Pathway to Japanese Literature

In the Poppies

For a while, the grassy embankment continued at eye level.
On the embankment of the plain that undulated like waves stretched a continuous expanse of crimson wild poppies.
The early summer fields of Hungary—now over three hours since departing Vienna at noon—had been dyed crimson in every direction by these wild poppies, and every face reflected in the midday train windows appeared faintly bright, softly rustling.
Beyond the embankment flowed the Danube River, and each time its waters receded, glimpses of azure surface emerged intermittently between waves of poppies.
At first sparse as scattered dots, the poppies swelled or thinned over what felt like an hour until they gradually clustered into an endless crimson mass surging forth—this vast multitude of scarlet.
Kaji suddenly recalled that people had long called Budapest—the city he would soon reach—the Queen of the Danube.
Perhaps travelers who had come this way from Vienna, upon gazing at this river flowing alongside crimson waves here, found those words rising naturally to their lips.
This was a vista unlike any he had encountered elsewhere in Europe.
He imagined these poppies might be growing thickly even into the rails beneath his train.
After a while, it felt wasteful to keep gazing alone, and faces of acquaintances began surfacing only to vanish again.

He also found himself remembering a song called “Danube Ripples” that he had often sung in Japan during his childhood.
There had been a summer evening when he played the harmonica while his sister accompanied him on violin as they enjoyed themselves together; now he imagined what she might say if she were here traveling with him like this.
This fantasy was immensely pleasant to Kaji.
Even as he listened to the train’s noise, the rhythm of turning wheels would transform into that song from his boyhood, and the fields around—where sunlit river waters stretched endlessly onward in blue and white—

“Taan, ta, tatatan, taanta, taan”

And so the song took on this rhythm—"Taan, ta, tatatan, taanta, taan"—and as Kaji toyed with the melody in his heart for a while, he forgot entirely about himself actually traveling through that place.
It was precisely like the bittersweet sentiment of a grass whistle heard from beyond a distant stream—a melancholy akin to lapping water drawing ever nearer, enveloping him.
He thought that the revival of such a childhood song had occurred only there in Europe.
One reason was that he came to Hungary as a blank slate, knowing nothing beyond those frenetic compositions—and perhaps that very ignorance had wiped away his mental fog.
Even if nothing existed in the fields ahead but wild poppies and the river, he felt there had been value in coming.

When he arrived in Budapest, it was past four o’clock.
The impression of a modern city—crystallized alone in a plain where nothing but poppies and not a single mountain could be seen—still lingered in Kaji’s mind even after he reached his hotel room.
The sight of many thick street trees along the road from the station straight to the hotel first delighted him, but more than that, it was the room he was shown that pleased him most.
A spacious thirty-tatami-mat room where two large, beautifully carved beds for two people sat atop a crimson carpet, accompanied by separate resting chairs and even a bathroom.
Though not an especially expensive room, even at first glance it struck Kaji as extravagantly luxurious.
The height was appropriately on the third floor, and from the window, the Danube River flowed right beside the road directly below.

However, unfortunately for Kaji, his fatigue from the prolonged train journey was severe at this time. Moreover, even though he had come here, he had not a single acquaintance, knew neither where anything was nor the language, and was even unfamiliar with the local history. Considering how the workings of the lips transformed *Mongol* into *Mongorowa*, *Mongorowa* into *Fongorowa*, *Fongorowa* into *Fangarawa*, and finally into *Hungary*, one might speculate that this land too had been invaded since the 12th century by heroes of the Eastern steppes surging forth under yellow banners—yet to the eye, the people’s appearances in every town he had passed through differed not at all from the West.

After removing his travel attire, he immediately lay down on the bed and resolved to focus on recovering from his fatigue.
Even as he did so, he recalled a doctor friend—who had come here from Paris when he departed Tokyo—

“Anyway, you simply must go to Hungary. It’s wonderful there.”

As he recalled such words, the accumulated fatigue in his back—its pain showing no sign of easing—made him feel drowsy.

“What do you mean by ‘good’?”

The reason Kaji had asked the doctor again then was that in his expression—one might call it a surge of delight—there had been something beautiful that sparkled unbidden.

“Why, there’s no place with more beautiful women than there! And how welcomed Japanese people are—so welcomed, absolutely wildly welcomed!”

The doctor, having spoken with such particularly emphatic expressions yet still seeming unsatisfied, deeply tucked his chin into his chest and was on the verge of manifesting some profound emotion from his memories when suddenly another acquaintance approached from the side and began discussing an entirely unrelated matter—thus Kaji and the doctor’s conversation about Hungary ended up fizzling out on the spot.

Even as he lay there, Kaji now recalled the Doctor’s fleeting expression—chin tucked into chest—and the clustering crimson wild poppies seen from the train window floated before his eyes. What might emerge from those flowers? A faint curiosity stirred within him.
Moreover, apart from this Doctor friend, Kaji had also asked other people in Paris about Hungary, but they all similarly,
“They said it was wonderful there.”
Yet despite merely saying that, not a single Japanese person had actually gone to see it.
However, it was indeed true that everyone had unanimously agreed about Japanese people being exceptionally well-liked there, and there was no doubt that he himself had also let slip a desire to go.
And yet, before he knew it, Kaji now found himself there.
Kaji had been traveling through the West and increasingly came to feel with clarity how the world’s workings were uniformly governed by notions of profit and loss—yet there alone, he sensed something mysteriously different: aspects driven by likes and dislikes manifesting even in people’s expressions. Lying there, he wondered if even the pain in his back while sleeping might owe itself to this very slackening of tension in his mind.
However, even just considering the path he had taken to get there, it felt overwhelmingly distant.
Truly, Japan appeared in the far distance, and he felt lonely.

When he was thinking of taking a nap until dinner, a knock sounded.
Kaji, assuming it must be someone from the hotel, remained silent—when an obese man with a ruddy complexion entered uninvited.
Holding his own hat in one hand and smiling, the man approached before spreading both arms wide like a circus performer’s wings and performing a deep bow with one knee bent.
To all appearances, he was a stately gentleman who might have been a university professor.
Though Kaji felt no suspicion, his fatigue made even half-sitting up seem laborious, so he remained lying there observing.

“I must beg your forgiveness for this rudeness of calling upon you at a time when you must be weary from your journey.”

With that, this gentleman—though his Japanese carried a slight hint of translationese—first offered a largely correct apology to Kaji, then presented a business card bearing his Hungarian name: Johan.

“I am not affiliated with this hotel, but as an interpreter for the purpose of studying Japanese, I have taken it upon myself to arrange for your convenience during your stay.”
“If you would kindly deign to command any service, we would consider it our utmost fortune.”
“Upon visiting this hotel today and being informed of your arrival, I have come here on business.”
“If it pleases you, I shall return here today at 5:30 PM. Should you kindly prepare yourself by then, I would be honored.”

The gentleman, having smoothly delivered his words in a tone reminiscent of reading a letter’s text, remained standing perfectly still for a while, gazing at him.
Though Johan’s use of honorifics rang slightly unnatural, and his tongue stumbled here and there, Kaji—hearing Japanese after so long—felt an odd fascination and promptly requested Johan’s guidance himself.
Perhaps sensing Kaji’s fatigue—or perhaps not—Johan executed an about-face with the same salute he had used upon entering and immediately exited.

No matter which country’s city he had arrived in, Kaji had never yet hired a guide on his own initiative. And since he had always acted entirely alone in all matters, Johan’s sudden appearance this time made him feel constrained—yet within that constraint he sensed something characteristically Hungarian, and having resolved to follow Johan’s lead without suspicion, he lay back down on the bed. However, upon reflection, he realized his own oversight in not having inquired about the guide’s rates. He did feel some unease about that, but after all—the man was not only Hungarian but also someone who understood Japanese, a rarity—Kaji concluded he was a valuable person not to be doubted.

That evening, Johan guided them to a traditional restaurant where, after dining, they heard violins played by a Gypsy ensemble of over twenty members ranging from five to twenty years old.
The entire ensemble played from memory, their strings moving with palpable freedom.
It was said their very lives had begun with the violin bow at birth—their rhythms flowing unrestrained through wilderness existences, creating an intensely wild and fantastical atmosphere.
Though the tour concluded there, one might better say it exemplified Johan’s considerate guidance.
Kaji returned early that day and recovered from his fatigue by the next morning.
Thus he firmly resolved not to inquire about Johan’s guiding fees himself throughout his planned five-day stay.

The next day at 3 PM, Johan came.
By this point, it could be said that Kaji was beginning to feel more interest in Johan—the one leading him around—than in the places the two of them were going to see.

The two of them decided to have dinner at a traditional restaurant on an island in the Danube River.
This too was Johan’s idea.
The traditional restaurant stood in a park enveloped by verdant trees, the meal served beneath open skies.
The evening’s beauty—when hollyhock-like geraniums erupted in crimson blooms—mirrored itself even in the twilight encroaching over river waves, and Kaji abruptly felt a yearning for vanished skies swelling within his chest.
The flowers’ scarlet seeped into both air and water, a melancholy akin to fixing one’s gaze upon the surface and peering toward some distant beyond.

After finishing the meal—perhaps perplexed by Kaji’s failure to indicate their next destination—Johan took him back to the hotel.
From the road below his room came occasional sounds of violins being tuned.
As Kaji leaned against the sofa conversing with Johan, the moon rose over the opposite bank of the Danube River.
The waves drew white lines toward the room, spreading intricate latticework patterns—an unforeseen solace to one who had long been unacquainted with the moon.

“It’s about to begin.”

“It’s about to begin,” Johan said at that moment.

“What is?” Kaji asked in return.

Johan answered that it was music.
Indeed, they must have been waiting on the road below his room for the moon to rise.
The ensemble of the Danube’s rippling song began to play.
While listening to the violin’s strains, he grasped that Johan’s guiding method too involved laboring over elaborate variations, much like staging an intricate play.
The song of the ripples, from above the royal palace on the opposite shore, gradually swelled in intensity and grew more resplendent as the moon climbed higher.

“Those playing are Gypsies—the finest masters among them.”

Johan explained.
The tone dripped with liquid resilience, swelling with rich expansiveness.
Without sheet music beneath the newly emerged shimmering moon, they played under open skies, their melodies matching the rippling waves they gazed upon.
Johan spoke again of how these Gypsy companions drifted through Europe’s every corner with the seasons—lives of ceaseless wandering—and recounted both the sorrows and joys of their destiny: to die clutching nothing but violins, all else forsaken.

“They are music itself. They can perform formal pieces, but they still do not bind themselves too tightly to sheet music.”
“Such things must not be interesting.”

“They don’t have citizenship here either, do they?”

“No, they do not.”
“How do you say it in Japanese?”
“Migratory birds—yes, that’s it.”

What Johan said pressed upon him with a particularly strong, lonely resonance—words that seeped deep into the chest of one who had been living the life of a migratory bird for some time now.
When the Danube’s ripples ended, next flowed a melancholic instrument’s sound he had never heard before.

Johan immediately—

“That is called a tárogató—a wooden instrument unique to Hungary.”
“Those playing it are also this country’s first-rate performers,” he explained.

When he looked down from the window, it was a jet-black instrument—shaped like a vertical flute with a slightly flared end—resembling a clarinet.

The sound of the tárogató at first resembled the murmurs of a life wandering the wilderness, but gradually deepened into a groan prostrate upon the earth, swelled into undulating waves of thick howls from the depths, transformed into a faltering lament that shook the grassy fields—only to erupt into a grand crescendo like an avalanche of swollen clouds surging forth.
Even as it continued without interruption, the ceaselessly changing surface of the wave-struck earth flooded into his mind.

“Well then, I will come again tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock,” Johan suddenly said and left mid-performance.

It was Johan’s considerate withdrawal—a manner designed to let Kaji alone savor the Danube’s moonrise atmosphere in his room.
Even after being left alone, Kaji slept curled in a corner of an oversized double bed—one of two such beds pushed together—
and listened once more to the music below his window. The tárogató showed no sign of ceasing, matching its cadence to moonlight shimmering on the river.
It resembled the hidden history of wilderness stretching a thousand miles.
When reverberant notes coiled like banners only to crumble away—when low tones thick with resentment became a writhing blend of anguish and bittersweet rapture—the sound seeped into Kaji’s very bowels as he lay there.

The next day, Johan again appeared at the promised time.
That day, they spent the afternoon touring the city’s landmarks and historic sites.
As he guided them while speaking, Johan began modestly revealing his astonishing memory and erudition piece by piece.
He also spoke at Kaji’s prompting about teaching Japanese at a university—though he had never visited Japan himself—and how he had begun studying the language alone out of fondness for it.
Kaji frequently observed how acquaintances they met around town showed Johan greetings that deeply conveyed respect.
When Kaji pressed further by asking this Johan which nation’s language he had most mastered, he replied that it was English.
And,

“I am sometimes asked to serve as a guide for British visitors, but I decline such requests.”

For some reason, only in this instance, his face flushed as he declared in a somewhat indignant tone.
When crossing the Danube bridge again, Kaji asked what this river was called here, and Johan informed him it was simply referred to as Duna.

“This river has been called Danube, Donau, Donau resuku, Duna—each with its own reading—but since ancient times, this land has most favored ‘Duna,’ which is why ethnic groups fiercely vied for it.”
“There are also 120 hot springs here alone.”

After saying this, Johan pointed to the large lion statue crouching at the base of the bridge and mentioned that this open-mouthed lion lacked a tongue. Then, when crowds rushed to the bridge’s opening ceremony,

“They all laughed, saying this lion has no tongue.”
“Then, that sculptor committed suicide.”

he said.
Johan’s tone had a bright, simple resonance reminiscent of a fairy tale, so Kaji inadvertently burst out laughing.
But peering into the abyss of that unfathomable tale lurking beneath its brightness, he felt a shuddering terror,

“Why did he commit suicide?”
he had ended up asking such a foolish question.
“Why do you suppose that is?”

And Johan, shaking his ample belly and laughing with a still-flushed face—hoarsely—crossed the bridge ahead alone.

The juxtaposition of Johan’s enigmatically boisterous laughter and the lion statue with its gaping void where the tongue should have been struck Kaji as akin to witnessing a wickedly satisfying caricature of humanity. He turned back repeatedly, finding himself unable to tear away from the lion’s side.

That day, after touring the royal palace and ancient buildings, Kaji headed to the bank to replenish his depleted funds.
And when he had them withdraw from his deposit only what was needed locally, as Johan instructed, he was—to his chagrin—informed that there was a one-year error in the imperial year notation that had been entered by the bank clerk when he departed Japan.
When he looked at the passbook, there was indeed a clear error.
Johan discussed something with the local bank clerk for a while and then turned to Kaji,

“Regarding this date discrepancy, the bank states they cannot formally comply, but since you are Japanese, they have decided to exceptionally break protocol and process the payment this time,” he said.

With that，he handed Kaji the required Hungarian banknotes.
Kaji deeply thanked the bank clerk for their kindness and left the bank.
However，even as he walked，the two oversights—the Japanese bank clerk’s error and his own failure to notice it until it was pointed out in Hungary—suddenly felt as though they were pursuing him like that lion statue baring its claws of satire，leaving him unsettled for some time.

“They all laughed，saying this lion has no tongue.”
“Then，that sculptor committed suicide.”

Whether he was that lion or the sculptor—in any case, it truly became a terrifying fairy tale for Kaji. Especially because it was a place that harbored goodwill toward his country yet concealed the tongue it ought to bare, the city amidst the poppies now seemed all the more terrifying to him.

That night during dinner, Johan took Kaji to another traditional restaurant different from the one the previous evening and said:

"The cuisine of this establishment is the finest in this country."
"It is Hungarian cuisine."

On the third day, he finally treated Kaji to this nation's supreme culinary offering.
Here, just as at the island traditional restaurant, they dined outdoors in a garden. Yet each partitioned seating area formed its own chamber enclosed by hedges of wild rambling roses blooming with flowers and buds. Neighboring seats stayed concealed behind foliage, and every guest appeared to savor solely the music flowing from the central orchestra.

“How are you finding the cuisine here?”

Johan seemed intent on hearing this particular response from Kaji alone.
The cuisine featured unique delicacies like Danube fish and vegetables, but perhaps because every flavor was unified through a mayonnaise reminiscent of miso, Kaji found it somewhat too monotonous and overly salty.
He observed that seasoning methods born from the wilderness’s intense hues might naturally favor inventive uses of salt, yet in truth, he felt the traditional restaurant itself held far greater beauty, with music perfectly suited to its Viennese-style garden leaving him invigorated.

“Tonight, I shall take you to a dance hall,” Johan said to Kaji as they left the traditional restaurant—an unusual offer from him.

He also mentioned that this dance hall was a first-class establishment in the country, and after returning once to the hotel and waiting for the appointed time, the two of them passed through the gate of a particular house. The interior resembled a deep theater. The seating boxes surrounding the central hall were luxurious facilities fully equipped for a national capital, their entire surfaces covered in crimson velvet.

The assembled dancers were numerous and all beautiful. Among them stood out a girl of striking youth with eyes that glimmered unnaturally large—she had already become the center of attention for the considerable number of international travelers present. Kaji found it amusing how blatantly the jostling patrons trailed after her like a tail. During dance intervals, itinerant performers common to any country made scheduled rounds—with vocalists and magicians ensuring time passed without a moment of boredom. The band here demonstrated masterful control over tempo shifts. Among them mingled a young man said to be the Profligate Count’s Son, directing the ensemble with theatrical gestures that exuded the jaded flair of a dandy past his prime. As the hall’s excitement swelled to fever pitch, a troupe of girls suddenly streamed in from outside. Pouring into the swiftly parting crowd, they continued dancing in fresh postures like frolicking fawns, matching the band’s abrupt shift to rapid tempo without pause. All wore matching sky-blue cavalry uniforms with yellow ribbing, crimson trousers, and black boots. Their faces shone with a vividness like scattered water droplets.

“These girls are the most authoritative municipal dancers.”
“It’s Hungarian dancing.”

Johan said.
The dance of about ten performers transformed through myriad variations—flashing shifts and twisting turns unfolding in seamless succession—its rhythm bearing the cultivated charm born of rigorous training.
The dancers too appeared handpicked, each without distinction in quality, giving a uniform impression of pristine elegance.
In the immaculate white of the young cavalrymen’s napes—unsoiled by grime—there faintly glimmered a sheen the color of young plant stems.
It was truly a beauty of such eye-opening clarity.

“This is quite an interesting dance, isn’t it?”

Kaji said without taking his eyes off the performance. Johan too seemed gratified by this remark and adopted an air of someone savoring the dance anew,

“From your perspective as a Japanese gentleman, which young lady strikes you as most beautiful?”

Johan inquired.

“Well...”

Finding himself unable to formulate an immediate critique, Kaji chuckled and resumed his observation.

“The third girl from the right in the front row, perhaps.”

It was difficult to choose just one from the swift, uniform motion of their ribbing.
The fact that even the discerning eyes of Japanese observers had been jointly selected also lurked beneath the erudite Johan’s hearty laughter.

The Hungarian dance concluded with a continuous series of spirited sky-blue undulations, whereupon the dancers retreated at a brisk run without a trace of lingering attachment.
Then, as the group tried to brush past Kaji and the others in their haste to leave, Johan suddenly stretched out his hand, stopping and beckoning the third girl from the right.
Yet without so much as a response, the group departed all the same.
The hall filled once more with guests dancing.

At a time when no seats throughout the hall were summoning any municipal dancers, the exceptional act of Kaji’s solitary seat having called one out filled him with both a burning flush of embarrassment and intense dissatisfaction.
Had she responded to the summons, it might have been bearable, but tasting this loneliness of being utterly ignored transformed into a pervasive sense of desolate vulnerability at the edge of a foreign land.
Reflecting on his repeated missteps that day, Kaji waited restlessly for Johan to rise, with nothing to do but watch the chaotic spectacle of travelers now persistently chasing after the dancer with large eyes.

“Those girls from earlier don’t come to any of the guest seats.”

Johan, seeming to detect Kaji’s loneliness, explained this to him after a while.

“Did you call her even though she wouldn’t come?” he asked with a laugh.

“To this seat she will come.”

“However, aren’t we the only ones who called her?” he said with a hint of dissatisfaction.

“She should be coming any moment now.”

With that, Johan—being a foreigner—seemed not to grasp the subtleties of Japanese exchanges, his demeanor remaining utterly serene.
To Kaji, Johan’s large face resembled the tongueless lion of Hungary.
And as for what Johan meant by “the dancer will come if it’s this seat”—whether it meant she would come exclusively within this hall, or that she would unfailingly come to Johan’s seat reserved for Japanese clientele—Kaji couldn’t determine. Yet in Johan’s composed attitude as he asserted this with confidence, there was a growing brightness.
If they were to come not only to areas beyond those designated for Japanese patrons but also limited to this hall, the other guests would surely have called them over as well—such was the uniform beauty of the municipal dancers.
However, unless Kaji considered Johan’s special position in this city, there remained something he could not fully grasp.
When observing Johan’s character, his erudition, and even the manner in which he greeted acquaintances while passing by, Kaji had sensed early on that Johan was no ordinary man but someone concealing a name of significance.
Moreover, even when he had demonstrated the satirical gesture of the tongueless lion at the bridge, that hearty yet enigmatic laughter revealed a man of exceptional intellect—a feat beyond the capabilities of an ordinary guide, he thought.
Indeed, in this distant land of Hungary, it seemed reasonable to conclude that for someone like him, who was diligently pursuing the arduous study of Japanese through self-education, there was no other method than to seize upon visiting Japanese travelers and take on the role of their guide.

After some time, Johan’s confidence proved correct.
And then, when the third one changed out of her cavalry uniform into civilian clothes and came alone from the front, she approached his side.

“This must be the one.”
“The one you were referring to?”

Johan had the dancer sit beside Kaji and asked.
Even if Kaji were to answer affirmatively, whether it truly was her remained unclear within that enclosed space—such was the girl’s transformation from her leaping cavalry uniform to this quiet civilian attire.
However, when Kaji tried to speak, his words failed to reach her entirely.
First he tried ordering what he thought might be her favorite food and drinks, but she displayed a demure shyness reminiscent of Japanese girls, offering only brief replies even when Johan posed questions.
Without touching the food, she sat diagonally across from Kaji—amidst the passionate excitement now swirling through the hall, she appeared rather like a solitary quiet bloom fallen from his homeland’s gardens, deepening within him a swell of nostalgia.

“What is your name?”

In response to Kaji’s inquiry, Johan instead—

“Irene,” he answered.

Irene whispered something again to Johan, and Johan relayed it to Kaji once more.

“This young lady remarks that your tie is quite splendid,” he said.

“Well then, should you ever marry and wish to give your beloved a tie like this one, I’ll have one sent from Paris,” Kaji joked through Johan’s mediation.

After conveying this to Irene again, Johan laughed and told Kaji: “She now says—‘You must kiss me.’”
Irene timidly leaned toward Kaji as instructed, brushed her lips against his right cheek—then flushed crimson and buried her face in her hands, looking away.

“She looks just like a Japanese girl.”

And Kaji laughed.
At that moment, from within the swirling commotion of the hall, the band’s trumpeter alone—forming a circle with his moistened lips—repeatedly turned toward Kaji, alternately playing and stopping his trumpet.

“Ah, that trumpeter loves this girl.”

Kaji involuntarily let slip while propping his cheek. Then Johan immediately beckoned the trumpeter. Leaving his instrument on the chair, the trumpeter came to their seat, where Johan seemed to recount what Kaji had divulged.

“It was indeed just as you said,” he remarked with a laugh.

The hall grew increasingly feverish. Before long, the number of dancing guests had swelled—the clamorous whirl filling the space now verged on pandemonium. Kaji mused that Hungary’s wild rhapsodies might well have been born from such frenzied travel emotions. When rice cake shells were distributed to each seat, guests seized them and began hurling them indiscriminately. Until then subdued, Johan now leaned his large frame forward and laughed uproariously as he lobbed whatever came to hand into the hall’s swirling vortex. In his manner surfaced the boyish mischief of his university professor days—and Kaji, caught up in the revelry, joined him in pelting rice cake shells.

“Keep going.”
“More!”

With that, Johan gathered rice cake shells and urged him on as he rose to his feet. Guests in the distance who deftly caught them would either throw them back or freeze mid-motion amidst the exploding bursts.

Even amidst such clamor, in a corner of his box, the trumpeter kept his hand on Irene’s shoulder and pleaded something into her ear with single-minded relentlessness. While witnessing the pallor of Irene’s neck—her head drooping, frozen stiff within the trumpeter’s encircling arm—he felt a pang of loneliness. This time, he took aim at the dancer with large eyes and hurled rice cake shells. Her body was caught in a barrage of projectiles flying from all sides; without a moment to twist away, shells burst incessantly against her shoulders and torso. When one slapped her cheek, she let out a shriek—but as another struck from the opposite side, the scream died unvoiced. With resolve now edged in defiance, she twisted and dove through the scattering storm.

“That poor girl—she’s just getting pelted over and over...”

Kaji stopped the rice cake shell he was about to throw and said.

“Which girl?”

“That girl.”

With a “Hey, hey,” Johan promptly beckoned the dancer with large eyes once more.
When this dancer hurried over to their box—unlike Irene—she suddenly pressed right up against Kaji and stared intently at his face from directly in front.
Seen up close, her eyes were so large their expression became hard to read.
With eyes that blazed and shone—a bottomless blackness poised to lunge at any moment.

Kaji found himself enveloped in a splendor of all the most glamorous figures gathered in the hall, and before he realized it, he felt strange that he was drawing gazes from every seat.

“Her name is Anna—she’s asking if your hotel is the Bristol.”

After a moment, Johan told him.
When Kaji confirmed this, Anna spoke again to Johan.

“This girl says to you, ‘Take me to your hotel tonight.’”

At this, even Kaji found himself at a loss for an immediate reply.
For some reason, his usual social clumsiness seemed to have abruptly bewildered him—though that wasn’t quite it either. It was his obligation to Irene beside him: just this once tonight, he couldn’t allow it. The restraint forced nothing but a pained smile from him.
Then, Anna—bypassing Johan—impatiently brought her mouth directly to Kaji’s ear,

“You are beautiful.”

she whispered a single word.
To him, it was a whisper he had truly never anticipated.
He had never once heard such words in all his years.
It was likely the sole phrase within Anna’s grasp of English that she could offer him with any hope of being understood—but to receive—here at the farthest reaches of a foreign land—a single utterance he had never once been given by anyone, Kaji accepted Anna’s whisper into his heart like a precious droplet and felt no regret.
While Irene was being persistently pressed by the trumpeter, she secretly glared at Kaji from time to time with eyes that cast a pale resentment.
Precisely because this person had resigned herself to accepting things as they were—at that very moment—Kaji still felt an unseverable thread and a sudden stumble-like waver in his thoughts.

Whether Anna could make out the meaning of the Trumpeter’s whispers or not, she continued to fix her gaze on Kaji, paying no heed to Irene. Amidst the turmoil of alternating warmth and cold that overlapped and intermingled, the hall was nearing its final surge of fervor, on the verge of collapse.

“Then let us return.”

With that, Johan skillfully stood up without missing the opportune moment to withdraw.
When he looked at his watch, it was a little past three o’clock.
Anna escorted them to the exit while holding Kaji’s hand, but Irene’s figure was nowhere to be seen.
The streets had few passersby—though it was past three in the morning here—and already the sun blazed crimson overhead.

When they arrived in front of the hotel, Johan said that since tomorrow would be their last day, he would come at eleven in the morning, and the two parted ways.
Even after returning to his room and lying on the bed, Kaji found himself unable to sleep—the room’s disorienting expanse, neither night nor day, lingered stubbornly in his vision.
However, as he thought about whether any Japanese person had truly always encountered such gazes there—just as his doctor friend had said when he departed Japan—even the events of this day began to take on hues that no longer felt uniquely his own.
And gradually, the conviction grew within him that he was still there, amidst the poppies beyond his comprehension.

The next day, when Kaji opened his eyes, it was already past ten o’clock.

Johan entered at the promised time with a sleepy face.
While broadening his smile even more than usual, he completed a proper Hungarian bow and said.

“Last night was most enjoyable.”

“Last night was enjoyable for me as well.”

And Kaji too found himself able to respond cheerfully to Johan.
In truth, when he reflected on the previous evening’s events, he wondered whether anything could surpass that delight.

“Regarding Irene and the trumpeter—
“They had been classmates since elementary school—he’d carried feelings for her all this time—and now he’d finally confessed them. He claimed no greater joy existed. Those two may well marry.”

Kaji felt happy at the truth he sensed in Johan’s words. Now that he had tied off one bond and was leaving there, he took pleasure in seeing himself as busily engaged as a butterfly that had chanced upon this place.

“Is that so? How splendid,” Kaji said, his joy evident.

The two of them left the hotel and stopped at a traditional restaurant for lunch. This was the largest among the traditional restaurants Kaji had frequented during his stay. With a vast and magnificent grandeur that was likely among the finest in Europe, its garden—spread beneath a crimson canopy—had roses winding around their surroundings, and from morning onward figures of people dancing could already be seen. According to Johan, all government offices in this town uniformly concluded their business at nine o’clock in the evening, after which everyone engaged in leisure activities like this.

After finishing their meal, the two of them kept driving hurriedly throughout the day—to hot spring resorts, ancient ruins, excavation sites, and such—their schedule packed from morning till night.
Moreover, Kaji needed to confirm his flight to Venice early the next morning, but at a teashop in a scenic suburban area, the two spent the longest amount of time.
Situated on a hilltop overlooking undulating plains that spread below in a single sweeping view, it reminded Kaji of the Green Hotel in Karuizawa, where he naturally settled comfortably.
Even Johan appeared to have grown weary from days of fatigue; responding to Kaji’s immobility, he too leaned against his cane and made no move to leave.

Both of them would often lapse into silence.
The Danube flowing through green trees, the groves, and the pastures were beautifully quiet in the shimmering light.
Then, at that moment, Johan—who had been silent—raised his face from the curved handle of his cane and

“How is Shirayuki doing?”

he asked in a low voice.

“Shirayuki?”
Kaji, not understanding what it meant, asked in return.

“His Majesty’s horse.”

“Ah,” Kaji uttered involuntarily and straightened up.
The pure white figure struck him in an instant, as though purifying his very being.
Yet even there, in these distant foreign reaches enveloped in poppies, for such words—words that conjured that very form—to suddenly emerge from Johan’s mouth… now it all felt nothing short of wondrous.
Kaji gazed at Johan’s large face while,

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“That horse—I had the honor of purchasing it at this very ranch to present to His Majesty.”

“You did?”

Kaji was astonished once more.
He quickly discerned that Johan’s honorific phrasing—“had the honor of purchasing”—meant he had undertaken the interpreter’s role, but until now, it had never occurred to him that Shirayuki was Hungarian-bred.
He once again abruptly became aware of his own oversight and was now assailed by a complex emotion—a desire to secretly clamp both hands over Johan’s tongue.

“Was it here that Shirayuki…?”
“That was extremely rude of me.”

The horse’s mane, standing crisply white, had imperceptibly absorbed and cleansed Kaji’s inwardly apologetic feelings, and he found himself forgetting even his fatigue. This was now an undeniable fact before his eyes.
For a while, he gazed up at the distant sky with solemn reverence. As he thought of Shirayuki—born at the ranch below and whose acquisition Johan, now standing before him, had facilitated through his efforts as interpreter—the horse’s form seemed to grow ever more dear and venerable to him.
Moreover, before long, that feeling had transformed into one of joy, and as he gazed down at the tranquil pasture below for a while, he thought this view had taken on an unexpectedly profound meaning.

That night, Kaji and Johan hurriedly toured various places just as they had the previous evening.
However, Johan’s figure—constantly before and behind him—also ceaselessly brought to mind the form of Shirayuki, which would not leave him.
Kaji thought he wanted to see Anna and Irene one last time before parting, but even that he found himself unable to voice to Johan and remained silent.
And then, when their car neared the front of a main street, Johan pointed to a stone building on the right side and,

“This is a café called Japan.”
“It’s the foremost café here.”

Johan informed Kaji.
However, before he could properly observe it as the car glided past, Kaji asked about the structure on the right: “What’s this?” Johan answered, “This too belongs to Japan.”
Though unable to gauge its full exterior scale due to the vehicle’s swiftness, Kaji felt certain this was a grandeur unmatched even in Japan itself.
He fell silent rather than betraying his quiet astonishment.

“That is the place this country’s artists frequent most,” Johan added again.

The next morning, his departure came early.
A thin haze, like morning mist, hung over the street.
During his stay, Kaji never once questioned the guide fee he was supposed to pay Johan, but the charge for five days turned out to be a surprisingly small amount.
He wanted to offer additional thanks, but with the remaining Hungarian currency already scarce, just as he tapped his wallet to take it out, Johan asked Kaji to keep the country’s money as a memento to take back to Japan.

When parting with Johan, who had come to see him off at the airport, Kaji found the farewell painful.
Listening to the sound of the propeller beginning to spin,

“Well then—”

As Kaji extended his hand, Johan firmly grasped it and shook it repeatedly, also saying, “Goodbye, goodbye.”

Ah, what an extravagant feast there had been.
Kaji thought.
When he looked down from the window of the aircraft ascending into the sky, he did not forget to think of Irene and the trumpeter as a couple too,

Get along well—get along—

As he waved his hat downward, that very act of waving transformed into one directed toward Anna as well.