Pathway to Japanese Literature

October 3rd, Showa Year X, 6:30 PM. The cloudy sky over the Genkai Sea, laden with typhoon clouds, had already darkened heavily.

From the first-class cabin of the 7,000-ton Kanpo Ferry's Kanro Maru, which had arrived at Shimonoseki pier, an emaciated Western man emerged unsteadily. He was a sickly old man shorter than most Japanese men, though it remained unclear what illness had reduced him to skin and bones. The wrinkles on his clean-shaven cheeks hung slack like damp paper, while his large pearl-like eyes—staring fixedly from the upper deck—vacantly reflected Shimonoseki Station's lights like those of a sleepwalker. His figure, clad in a faded brown woolen travel suit with a silver-gray felt hat pulled low over his brows, moved soundlessly in kangaroo leather shoes with ghostly frailty. His luggage appeared to have been entrusted to a porter. In his emaciated pallid hands he clutched only a slender bamboo cane tipped with silver, carrying nothing else. He gave a slight tip of his hat to the ferry attendants seeing him off at the deck, revealing a smooth-shaven scalp gleaming snow-white beneath.

The attendants must have somehow found his appearance strange as well. From the high deck, five or six of them stood with their gazes aligned, watching his receding figure. He too had come trudging alone toward the customs area when he seemed to feel some unease, stopping under the glaring electric lights to look around—but upon spotting a tall gentleman in a morning coat with pockmarked features, likely Korean, descending from the third-class cabins among the crowd, he finally appeared relieved and began hurrying off in pursuit of the man.

The Korean gentleman, seemingly unaware of such matters, briskly crossed the pier and exited through Shimonoseki Station’s ticket gate. He stealthily hid himself in the shadow of the crowd and turned back with a nonchalant air, watching as the diminutive Western man—wiping sweat from his brow with a fresh handkerchief—tottered toward the 8:30 PM express train Fuji Express. Then he immediately rushed to the public telegraph office and sent a telegram he seemed to have prepared in advance.

“Record” “Shimonosekitsuku” “Boarded Fuji”

The telegram’s destination was ×-chome ×-banchi Owaricho, Ginza, Tokyo—Furukawa of the Kondoru Record Company.

After finishing his transmission, the Korean gentleman turned around and glared sharply at a burly, dark-complexioned, suspicious-looking middle-aged gentleman behind him who appeared to be waiting his turn... but... however, without even glancing back, the suspicious-looking gentleman placed his own telegram at the counter, licked a stamp, slapped it down firmly, and submitted it. And then, as the clerk received it, he exited the station without so much as a glance and briskly entered the nearby Sanyo Hotel in front of the station.

In a luxurious room overlooking the station-front street of the Sanyo Hotel sat a giant man with a flowing beard and eyebrows, clad in an ornate damask Chinese-style garment. From his pale corpulent build to his elongated single-lidded eyes, he appeared thoroughly Chinese from any angle—yet when the suspicious-looking gentleman stepped briskly forward and bowed respectfully before him, this Chinese-attired colossus began speaking in crisp, deliberate Japanese. “Ah. “Fine work, fine work.” “Well? How did it proceed?” “The outcome was…”

The suspicious-looking gentleman bowed his head with a wry smile. Wiping away sweat from his balding forehead, he took a seat on the chair and leaned in close to the Chinese-dressed giant, lowering his voice. “Upon entering Manchuria, I immediately ordered the military police commander to treat him as a border escapee and interrogate him harshly, but despite being a feeble old man, he stubbornly refused to confess.”

“Did he not have a passport?” “He did have one, but I had pickpocketed it beforehand. It’s an old trick, but… The passport was fully legitimate, formatted as if he’d been newly appointed as an employee of the Tokyo XX Embassy. I have it here—” “Did you attempt bribery?” “He wouldn’t respond to bribes, and appears to genuinely know nothing. With no alternative, we introduced him to the XX Consul to have his passport reissued and sent him onward—but there wasn’t a single suspicious detail to note.”

“I thought as much.” “Most men wouldn’t last a minute in your hands.” “He truly seems to know nothing at all.” “He appeared to be nothing more than an old man skilled at typing and versed in Japanese script, so we had no choice but to send him here with the XX Consul’s approval. Yet no matter how I consider it, I can’t shake the suspicion that something’s amiss—which is why I took the liberty of sending Your Excellency a photograph of that bastard and have been tailing him this far…”

“Hmm.” “Your insight isn’t mistaken.” “I too am certain that bastard’s an envoy.” “With Europe’s situation growing tense lately and Russo-German border relations deteriorating, Russia can no longer concentrate solely on Manchuria-Mongolia and Xinjiang.” “Which means they’ll abandon East Asian military operations before long—mark my words—and switch to communist propaganda campaigns.” “What Russia fears most isn’t Japan’s military strength nor scientific prowess.” “It’s our people’s inherent ethnic fortitude.” “For three millennia we’ve guarded this conviction—loyalty to sovereign and love of nation—as our very lifeblood.” “Once they redden this core, those Bolsheviks reckon all Oriental lands will tumble into Russia’s lap like ripe persimmons.”

“I see.” “That crucial message about communist propaganda operations—or something of the sort—that bastard must’ve hidden it somewhere and brought it here, mark my words…”

“Having kept him in a coma, we examined everything from his briefcase to the seams of his travel suit, his felt hat, even the soles of his kangaroo-skin shoes—but found nothing at all suspicious.” “Just one thing…”

“What is it…”

“Just one thing…” “What do you mean ‘just one thing’…” “The Korean man who saw that old man off from Harbin has just this moment sent a telegram at Shimonoseki Station.” “It was sent to a man called Furukawa at a record shop in Ginza Owaricho, but…” “Hmm. We’ve got that man under surveillance, so there’s no issue… but… the telegram’s contents…” “The Record has arrived.” “He’s boarding Fuji… so…” “Got him…! That settles it!”

The Chinese-dressed giant abruptly struck his knee and let out a loud voice.

“Huh?”

The suspicious-looking gentleman blinked rapidly. The Chinese-dressed giant stood up, wearing a smile so wide it seemed ready to split his face. “Ha ha ha. So they’ve finally resorted to using a Human Record after all!”

“Huh… Human Record…” “Hmm.” “It’s a Human Record invented in Russia, I tell you.” “Despite the individual themselves remembering nothing, it’s what they call a Human Record—applying a new medical discovery where complex phrases are memorized solely through electrical implantation into the brain.” “They’d been producing these in the basement of a signal station at the Neva River Estuary for quite some time and using them for covert agents bound for Europe, I tell you. But with Japan’s methods of detecting secrets becoming exceedingly sophisticated of late, they must’ve found it impossible to manage and resorted to deploying them here.” “In fact, this might just be their first time using it…”

“Human Record… Human Record…” “Hmm.” The Chinese-dressed giant looked down at the dumbfounded man’s face and burst into uproarious laughter.

“Ha ha ha! I’ve already made all the necessary preparations! If they’re beyond your ability to handle, they must already be a Human Record after all! Ha ha ha!” The limited express train Fuji Express took a sweeping southward curve at full speed moments after departing Aso Station on the Sanyo Line. The crimson crescent moon finally tore free from where it had clung to the train’s rear and floated clear above the horizon. By the private compartment door near the observation car stood an upright young bellboy—twenty-two or twenty-three years old and smartly dressed—leaning against it while dozing with intermittent nods. A thin black rubber tube emerging from beneath his blanket traced along his left fingertips—casually extended backward beneath his jacket—and inserted itself into his buttocks-concealed door keyhole. Not a sound escaped. The bellboy swayed unsteadily beneath his tilted hat as he kept nodding off.

At that moment, an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old teenage bellboy—handsome and carrying a tray holding a water pitcher and glasses—tiptoed past. When he reached the young bellboy, he came to an abrupt halt, stretched up on his toes, and brought his mouth close to the other’s ear.

“I’ve brought it.” The young bellboy’s eyes widened, pale and cold, as he laughed. Without a word, he bundled the blanket—along with what appeared to be a gas generator wrapped in black wool yarn and the rubber tube—rolled them into the blanket, and handed it to the teenage bellboy. Then, using the conductor’s master key and a screwdriver, he swiftly undid the door’s latch and lock. While covering their noses with handkerchiefs, the two of them—the young bellboy and the teenage bellboy—entered the room and firmly locked the door. When they hurriedly opened the window, along with the cold night air came the suddenly intensified roar of the train, completely filling the room.

In the berth illuminated by the reddish-brown light of the interior lamp lay the same small-framed, emaciated old Western man; he had wriggled free from his quilt and was snoring with rasping and gurgling noises.

The Young Bellboy turned to look at the Teenage Bellboy.

“There’s no partner on the train, huh?”

The teenage bellboy gave a simple nod. The young bellboy sneered once again.

“Hmph. Once we’ve come this far, it’s a straight shot to Tokyo. They’re sitting pretty thinking it’s just a Human Record, those bastards.” “Wh-what… Human Record…” The teenage bellboy’s eyes widened in apparent surprise. He looked up at the Young Bellboy’s face, sharp and gleaming with ferocity, and his lips trembled. “Right. This old man is the Human Record. Because he’s been used as a Human Record way too often, that’s why he’s become this emaciated.” “Human Record…”

The teenage bellboy looked down at the old man’s sleeping face—emaciated and starkly highlighted by the dark backlight—as though gazing upon a living ghost.

“Right. “Watch this.” “I’ll show you how this record rotates…”

The Young Bellboy’s hands began moving with nimble precision. He opened the old man’s chest and administered three vials—two of colorless transparent liquid and one of tea-brown liquid—into the rib-aligned area above his sternum with practiced hands. After closing the window and stepping outside, he adjusted his hat, accepted the water pitcher and glasses tray offered by the teenage bellboy, then strode briskly into the observation car. He approached an ostentatiously dressed elderly white woman sunk deep into the cushions of a rattan chair far across the car.

“Hey. Thank you for waiting.” “Thank you.” After the old woman with garish lipstick and rouge passed several silver coins into the young bellboy’s hand, he removed his hat and bowed obsequiously. “Oh… How beautiful… The dear moon…” When he looked in the direction the old woman indicated, there on the rear of the train—which had made yet another curve—an enormous jaundiced-yellow crescent moon hung low, sinking into the horizon. The young bellboy smiled gently and nodded in agreement. He removed his hat once more and left the observation car.

In the bellboy compartment of the first-class car, the Teenage Bellboy was tidying up passengers' hand luggage piled like a mountain. Trunks, Shingen bags, Kame no Ko senbei crackers, banana baskets, furoshiki-wrapped bundles... From beneath them emerged a square canvas bag without any leaflets attached; he took out the receiver from within and pressed it to his ear. The Young Bellboy who had returned there laughed while blocking the entrance with his body. “Idiot… What were you going to do if someone noticed?” The Teenage Bellboy’s face turned bright red. He hurriedly returned the receiver to the canvas bag, but his eyes shone with curiosity.

“Can you hear anything?” “Yes. I can hear that old man’s snoring. The snoring seems to have changed a bit.”

“The cord connection’s in good shape, huh?” “Yes. It’s perfect. That tiny lamp microphone and the rayon cord connected to this room are both my brand-new inventions, you know.” “Right. If this goes well, we’ll get plenty.” “Yes. I would like a medal…”

“Haha.” “I’ll get you one soon… Oh!… Ten minutes have already passed.” “I’ll go give another injection... You’ve got the recorder under control, right?”

“Yes. I set it to ten kilos per channel. The only thing I’m worried about is the soundproofing device inside the duffel bag.”

“Right.” “Just hook a blanket over it or something.” “Stack the luggage exactly as before.” “Am I not supposed to listen… To the Human Record’s contents…”

“Right.” “It can’t be helped.” “Come here.”

“We’ll be arriving at Ogōri soon.” “Who gives a damn? A five-minute stop or something…”

The two of them entered the special reserved compartment just as they were. After firmly bolting the door from the inside, the Young Bellboy took out a syringe from his pocket and injected a cylinder of colorless transparent liquid into the old man’s arm on the berth without disinfection or any such precautions. The old man had now become utterly corpse-like. His entire body had gone limp; the blue eyes peering through half-opened eyelids shone like glass; between hollowed cheeks gaped a slack mouth from which exposed dentures clung dryly to his gums—exuding the eerie semblance of a freshly made mummy.

Then the Teenage Bellboy removed the bulb from the bedside lamp and inserted a small white hexagonal microphone—about the size of a sugar cube—in its place. Just like that, the two of them settled onto the cushions in the pitch-dark compartment and strained their ears. The train’s speed steadily decreased as pale and yellow lights crawled across the windowpanes. Soon, a loud voice passed by outside the window—

“Ogōri—” “Ogōriii—ii”

shouted as it passed by.

The Young Bellboy whispered to the Teenage Bellboy beside him without moving a muscle.

“Did you pick up that last one on the recorder’s film?” “It’s registering. Since I’ve connected the device to the train’s storage battery and left it open…the film should last around fifty more minutes. Even your voice from just now is being picked up, you know.” “Heh heh heh…” The two of them fell into silence once more. The Young Bellboy, to dispel his restlessness, put a cigarette between his lips and lit it.

The Teenage Bellboy reached out in the dark. “Could I have one too, please?” “Idiot. “It’ll get picked up on the film.” “I don’t mind—please give me one.” “You. “You’ve got some already.” “I’ve got bats. “Yours are Russian cigarettes, right?” “You know your stuff. “Heh heh.” “Couldn’t you tell by the smell?”

“No,” “I saw it.” “When you gave him the injection earlier—from that old man’s pajama pocket…” “Shh.” “Heh heh heh…”

The train suddenly shook violently with a loud clatter. They passed through the up-line switch within Ogōri Station. The compartment plunged back into pitch darkness and utter silence.

Then, as if shaken loose by the train’s swaying, a strange voice arose from within the berth. It was a hoarse, metallic voice—low like an old man’s yet speaking in unmistakably clear Japanese. The tone unfolded as slowly and deliberately as a dream. “Japan’s………, ……, ……, ……, ………………… Comrades… Comrades… For the people’s national… act… Comrades… Japan’s… awakening and growth in… land… is…”

“Do you get it?”

and the Young Bellboy’s voice…

“I understand. It’s Soviet propaganda, isn’t it?”

and the Teenage Bellboy’s voice trembled with tension… “It’s Katayama Sen’s tone. This…” “Huh? Katayama Sen…”

“That’s right. The old fighter—around seventy or eighty this year—who carried out the ×××× movement in Japan before fleeing to Russia. He’s currently handling something like propaganda director duties for the Eastern regions. That bastard’s voice—this is it.” “How do you know?” “Some time ago, his propaganda records managed to slip into Japan. I had them let me listen to those in the Intelligence Bureau’s basement—even the voice was an exact match. Human Records are truly terrifying things, aren’t they?”

“What a ridiculous old man.” “That Katayama old man—” “Yeah. He’s studied so much his mind’s gone off the rails. In medical terms, it’s a mental illness called hypomania, you know. He can’t survive unless he’s doing more than what ordinary people do. Since they don’t know that, the Japanese × crowd ends up thinking of Katayama Sen as some kind of god. The Soviets are exploiting that for their propaganda.”

“So they’ll record this voice onto discs and distribute them as Katayama Sen’s actual spoken words, right?” “That appears to be their scheme.” “Filthy bastards—this is inhuman work.”

The Human Record’s voice continued unabated, indistinguishable from an actual phonograph record. “…The British and French imperialist governments openly interfere with this manifestation of Japan’s Imperial Way spirit, but this is merely preparatory work to seize opportunities—by inserting themselves into the partition of China—for their own bandit-like self-interest.” How the League of Nations—manufacturer of imperialist wars—and the Lytton Report incite Japan from within, and how persistently they propose China’s international management and partition, can only be fully understood by those in Moscow, where the inner workings of European politics are most clearly discerned.

The Chinese Nationalist Party lackeys claim that the contradictions between American Pan-Americanism and ××××××× are growing ever more severe, but this is incorrect. That America seeks to ×××××× can be understood by examining their methods of governing the Philippines. The task to overturn all these schemes at once and eradicate 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 them from their predatory fangs depends entirely on the rising strength of you, the new ××××× comrades.

Rise up. Take action. Arm yourselves. Place the entire world under the governance of ×××××.

Long live ××××.

Long live ×××××××.

Long live ×× and Soviet’s ×××. “(September ×, 193X – Party, Group, Central).”

“What’s this? You’re trembling, aren’t you?”

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

“Ahaha.” “Soviet imperialism was just wonderful, huh?” “If they’re fooled by this propaganda and carelessly fall under Soviet rule, then it’s all over for that country’s workers and farmers—they’ll end up just like the Soviets of today.” “Capitalist countries only squeeze money from the people... but Soviet-ism, I tell you, wrings everything from them—from their blood to their tears down to the very depths of their souls.”

“However, the Chinese people will quickly resonate with Soviet-ism.”

“Yeah.” “An extraordinary kind of resonance.” “It’s been spreading to Xinjiang with tremendous force, but the communism the Chinese people imagine differs slightly from authentic Soviet-ism.”

“Huh. In what way does it differ?”

“True communism in essence means ‘What’s yours is mine.’ ‘What’s mine is yours’—that’s how it’s supposed to be.” “Yes.” “Well, I suppose that’s right.” “But theirs is different. ‘What’s yours is mine. What’s mine is mine’—that’s how theirs goes.”

“Ahahaha.”

“Wahahahah!”

“Shh… It’ll get recorded on the film.”

"Oh..." "The Human Record's fallen silent." "I wonder if it's already over." "Well, it's hard to say." "The film will hold out just fine until Mitajiri."

“Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Extra! Toto Nichiho Extra. Our Foreign Affairs Authorities' Grave Declaration. The content of the grave protest against the Soviet Government. "The first step toward diplomatic rupture... Extra! Extra!"

“Extra! Extra! Traitor Furukawa’s Arrest Extra. Soviet Liaison Officer Arrest Extra.

"Extra! Extra!" "Evening Telegram Extra! Extra!"

The Soviet Ambassador stationed in Tokyo who had received these two Extra Editions from a clerk while seated in the reception room chair abruptly lost color in his face. Slowly heaving his morning-coated bulk upright, he thrust the Extra Editions before the eyes of the frail, bald-headed old man sitting rigidly in traveling clothes on the facing armchair. The old man accepted them and donned his glasses. Having shrunk listlessly into the chair as he finished reading, he looked up vacantly at the ambassador’s massive face.

Ambassador ××, who had been looking down at that face, turned demonic in an instant. He suddenly thrust a pistol at the old man and assumed a domineering posture. He said in clear, Moscow-accented Japanese:

“You talked somewhere… About the message’s content…”

The old man leapt up from the chair. He clung with both hands to the bushy-haired Ambassador’s pistol-wielding arm and screamed.

“T... That’s absurd. I... I am a Human Record. H... How... would I know... the message’s contents...” “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 one remaining Japanese liaison you’ve left…” “Gah…!” No sooner had he spoken than the old man leapt into the air and fled toward the door, but before his hands could touch it, he was hurled high into space. Whirling around two or three times, he collapsed onto the floor. The surface of the door remained scorched with sparks of crimson blood…

The door opened from the other side, and the ambassador’s wife peered out with half her face visible. From beneath her disheveled blond hair, she revealed blue eyes and a bright red mouth that hung open in bewilderment. The ambassador hurriedly stuffed the still-smoking pistol into his back pocket.

“Oh my. What’s going on? You?” “Nah. Just broke one little record, that’s all.” “Hahaha.”

At that very moment, in a corner of the restaurant above Tokyo Station’s entrance, a young naval doctor and a student were sipping black tea.

Amidst the clatter of bustling footsteps and the clinking of dishes, the two whispered intimately together—but upon closer inspection, they were none other than the Young Bellboy and Teenage Bellboy who had been aboard last night’s Fuji Express. “They moved remarkably fast, didn’t they?” “Nah. Last night’s recording film was developed while being flown from Tokuyama to Osaka on a naval plane, then arrived in Tokyo before dawn. The Foreign Ministry was finally able to make up its mind because they heard the contents of the secret tripartite pact between Britain, Russia, and China that was included toward the end of that recording. By branding him a traitor on large handbills, we were able to apprehend Furukawa. Everything was part of the planned operation. In Tokuyama, Okayama, Hiroshima, and Himeji, there were seaplanes waiting respectively. By now, the border guards at the Soviet-Manchurian frontier must already be mobilizing.”

The student, his face flushed as if intoxicated with honor, sipped his black tea. “It’s all thanks to that toy you invented performing such remarkable work.” “A medal hardly seems sufficient.” “...But I was creeped out.” “I got scared halfway through.” “When I heard that Human Record’s voice… What even is a Human Record… that thing…”

The naval doctor glanced around cautiously. He drew his face closer to the boy and hugged the tea saucer to himself. “Listen,” “this stays strictly between us.” “Understood.”

“Once you understand it, it’s really nothing special, you see. In other words, they hire Anna-style honest people fluent in various languages at great expense for use as records, deploying them when transmitting messages of utmost importance. No matter how many documents you hide, they’ll be found, and there’s no code that can’t be cracked. You’d think simply having them memorize it would suffice, but unlike the Japanese, foreigners can be bribed—so in the end, it becomes more perilous than entrusting them with a coded letter. Especially with a country like Russia having enemies all over the world and requiring the highest degree of secret diplomacy—that’s why they ultimately invented this Anna-style method.”

First, they anesthetize an Anna-style subject who knows nothing—like last night—then inject a scopolamine-opium mixture to plunge them into an even deeper, strange, utterly bizarre 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—the subject remains unconscious while a specific part of their brain awakens. Then they electrically imprint the recorded phrases… Using an actual human voice just doesn’t work well, you see. “When you press the record’s sound to their ear, they commit it to memory with uncanny clarity.” “About ten records’ worth can easily fit in there, you see.” “Then, when the person wakes up, they have nothing but a headache and don’t remember a single thing.” “No matter how much they’re tortured or bribed, they never confess—so wherever you send them, there’s no risk of secrets leaking out… That’s how it works.” “However, once that Human Record arrives at its destination, you anesthetize them in the prescribed sequence and inject a syringe of cocaine—then that specific part of the brain I mentioned earlier wakes up.” “The fact that they clearly repeat the record’s recently heard phrases in a dreamlike state has already been proven through experiments at Tokyo University.”

“Huh. Did you invent that drug?” “I couldn’t invent something like that. We stole it. The Japanese intelligence bureau had known since before the Great War about this Human Record factory being in the basement of a signal station at the Neva River estuary in Petrograd, and they went through hell to steal their methods. However, Russia had never before used this method against Japan alone. In other words, they’d kept it in reserve and now had the gall to use it for the first time this round. Because it was the most critical message.”

“Why had they kept it in reserve until now?”

“Because Japanese medical science is the best in the world.” “They were scared, you see.” “Moreover, the more someone becomes a Human Record, the better the injections work—the recording’s effects become clearer—but in exchange, they develop a drug-induced pallor and waste away from addiction.” “If you pay attention, you can immediately distinguish them from ordinary people.” “So they end up like that old man, right?”

“That’s right. After being stationed in Holland for so long, His Excellency Lieutenant General Wakashima could take one look at that old man’s photo—the one who flew in from Harbin—and immediately identify him as a Human Record, they say.”

“Lieutenant General Wakashima… Who’s that?” “About Lieutenant General Wakashima…”

“He’s the head of Japan’s Intelligence Bureau, you see.” “He’s an impressive man in Chinese-style clothes, you see.” “He’s our boss, you see.” “The one who’s going to get you into the Naval Academy is that man, you see…”

The student turned bright red once again. "But that poor little old man... It’s so pitiful." "It’s beyond pitiful." "If he sees today’s extra edition, I bet the Soviet Ambassador will have him killed." "On suspicion of being a traitor..."

“What? He’s going to be killed? Even though he knows nothing…” “Of course he’ll be killed. Those materialist Soviet bastards have neither blood nor tears, you see. Their policy is to kill off anyone even slightly suspicious in matters of political diplomacy.” “That’s so cruel.”

“Oh well. They probably think it’s no different than breaking a single record. Hahaha.”