the Sanyo Line, plunged into a sweeping southern curve at full speed. The crimson crescent moon that had clung to the train’s rear until now had finally been shaken free onto the horizon.

By the door of the special reserved compartment near the observation car, a smartly dressed young bellboy around twenty-two or twenty-three stood leaning against it, nodding off repeatedly while maintaining his upright position. A thin black rubber tube emerging from under the blanket passed from beneath the boy's jacket through the fingertips of his left hand—casually moved behind his back—and was inserted into the keyhole of the door concealed behind his buttocks. Not a sound was made. The boy kept nodding off repeatedly with his hat tilted as he swayed with the train's movement.

At that moment, an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old handsome student bellboy carrying a tray with a water pitcher and glass tiptoed past, but upon reaching the young bellboy, he stopped dead in his tracks, rose on tiptoes, and brought his mouth close to the other’s ear. “I’ve brought it.”

The Young Bellboy opened his pale eyes wide and laughed coldly. Without a word, he bundled the blanket, what appeared to be a gas generator wrapped in black yarn, and the rubber tube together into the blanket and handed it to his junior bellboy. Then, using a conductor’s master key and a screwdriver, he swiftly undid the door’s latch and lock. While covering their noses with handkerchiefs, they entered the room with the Student Bellboy and firmly removed the lock. When they hurriedly opened the window, the suddenly intensified roar of the train filled the room along with the cold night air.

Inside the berth illuminated by a reddish-brown indoor lamp lay the same small-framed, emaciated white old man as before, having slipped out from under his quilt and now snoring with guttural, grinding snores. The Young Bellboy turned back to look at the Student Bellboy. "There’s no accomplice left on the train, right?" The Student Bellboy nodded simply. The Young Bellboy sneered once more. "Hmph. Now that we’ve come this far, it’s a straight shot to Tokyo. They think their Human Record’s safe and sound, the bastards."

“Huh? Human Record…”

The Student Bellboy looked startled, his eyes going round. He looked up at the Young Bellboy’s sharply menacing face, his lips trembling.

“Yeah. This old man is the Human Record. He’s been used as a Human Record too damn often—that’s why he’s wasted away to this.” “Human Record…” The Student Bellboy looked down at the old man’s sleeping face—gauntly illuminated by the dark backlight—as though he were gazing upon a living ghost.

“Yeah. “Watch now. “I’ll get this record spinning now…” The Young Bellboy’s hands began to move nimbly. He spread open the old man’s chest and, with practiced hands, injected approximately three vials—two of colorless transparent liquid and one of tea-brown liquid—over the row of ribs lining his chest. After closing the window and stepping outside the door, he adjusted his hat, accepted the water pitcher and glass tray offered by the Student Bellboy, and walked briskly into the observation car. He approached the gaudily dressed elderly white woman sunk into the cushion of a wicker chair far across the car.

“Hey.” “Thank you for waiting.” “Thank you.”

After the old woman with garishly applied lipstick and rouge handed several silver coins to the young bellboy's hand, he removed his hat and bowed obsequiously. "Oh... How beautiful... The moon..."

Looking where the elderly woman pointed, there was a huge jaundiced-yellow crescent moon sinking behind the train's rear as it rounded another curve. The Young Bellboy smiled gently and nodded. Once again removing his hat, he exited the observation car.

In the first-class car's bellboy room, the Student Bellboy was tidying up passengers' hand luggage piled like a mountain. Trunks, cloth sacks, turtle-shaped rice crackers, banana crates, wrapped bundles... From beneath these emerged a square canvas bag devoid of leaflets; he extracted a telephone receiver from within and pressed it to his ear. The Young Bellboy who had returned laughed while blocking the entrance with his body.

“Idiot... What’ll you do if we’re found out?” The Student Bellboy’s face turned bright red. He hurriedly returned the receiver to the duffel bag, but his eyes shone with curiosity.

“Can you hear anything?” “Yes. I can hear that old man’s snoring. The snoring’s rhythm seems to have changed slightly.” “The code connection’s working well.” “That’s excellent. Both the microphone in that miniature bulb and the rayon code connecting to this room are my brand-new inventions, you know.”

“Yeah. If this goes well, we’ll get plenty.” “Yes. I want a medal, though…”

“Haha. I’ll get you one soon enough… Oops… It’s already been ten minutes. Alright, I’ll go give another injection… The recorder’s holding up, right?” “Yes. I set it to ten kilos per pie. The only thing I’m worried about is the soundproofing device inside the duffel bag.” “Right. Just drape a blanket over it or something. Stack the luggage back exactly as it was before.”

“Shouldn’t I listen? The contents of the Human Record…” “Yeah.” “It can’t be helped.” “Come here.” “We’ll be arriving at Ogoori soon.”

“Who cares? A five-minute stop...”

The two of them entered the same private compartment as before. After firmly securing the latch from inside, the Young Bellboy took a syringe from his pocket and injected a full cylinder of colorless transparent liquid into the old man’s arm on the berth without any disinfection.

The old man had already become completely like a dead person. His entire body had gone limp - blue eyes peering through half-open eyelids glinted like glass; between both gauntly hollowed cheeks gaped slack lips from which exposed dentures sat parched and desiccated, presenting a ghastly visage akin to a freshly wrapped mummy. Then the student bellboy pulled out the miniature bulb from the bedside lamp and twisted in a small white hexagonal microphone about the size of a sugar cube in its place. Just like that, the two of them sat down on the cushions in the pitch-dark compartment and strained their ears.

The train’s speed gradually decreased, and pale, yellow, and various other lights crawled across the windowpanes. Soon, a loud voice outside the window— “Ogoooori—” “Ogoooori—” shouted as it passed.

The Young Bellboy whispered to the Student Bellboy beside him without moving. “Did that last one register on the recorder’s film?” “It’s registering. Since I’ve connected the device to the train’s storage battery and left it running… The film should last about fifty more minutes. It’s picking up your voice right now too, you know.” “Hmm…”

The two of them fell into silence once more. The Young Bellboy put a cigarette in his mouth out of restlessness and lit it.

The student bellboy reached out in the darkness. “Can I have one too?” “Idiot. It’ll register on the film.” “I don’t care—give me one.” “You. You’ve got your own.” “I’ve only got a butt. Yours are Russian rolls.” “Sharp nose. Heh. Knew by the stink.” “No—I saw. When you injected him earlier—from that old man’s pajama pocket—” “Shh. Heh…”

Suddenly the train shook violently with a clatter. They had passed through the up-line points within Ogoori Station. The compartment plunged back into pitch darkness and silence. Then suddenly, a strange voice—as if jolted loose by the train’s shaking—arose from within the berth. It was a grainy metallic, low, old man’s voice, and moreover in clear Japanese. The tone was calm and measured, as if drifting through a dream. “Japan’s…………… Comrades… Comrades… For the people’s national………… you must………… Comrades… Japan’s………… awakening… and growth in………… land………… shall…………”

“You get it?” came the Young Bellboy’s voice…. “I understand. It’s Soviet propaganda, right?” ...the Student Bellboy’s voice quivered with tension… “That’s Sen Katayama’s tone. This… it’s…”

“Eh? Sen Katayama…” “That’s right. He’s the veteran activist who led the ×××× movement in Japan before fleeing to Russia—must be seventy or eighty this year. He’s currently acting as something like the propaganda section chief for the Eastern regions. That bastard’s voice!” “How do you know?” “There was a time when this guy’s propaganda records slipped into Japan before. I got to hear those in the Intelligence Bureau’s basement once—even the voice was a perfect match. Human Records are terrifying things, huh?”

“What a ridiculous old man. “And that Katayama old man…” “Yeah. "He studied too damn much—his brain stopped working normally." "In medical terms, it's a psychiatric disorder called hypomania, you know." “He’s reached a state where he can’t survive unless he’s doing more than an ordinary person.” “Because they don’t know that, the Japanese × crowd thinks of Sen Katayama like some kind of god.” “The Soviets are using that guy for their propaganda.”

“So they transfer this voice onto records and distribute them claiming it’s Sen Katayama’s actual voice, right?”

“That seems to be their intention.” “Bastards pull such inhumane stunts.” The Human Record’s voice continued, just like a real record.

"...The imperialist governments of Britain and France openly obstruct this manifestation of Japan's Imperial Way spirit, but this is merely preparatory maneuvering to...force their way into the partition of China and seize opportunities to grasp new territories for their own rapacious interests." "How thoroughly the League of Nations—manufacturers of imperialist wars—and the Lytton Report have incited Japan from within, how persistently they have proposed China's international control and partition—this could only be known by those residing in Moscow, where the inner workings of European politics can be most clearly discerned."

The running dogs of the Chinese Nationalist Party claim that the contradictions between America’s Pan-Americanism and ××××××× are increasingly intensifying—but this is a mistake. What America is attempting to ×××××× can be understood by observing their methods of governing the Philippines.

The task of overthrowing all these maneuvers at once and banishing the shadows of ×× and ×× from the earth rests upon the shoulders of you ××××× comrades. To place China under the glorious governance of the Soviet government and deliver it from their tiger-wolf claws depends entirely on the rising power of you newly emerging ××××× comrades. Rise. Arise. Arm yourselves. Place the entire world under ×××××’s governance.

Long live ××××. Long live ×××××××.

Long live ×× and the Soviet ×××.

"(September X, 193X - Party, League, Central)"

“What’s this?” “You’re trembling.”

“I’m not trembling. It’s just that the cunning of Soviet imperialist propaganda irritates me.”

“Ahaha.” “Soviet imperialism sure was wonderful, huh?” “Once you’re fooled by this propaganda and step under Soviet rule, that country’s workers and peasants will meet their doom—same as in today’s Soviet Union.” “Capitalist countries only squeeze money from the people... but Sovietism? I tell you it wrings out everything from their blood and tears down to the very depths of their souls.” “But the Chinese will readily sympathize with Sovietism.”

“Yeah.” “The resonance is extraordinary.” “It’s spreading through Xinjiang with unstoppable momentum—but Chinese communism differs slightly from true Sovietism.”

“Huh. In what way is it different?” “True communism essentially means ‘Others’ things are mine. Mine is others’.’ That’s what it means.”

“Hmm... yes.” “Well… I suppose so.” “But theirs is different.” “‘Others’ things are mine.” “‘Mine is mine,’ so they say.”

“Ahahaha.”

“Wahahaha.” “Shh… It’ll get recorded on the film.” “Oh...” The Human Record fell silent. “Probably finished by now.” “Well, what do you think?” “The film will safely last until Mitajiri.”

“Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Tōto Daily Extra. Japan’s Foreign Affairs Authorities’ Grave Statement. The Content of Grave Protest Against Soviet Government. First step toward diplomatic rupture... Extra! Extra!”

“Extra! Extra! Traitor Furukawa Arrest Extra. Soviet Liaison Arrest Extra. Extra! Extra! “Yūkan Dempō Extra Extra”

The Soviet Ambassador stationed in Tokyo, who had received these two extra editions from a clerk’s hand while seated in the reception room chair, suddenly turned pale. He slowly raised his massive frame clad in a morning coat and thrust the extra edition before the eyes of the frail, bald-headed old man sitting rigidly in the armchair across from him, still wearing travel clothes.

The old man took it and put on his glasses. Shrinking into the chair and blinking blearily, he finished reading, then looked up bewildered at the giant ambassador’s face. The Soviet Ambassador, who had been looking down at that face, rapidly twisted into a demon-like visage. Suddenly thrusting a pistol at the old man, he adopted an imperious demeanor. He said in clear Moscow-accented Japanese: “You talked somewhere, didn’t you.” “The content of the message…”

The old man leapt up from the chair. He clung to the hairy ambassador’s arm with both hands and shrieked. “T-... That’s preposterous! “I... I am a Human Record.” “H-... How could I possibly know... the content of the message...”

“Shut up.” “You must have known.” “You must have pretended not to know that and sold it to Japan.” “Along with the name of the sole remaining Japanese liaison…”

“Gah…”

No sooner had he spoken than the old man leapt into the air and bolted toward the door, but before his hands could even touch it, he was propelled high upward. He spun sharply two or three times and collapsed onto the floor. Leaving red sparks of blood seared onto the surface of the door... The door opened from the other side, and the ambassador’s wife showed half her face. From beneath disheveled blond hair, she revealed blue eyes and bright red lips hanging slack-jawed. The Ambassador hurriedly stuffed the still-smoking pistol into his back pocket.

“Oh my… What happened… you?” “Oh, nothing.” “Just destroyed one record.” “Ha ha ha!”

Around that very time, in a corner of the restaurant above the entrance of Tokyo Station, a young naval doctor and a middle school student were sipping black tea.

Amidst the clatter of coming-and-going footsteps and the clinking of plates and bowls, the two whispered amiably to each other—but upon closer inspection, they turned out to be the young bellboy and student bellboy who had been aboard last night's Fuji Express. “They sure moved quickly.” “Oh nothing,” he said. “As last night’s recording film was being developed aboard a naval aircraft flying from Tokuyama to Osaka, it arrived straight in Tokyo before dawn. It was because they had heard that secret tripartite pact between Britain, Russia, and China from later in the recording that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs finally made up its mind. By publicly branding him a traitor on those big posters, they managed to arrest Furukawa—all part of the planned operation. Seaplanes were on standby at Tokuyama, Okayama, Hiroshima and Himeji too. By now those border guards at Russo-Manchuria must’ve started moving.”

The middle school student sipped his black tea, his face bright red as if intoxicated by honor. "It's precisely because of that toy you invented doing such remarkable work." "I don't think a mere medal would suffice." "...But I was creeped out. "I got scared halfway through. "When I heard that Human Record's voice... what exactly is a Human Record anyway...?" The naval doctor looked around to both sides. He drew his face even closer to the boy's and hugged the tea saucer to himself.

“Listen.” “It’s top secret.” “I won’t tell anyone.” “Once you understand it’s really nothing special.” “They hire honest polyglots Anna-style at great expense—human records for critical messages.” “Documents get found however hidden; every cipher breaks eventually.” “Memorization would suffice...but unlike us Japanese...foreigners take bribes...riskier than couriering documents.” “Russia—enemy to all...needing secrecy most—invented these methods.”

First, they take someone who knows nothing in the Anna style, anesthetize them like last night, inject a scopolamine-opium compound, and plunge them into an even deeper, strange, altered coma. Then, after about ten minutes, when they inject a solution combining cocaine, benzoic acid, and a small amount of alkaloid from the bushī plant used in Ainu arrowheads, a certain part of the brain awakens without the individual’s awareness. At that point, they play the phrases from electrically recorded discs... After all, using one's actual voice didn't seem effective. When they pressed recorded sound against his ear, he remembered it with uncanny clarity. About ten discs' worth could easily fit in. Then, when the person wakes up, they have nothing but a headache and remember nothing at all. “Even if tortured or bribed, they won’t confess, so you can send them anywhere without worrying about secrets leaking… that’s how it works.” “However, once that Human Record arrives at its destination, they anesthetize them in the same sequence and inject a syringe of cocaine—then that certain part of the brain I mentioned earlier wakes up.” “The fact that they clearly repeat phrases from recently heard records while half-dreaming had already been proven through experiments at a Tokyo university.”

“Huh.” “Did you invent that drug?” “As if I could invent something like that.” “We stole it.” "The Japanese Intelligence Bureau had known since before the Great War that this Human Record factory existed in the basement of a signal station at the mouth of the Neva River in Petrograd, and through immense effort, they had stolen their methods." "However, Russia had never before used this method against Japan alone." "In other words, they had kept it in reserve and now went and used it for the first time." “Because it was their most critical message.”

“Why did they keep it in reserve until now?” “Because Japanese medicine is the best in the world.” "They were scared, you know." "Moreover, those who become Human Records frequently—the more they’re used as such, the better the injections take effect and the clearer the recording’s function becomes—instead end up with strange complexions and waste away from drug addiction." “If you pay attention, you can immediately tell them apart from normal people.” “In other words, they end up like that old man, right?”

“That’s right. Your Excellency Lieutenant General Wakashima—who’d been stationed in Holland for ages—only needed one look at a photo of that old man who flew in from Harbin to know he was a Human Record. That’s how obvious it was.” “Lieutenant General Wakashima… Who’s that? Lieutenant General Wakashima is…” “Chief of Japan’s Intelligence Bureau.” “He’s this imposing figure in Chinese clothes.” “Our boss.” “The one who’s going to get you into the Naval Academy—that’s him...”

The student bellboy turned bright red once again. "But that little old man is pitiable, isn't he?" "That's not just pitiable. If the Soviet Ambassador reads today's extra edition—he'll have that old man killed on suspicion of being a traitor..." "Huh? Will he be killed? Even though he doesn't know anything..." "He'll be killed of course. Those Soviet materialist bastards have no heart or mercy. Their policy is to systematically eliminate anyone even slightly suspicious in political or diplomatic matters—those bastards."

“How cruel…”

“Nah. They probably don’t think of it as anything more than breaking a single record. Hahaha.”