Pathway to Japanese Literature

In the garden where a house had been demolished, a single apricot tree stood alone, its branches adorned with white flowers. Each time the chilly spring wind heralding Easter blew in from the riverbank, the branches trembled and shed their petals. A steamship ascending the Seine from Passy resounded listless boiler sounds through the trunks of budding plane trees. Leaning his elbows on the thick stone parapet resembling a fortress, Kuji had been looking down at the river's surface for some time when the stone's coldness raised goosebumps on his wrists.

From between the paving stones below at the water's edge, grass sprouted, and around a thin stake swaying in the current, cork stoppers floated densely.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting.”

Yashiro, who had returned from visiting a Jewish trade merchant on orders from his uncle in Japan, spoke as he approached Kuji. The two walked along the riverbank toward the Eiffel Tower. “A Japanese ceramics company was asked by a Tehran ceramics company to make imitations, but when they made them, they turned out better than the originals—so apparently the Tehran company went bankrupt.” “Then Japan felt bad about what they’d done and started panicking over it now—but still, they’re pushing ahead anyway.” “The ones causing the biggest stir in Europe might just be ceramics companies.”

Kuji wasn't listening to what Yashiro was saying. He was thinking about arrangements for Chizuko, who would be arriving from London tomorrow. When they reached the bridge, the two stopped again as if by mutual unspoken agreement. On water reflecting a sunset so bright it pained the eyes floated boat-like houses still chained together. The riverbank where rusted iron materials were piled had been excavated for the Grand Exposition's preparatory work, yet there lingered a tranquil air—workers appearing somehow leisurely, as if perpetually resting—that intensified spring's lingering traces.

When they came beneath the Eiffel Tower’s skirt-like flaring base, the drawn-out rhythm of iron rebars being driven in Trocadero Park across the river reached them. Whirling water flowed beneath the beautiful waists of nude women carved into the bridge’s supports—figures so precariously sculpted they seemed ready to slip from their stone anchors at any moment. “Ms. Chizuko is coming from London tomorrow.” “You knew about that?” When Kuji spoke those words to him, Yashiro felt a light flare up in his heart.

“Hmm, I didn’t know that.” “I wonder why she’s coming.”

“She’s coming by plane.” “When she arrives—where should we put her up?” “Don’t you have any good ideas?” “Well.” Even as Yashiro said this, he couldn’t help but wonder why Chizuko had sent letters only to Kuji.

As the Eiffel Tower gradually receded behind them, the trunks of the horse chestnut trees lining the riverbank grew thicker. Were they perhaps two arm spans around? The trunks, jet-black and hard like unpolished coal, drooped with luxuriant young leaves, and among each cluster of foliage, pale white buds that would soon become flowers were beginning to lift their heads.

There was still time before dinner.

Yashiro and Kuji came along the Seine River near Les Invalides where Napoleon's tomb lay. The embossed lines on soot-darkened buildings and statue folds battered by rain and wind appeared whitely risen as though snow-crowned. The bridge before them was reputed to be the world's foremost, yet to the eye resembled a white ivory diadem. Clustered bell-shaped lamps and sumptuous goddess statues on balustrades rose above the deep green Champs-Élysées woods across the bank, while cars flowing through the trees seemed like messengers from the bridge's deities—so magnificent was this structure that it reached the pinnacle of splendor.

Yashiro pondered how Chizuko might appear when he saw her soon. What rose in his mind was her figure aboard the ship from Japan until their arrival, but he thought she too must have continued facing various hardships akin to his own since their parting. “Ms. Chizuko—is she staying long in Paris?” Yashiro ventured to ask Kuji. “She likely won’t stay long.” “She wrote she wants to go to Florence—with regards to you at the end.”

“Ending with that, huh?” Yashiro said and laughed. Yashiro had come on the same ship with Kuji as well. While Kuji’s stated purpose was studying sociology, his primary focus lay in art research, and Yashiro had come to observe aspects of modern culture while conducting historical fieldwork—yet aboard the ship only Kuji had grown close to Chizuko. Yashiro still recalled the scenery of the port on the day they had arrived in Marseille together.

“I want to go to Pinan again.” “It feels like I was watching a magic lantern show there - but weren’t you the one chasing after Ms. Chizuko all over that area?” “Was that part of the magic lantern show too?”

Yashiro said teasingly. “Well, back then it was like I was dreaming. “I’ve already forgotten what I did. “Upon landing in Marseille, it was like my eyes were opened—I can’t understand why I kept chasing after Ms. Chizuko like that. “Even now when I think about that time, it still feels strange, you know.”

“Anyway, that Malacca Strait is an earthly realm of enchantment. The taste there alone is like opium—just remembering it makes my head go fuzzy. Culture can’t take root in a place like that! That damn place terrifies us most.”

When they came from Ambariido toward Quai d'Orsay, secondhand bookstores lined the riverbank’s parapet. A pale green stall about six feet wide—its lid propped open like a roof—stood crammed with books and paintings; above it hung dangling tree buds, while directly below at the Seine’s edge crouched a fisherman. Yashiro said while gazing at Notre-Dame’s spire emerging hazily from the island ahead: “I can’t forget Cairo’s Islamic mosques either. Those represent the pinnacle of Saracen culture that instilled natural sciences into Europe here—no wonder Napoleon took offense and fired cannons when he saw them. If he’d come to Japan, first thing he would’ve blasted Honmonji Temple!”

Speaking of which, Yashiro recalled Cairo in Egypt. He remembered seeing Kuji gently helping Chizuko climb through that pitch-dark passage inside the pyramid. Until Egypt, Yashiro and Kuji could hardly have been called close. This was because their fellow passengers had divided into two factions that acted together both when disembarking at ports and socializing in the salon. Young women were mixed among both groups. In Kuji’s faction was Chizuko, who was bound for her brother in London. In what had become the opposing group, Hayasaka Makiko—heading to her husband in Vienna—stood as the central figure. After spending half a month in Shanghai, Yashiro had toured ports across Sumatra and other South Seas regions for about a month before first boarding Kuji’s ship from Singapore. Thus he maintained a neutral stance unaffiliated with either faction and moved freely between them. But once their ship entered port at Suez and began recruiting members for the Cairo excursion party, relations between these two groups started deteriorating.

During the single day and night it took for the ship to depart from Suez to Port Said, the Cairo-bound group had to cross the desert by land to reach Cairo, tour the Pyramids, then catch up by train to the ship waiting at Port Said. Consequently, in this hurried journey, no one had leisure to dwell on the mutual animosity between the two factions. At last, the Cairo-bound group—with both Chizuko’s faction and Makiko’s faction setting aside their differences—divided themselves among three automobiles.

At that moment, when Yashiro tried to board an automobile last, there were no seats left in any of them. As Yashiro wandered around peering into seats, Kuji suddenly jumped down from one of the automobiles and said, “Please come here. “This seat here is free,” he suggested to Yashiro. Kuji put Yashiro into his own seat and then tried to move to the driver’s platform. “No, no—that simply won’t do.” Yashiro said this, but by that time Kuji was already sitting beside the driver. At the very moment Yashiro settled into Kuji’s seat, the automobile slid into motion. Inside the automobile, Makiko sat beside Yashiro, and next to her was Mr.Oki, an executive from the shipping company. Mr.Oki and Yashiro had been close since their time aboard the ship, but until now, the four of them had never come together as a group. From this time onward, Yashiro grew closer to both Kuji and Makiko as well.

As the ship advanced from Port Said into the Mediterranean, the passengers had already begun making preparations for landing, but Yashiro had still never once exchanged words with Chizuko up to that point.

One night, after the ship had set course for Italy and passed Sicily Island with its many whirlpools, it was the following night.

The group of passengers suddenly rushed to the portside railing. When Yashiro also went out onto the deck with the others and looked toward the open sea, he saw Stromboli’s eruption on the pitch-black waves offshore—fiery chunks of lava oozing down the mountainside from the triangular island’s summit. "My, how beautiful it is!"

Chizuko exclaimed in admiration. She had spoken without realizing that the person beside her was Yashiro, but he too had inadvertently— "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said. When Chizuko realized the person beside her was Yashiro, she withdrew—for some reason—and retreated from the deck into the salon. Her large, reserved eyes harbored an incongruous boldness in their depths—an expression made memorable by how the small mole on her upper lip moved in perfect harmony with the dimple on one cheek.

The next day, the Mediterranean grew turbulent, intensifying the ship's sway. Yashiro stood on deck observing Corsica's cliffs where the setting sun hung low over jagged precipices. Waves periodically swept across the planks. In the desolate chill, wind-borne spray struck his face as he remained propped against the railing—until footsteps approached from behind and ceased abruptly. He struck match after match for his cigarette, each extinguished by the sodden breeze. Turning toward the salon for fresh matches, he found Chizuko standing alone in floral evening attire, poised yet hesitant before the dining hall entrance.

“Excuse me, but might I ask if you are going to Paris?” Chizuko inquired, her face somewhat pale from the cold as she turned it straight toward Yashiro. “Yes.”

“Then we must part ways tomorrow, mustn’t we? Everyone seems so restless indeed.” “That’s probably right.”

Yashiro laughed with an unlit cigarette clamped between his lips. “I would love to disembark in Marseille with all of you, but I’ve decided to continue on to London after all. Oh my, look how large the sun has grown!” Suddenly, Chizuko said happily and pointed toward Corsica, her dimple still lit by the setting sun. “They say Garibaldi was born here in Sardinia on the left—it’s interesting how this place stands facing Napoleon.”

“Somehow, I can just imagine that sort of person emerging from here.”

The ship advanced laboriously toward the sunset, its bow rising and falling. Even as he watched, its appearance gave the impression of being on the verge of collapse, and unconsciously, tension crept into his shoulders. A wave burst onto the deck, shattering higher than Corsica’s backlit rocks—no dwellings in sight—as the towering ash-blue Sardinia stretching long to the left transformed before their eyes along with the sunset’s hues.

“I thought this was a quiet place, but the Mediterranean turns out to be the roughest after all.”

Chizuko shaded her forehead with her hand and said, undaunted by the splashing foam. “That’s right. However, well—it’s fortunate things have only come to this. That’s what matters most. It’s a shame the ship isn’t stopping in Naples.—”

The gusting wind pressed Chizuko’s dress tightly against her body while sending the hem fluttering forward.

“When we reached Colombo, I wanted most to return to Japan, but now that we’ve come this far, there’s nothing but excitement—I can’t make sense of anything at all anymore.”

Yashiro nodded lightly. When he considered his present self, he felt it somehow resembled the mindset of a soldier marching into battle. This was Europe, from which Japan had learned countless things over many years. And simultaneously, it was the Europe to which Japan had ceaselessly offered itself in gratitude.

Ever since entering the Mediterranean, this irrational irritation welling up from the depths of yearning—something that grew more pronounced in Yashiro’s breast with each nautical mile—struck him as precisely the sort of phenomenon one could only comprehend through firsthand experience. This clandestine stirring of the heart, he reflected, would surely spiral into boundlessness if indulged. Yet even when he resolved to quietly lull it to rest, phantasmal forces kept emerging from the waves to jostle awake that slumbering child within. Soon after the dinner chime’s music-box melody echoed from the cabins, Yashiro retreated to his room to don his tuxedo.

The ship’s dining hall was decorated more lavishly than usual, as it was deemed their last supper. The passengers too, on this night, changed into tuxedos and lined up at the tables. The custom of women sitting together at their own tables had long since been broken, yet on this night alone, Yashiro observed Chizuko and Makiko solemnly reverting to their former practice, conversing with apparent enjoyment. As the meal progressed and their hunger began to subside, a party popper suddenly exploded from one corner. The entire group froze in shock just as explosions began erupting from various tables. They hurled streamers at the foreigners. The foreigners retaliated with their own. They took aim at the women and hurled them. As they each donned paper hats and began clamoring, streamers cascaded like waterfalls over the branches of artificial cherry blossoms in full bloom.

The passengers were not merely thinking this night marked their final hours aboard the ship. Since entering the Mediterranean, they had been possessed by an illusion wrapped in a seven-colored rainbow; moreover, having come this far, there was no turning back—a do-or-die resolve. Though not a drop of alcohol had been served, their heads had become like those of drunken men reeling from intoxication. Tomorrow they would finally advance into enemy territory. When it came to Japanese soil, there was only this ship. Since this sentiment was common to all, even these cherry blossoms—now to be their last sight of them for some time—and even the faintly clouded haze of artificial cherry blossoms began to appear like Ueno’s blossoms. Then, the commotion in the dining hall soon spilled out onto the deck and there transformed into dancing.

From the second-class deck as well, those who could dance came over and joined in. Makiko first danced with a Frenchman, then with a handsome Chinese youth named Gao Youming—a skilled dancer whom she often encountered at parties. Kuji paired with Chizuko. He was of a cheerful nature, so he danced more freely and skillfully than the foreigners. As Yashiro watched Kuji dancing, he thought that if he remained friends with this person even after going to Paris, his days would surely pass pleasantly. But just then, a sudden lively commotion broke out among the spectators watching the dance. Mishima, the usually quiet mechanical engineer who rarely spoke, appeared to have gotten drunk; he suddenly began tapping the shoulder of a foreign woman beside him in a friendly manner and told her to take off her shoes. Those who knew the usually silent Mishima burst out laughing as if tumbling over, and then began swarming around indiscriminately, tapping shoulders and trying to make others remove their shoes; but once even that became part of the entertainment, the dancing grew all the more lively on the deck.

“Well then, I’ll have a go at dancing too.” With that, the elderly Mr. Oki stood up and approached Makiko—who had just finished dancing with Ko—to ask her for another dance. This executive of the shipping company was the eldest among the passengers—a gentleman of broad-minded freedom and rich knowledge who so boldly declared to all, “I am a wayward elder,” that one might say he practically boasted of it himself. Even during tea parties aboard the ship, this old man often delivered speeches to the foreigners in skillful English. His skull was broadly balding, his severe nearsightedness topped by a nose that was splendidly large and red—but much like his bizarre features, Mr. Oki’s dancing at this moment was less about being terribly inept than about having never considered attempting skillful movement from the outset. “Ah ha, ah ha,” he merely laughed while stomping his feet. Makiko too naturally burst into laughter, occasionally stopping to collide with the surrounding dancers. Those watching also burst into laughter each time.

“No—this is a waltz, you see,” said Mr. Oki. “How about it, everyone? Tonight’s the last night.” “Might as well do the Okesa!” “Let’s have no formalities!”

“Alright, let’s do it!” When the young people were ignited by Mr. Oki’s vigor, the dancing on deck now held no interest for anyone. Leaving the foreigners and Chinese abandoned there to their dancing, they all noisily crowded into the salon and began with *The Chief’s Daughter*, performed solely by Japanese. From Sakura Ondo to Tokyo Ondo, then to Nozaki Kouta—as they progressed further and further, they finally reached songs calling out “you.” The youths already felt their chests constricted by thoughts of distant Japan’s skies, their legs nearly buckling beneath them. Among them were one or two who retreated angrily to their cabins, indignant that such uncultured acts persisted even here—but against the tenacious strength of that seething, swirling mass resembling some eerie miasma, they proved as powerless as water shattered by explosions.

When the passengers’ songs had run their course, they found simply disbanding to be mutually regrettable, so next they decided to perform hidden talents. Through everyone’s consensus, Mr. Oki became the facilitator. After those who sang traditional ballads, performed poetry recitals, and danced had appeared, this time everyone urged Makiko to do something. Makiko had hesitated at first, but when Mr. Oki stood up and approached her,

“Well then, I will do it.”

She approached the piano as if fleeing. The passengers—none having heard Makiko play piano during their long voyage—applauded this unexpected diversion with delight.

“What will you perform?”

Makiko whispered something brief in a low voice to Mr. Oki, who had approached to inquire. “Ha ha,” said Mr. Oki with satisfaction as he turned to face the group. “Now—everyone, Mrs. Makiko will now play a piece called ‘The Flow of the Danube,’ so please give her your kind attention. This is a piece composed in longing for her esteemed husband who remains in Vienna, and while I fear it may sound somewhat discordant to your ears—”

As Mr. Oki spoke up to this point, some began stomping their shoes on the crimson carpet while others emitted shrill cries, but soon the piano began to play. As the slightly open back of Makiko’s soirée dress swayed with the tempo, her fairer-than-average skin undulating like free-flowing waves through its slit, Mishima let out a jocular sigh—“Well now!”—making everyone burst into laughter again. When the piece—being mere entertainment—concluded smoothly, Mr. Oki rose once more amid the applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I was deeply impressed by the truly magnificent performance we have just witnessed.” “I believe this is solely the result of her virtuous conduct, born of thinking day after day about her esteemed husband who will appear tomorrow in Marseille.” “Next—Ms. Chizuko, we’ll ask you for one item.”

Chizuko—having evidently prepared herself during Makiko’s piano performance for the inevitability of being called next—stood up at once without hesitation.

“Since I’m not good at the piano, I’ll sing instead.” “Now, now,” someone interjected. When someone called out, “Accompaniment! Accompaniment!” Makiko was once again hustled to the piano by Mr. Oki—but Mishima suddenly approached her side, crawling toward the hem of her dress while repeating, “Shoes! Shoes!” Mr. Oki’s face clouded with mild displeasure—he grabbed Mishima by the shoulder and dragged him back to his seat.

“Here we are still on the ship, but as many of you will be departing for Paris tomorrow.” When Chizuko had said up to this point, Mishima again— “Under the roofs of Paris!” he shouted. Everyone, already having become like children, clapped their hands and rejoiced. Chizuko gave a brief nod to Makiko and began singing *Under the Roofs of Paris*. *Quand il vous attend* *Saviez-vous maman* *Lui dit tendre Juliette*

*Dolman* *Danô torurojuman* *Je vais n'est-ce pas un* *Pour être bien heureux là* *Lujon* As the song progressed, everyone grew thoroughly cheerful; with the sense that they would soon encounter the real Paris about to appear before their eyes, they each sang while swaying their heads. Once this song ended, they urged Chizuko to sing again and again, never letting her stop.

Today being the day they would finally reach Marseille, none of the passengers had settled since morning. They needed to tip the dining stewards, wine stewards, and cabin stewards. Clustering here and there, the passengers consulted about appropriate amounts. Should anyone give a large tip, the others would take offense. Having shared this communal life so long, disrupting the equilibrium would make even the shipboard cheerfulness vanish on their final day. This matter stood as the most crucial courtesy every passenger had to consider. True, during the Indian Ocean's tedium someone had proposed fixed tip amounts—figures already agreed upon—yet when payment day came, they cast aside those very rules. Their parting loomed mere hours away. Even those once so intimate became unwelcome to all at the thought, "Once we part—" Though shipboard life had been pleasant, being communal meant none had known true freedom. Unpleasantness demanded endurance. Being all first-class passengers, their daily Japanese statuses—honors and wealth—held no authority here. Where class distinctions had dissolved completely, only character and age could work upon others.

They were to settle today the financial debts incurred when passengers had disembarked in groups at various ports, but not only had it already become too confused to discern who owed whom and who was owed by whom—the young people also had no desire to go around demanding repayment of trivial sums. Upon learning this, Mr. Oki volunteered to handle the troublesome settlement himself. “I’m always ordering others about and never take orders myself, so even in times like these, I’ll let myself be put to use for once.”

Having said this, Mr. Oki moved among the people with a plate in hand, going about settling each of their complicated debts one by one. On ships, old men cannot throw their weight around, but this Mr. Oki had easily controlled the youths through humor and absurdity, completing his final duty. “There! That should do it.”

It didn't matter when the ship arrived. Among them were some who had already donned their hats though land remained unseen. Now venturing onto the deck, now retreating to the salon, now wandering every corner of the ship—they spoke little to one another, their faces etched with unease. Then suddenly, to Yashiro—a Frenchman who throughout their long voyage had never once betrayed any knowledge of Japanese—spoke in startlingly fluent Japanese: "Well? It's finally here," he said. It was only now that Yashiro realized—truly realized—the warning he had first received: once foreigners boarded ship, none would use Japanese; their custom being to listen to others' conversations with an air of complete ignorance, so one must remain cautious.

“Would it be more convenient to exchange yen into francs now?” “Right—you should take care of a bit of that now.” replied the Frenchman.

After a while,

“There! I can see it!” came the call. When Yashiro stood on the deck, he noticed an ash-white island—like confectionery sugar rocks—being gnawed apart by the waves. The passengers standing on the deck gradually increased in number. No one laughed. The low silver-gray rocks strung across the sea receded one after another. A fierce wind blew over the lapis lazuli-blue, sharp waves. Kuji and Yashiro leaned against the salon deck railing as if scenting European soil they had yet to see, silently gazing out for some time when suddenly Kuji—

“What the—this place looks like a Christmas cake!”

he muttered. The group burst into uproarious laughter, “That’s right, that’s right.” “That’s right,” they said. But when they fell silent again, anxiety over how to conduct themselves—as none of the etiquette and customs they had learned in Japan seemed applicable here—began to show on all their faces. Even the way they breathed had to be consciously controlled there. As if a lone minnow had fluttered into a swirling swarm of tuna, he felt a hallucination of being crushed; even the color of the waves gnawing at the rocks appeared like those that wash over mermaids from fairy tales.

“The island you see over there is the rock prison where the Count of Monte Cristo from Dumas’ novel was confined,” explained a crew member. “Where is Marseille?” asked a passenger.

“It will be soon. This island is part of Marseille’s outer fortifications.”

“This looks like a place that produces cement,” Yashiro said. “That’s right.” “Marseille is a cement-producing region.” “It certainly does look that way.” replied the crew member. That this small island—which might vanish instantly should one great wave come surging in—was deemed ideal for confining the era’s great men impressed upon Yashiro, through this single fact alone, the elegance already permeating this country. When the ship rounded the island, Marseille’s rectangular inner harbor came into view amid calm waves and bright sunlight. The ship reduced its speed and slowly entered the harbor where seagulls were flocking. From both sides of the hook-shaped piers and wharves, cranes hung down like suspension bridges. Amidst the tightly packed steamships from various countries beyond, the Katori Maru—now preparing to return to Japan—lay docked, revealing only its fierce black stern and belching smoke. The steamship that had once appeared as a conglomeration of science now began to seem like some creature utterly devoid of science.

“Katori is about to depart.” “It’s returning to Japan, you know.” The crew member announced in an exasperated voice to all the passengers who had by now completely forgotten about Japan. But for the group that had just arrived, there was no time left to spare for thoughts of the Japanese ship they had already come to know all too well and grown thoroughly weary of.

In truth, Europe—which they had never seen before—lay beneath their feet in tangible form. How I want to stomp down hard on this monster with my foot just once. A breathless, sharp, and eerie silence permeated through the passengers. Bathed in oppressively bright light, the passengers could do nothing but watch intently for the ship to come to a halt. Yashiro felt himself having arrived at the goal before he knew it. The ship was about to lay its hull alongside the wharf of Marseille. A quiet, quiet moment it was.—

Yashiro thought that all the forces that had driven him until now had been severed abruptly there, and that an entirely new, unknown force would propel him from here on out.

Before long, a ladder was lowered from the ship to the wharf. The voices of European people clambering noisily up the ladder could be heard.

“Well then, everyone—thank you for your kindness all this time.”

A passenger bid farewell. “Please take good care of yourself.”

“Goodbye.”

After these conversations, suddenly,

“Ah, the Katori Maru is leaving.”

There was such a remark.

When Yashiro looked, the small Katori shifted its stern, quietly bent its frame, and briskly departed from Marseille's shore with an attitude utterly devoid of reluctance.

“I wish I could go back too.”

One of the passengers sighed.

Yashiro stood on deck watching Katori’s form vanish beyond the harbor in a trail of smoke; soon their landing would begin. Now they had to obtain landing permits and undergo luggage inspections. Yashiro was bidding farewell in his heart while watching Katori disappear into the distance.

Makiko brought over a middle-aged gentleman who appeared to be her husband and said to Yashiro: "This is my husband." "That may be so, but thank you for your kindness during the voyage." "No, it is I who must thank you for the inconvenience I have caused." Broad-shouldered Mr. Hayasaka smiled faintly, and alongside his formal greeting, Makiko happily said: "If you should ever find yourself in Vienna, please do come visit."

“Thank you. I think I shall make my way there myself before long, and when that time comes, I’ll ask for your help.”

With a vaguely cold expression, Mr. Hayasaka bowed his thanks and left toward his wife’s luggage. In the rear salon, passengers bound for Paris had formed a group—their discussion about returning to the ship that night to stay aboard and depart together for Paris at dawn was nearing agreement. Even now, Mr. Oki kept up his usual humorous manner—

“That’s right, do that. “Let’s take our time enjoying Marseille tonight. “Mr. Kuji, how do you say ‘I love you’ in French? “As long as you remember this one phrase, you’ll be all set.” When the group laughed in unison, it was as if their course of action had already been decided by that. “Jesherman—that’s what they call it,” quipped a commercial attaché. “Jesherman. “Jesherman.”

After Mr. Oki had tried muttering it many times, “I’ve memorized ‘Marseille Jesherman’—how’s this?” Mr. Oki promptly put to use the haiku-composing skills he had occasionally tried out aboard the ship and once again made everyone laugh.

After completing their luggage and customs procedures, the passengers, still in a somewhat hurried and flustered state of mind, split into cars and streamed into Marseille’s streets. The city assailed them with an artistic scent rising thickly from barrel-stained cobblestones the moment they stepped beyond the customs gate. As their car glided forward, rows of street trees stood as lush and massive as ancient giants guarding Japanese shrines. The avenue resembled a park—vehicles raced unhesitatingly beneath great trees whose branches stretched across the road as if to shove aside stone buildings flanking both sides. Though uncertain of their exact location, Yashiro thought it would have been better still had they been riding carriages. The surrounding buildings matched both scale and antiquity with these arboreal titans. Windows sporting new yellow awnings on gray shutters that seemed ready to crumble at a touch felt like fresh gills stitched onto some primordial cultural body.

The line of cars went up and down the slopes. It was around four in the afternoon. It seemed to be the hour for strolling in Marseille, and every street was filled with people. The sunlit streets and the shaded streets appeared swirling round and round before Yashiro’s eyes with each bend. When they had nearly reached a four-way intersection on a slope, [the guide] said, “This is where last year Yugoslavia’s emperor was assassinated with a pistol." “Exactly here.” The Japanese guide who had long been in this area had the car stopped and explained.

“After disembarking from the warship with an honor guard and coming by car up to here—exactly here—the car had to stop for a moment because the roads were crossing.” “Then a single Russian man who looked like a beggar came striding up, suddenly smashed the window glass with his pistol butt—crack!—and kept firing wildly, so even the French Foreign Minister who was riding along got killed too.” The guide said this with a proud expression, as if he himself had recently suffered a great shock from this event, but upon seeing that his words seemed to have no impact on the group, he disappointedly set the car in motion again with an air of dismissal. After they had gone some distance,

“There sure are a lot of men with limps here.” Kuji clung to the window and said to Yashiro.

“It’s really something how you can tell at a glance that there was a Great War here.” “Now that you mention it, there isn’t a single person laughing.” “This isn’t the time for laughter.” “With all these people swarming about, not a soul is talking.” “What on earth are they doing?”

Beneath the shade of enormous street trees, the faces of the streaming crowd were pale; keeping their mouths shut as if exhausted, every last one of them only had their eyes shining with an abnormal sharpness. “Well, Europeans—when they think, it’s all ideas, isn’t it? That’s impressive.” “Damn impressive.” Kuji said. As one incomprehensible answer after another kept coming, the car approached the old port’s pier. Then their car joined up with the group of vehicles carrying Chizuko and the others. The pier carrying two cars was severed with a snap at that section alone, then slid across the sea surface straight toward the opposite shore.

“That’s Notre-Dame.” “The one you can see over there.” said the guide.

“Oh, look over there—you can see our ship!”

said Mr. Oki.

After the car had ascended ashore and climbed a slope for some time, there stood a cliff several hundred feet high. On top of it stood Notre-Dame. The group transferred to an elevator, then transferred to a cable car.

As they watched, the city sank downward; a peninsula appeared, hills came into view, and islands emerged from above the horizon.

When they stood atop the mountain, the bright landscape of southern France spread out before them in a single sweeping view. The folds of the land, smooth as grayish-white pottery clay, bore clusters of trees whose color resembled moss. The sea held deep azure hues, tilting faintly; a wisp of cloud—light, undisturbed even by the breeze—.

"What a bright sky," Yashiro thought. As they wound up the wide limestone staircase resembling a cloister, they arrived at the temple. Inside lay darkness; passing between rows of whip-slender candles, they stepped into a room smothered in flowers.

At that moment, Yashiro’s heart jolted in his chest. A naked man, emaciated and deathly pale across his entire body, lay sprawled at their feet with blood streaming from his mouth. Though Yashiro’s eyes were disoriented from plunging suddenly into darkness after the outdoor brightness, he couldn’t help feeling repelled by this abrupt mechanism designed to shock. Yet upon closer inspection, that corpse proved to be a statue of Christ. From its skin tone to the scale of its form, down to the viscous color of blood congealed in its veins and spilling forth—rendered with such lifelike realism that it seemed intent on horrifying all viewers—Yashiro thought even this nation’s culture must have passed through an age of such barbarity. Moreover, this very barbarity had compelled humans to demand such meticulous exactitude—a mentality refusing to accept sensory experience unless reproduced with brutal precision. This civilization must have been born and nurtured from that psychology of realism. Then we’re the ones who’ve been deceived.—Alone, Yashiro circled repeatedly around the blood-smeared Christ statue while thinking this. As he did so, gazing at Christ’s meditative form, he felt himself hazily grasping—Ah!—why Christ had needed to be slain in such an emaciated state.

“So here, realism killed Christ—in other words.” With this thought of having glimpsed a hint of Europe’s secrets, Yashiro stepped out of the building. Chizuko and Kuji already stood on the outer observation deck, buffeted by wind as they gazed at the distant peninsula drenched in cascading light. Then he realized—this too was the actual embodiment of those Cézanne landscapes he’d seen countless times in Japan. The peninsula—that reality pursued through strata of pigment—lay before him: the very entity that had since transformed painting into pure concept.

Having traversed dozens of days through waves and ships and tropics filled with untamed wilderness, Yashiro’s legs began gradually stiffening from that moment onward. While stroking his thigh, he was coming to realize that this talk of Japanese understanding culture—it was an entirely different civilization from us in the East—and he began gradually resigning himself to this truth. When evening came, Yashiro’s group descended to the town and entered a restaurant. Before them, separated by the road, the sea glowed in the sunset, its pale crimson surface lapping right up to the roadside. The seaside area where they had come down was suffused with drifting seaweed smells; even the faces of people inside houses became tinged with reflected sunset light, creating a brilliance like butterflies staggering through blossom-lit shadows. The restaurant patrons kept facing the sea as they pressed knives to oyster shells, quietly savoring them with their tongues.

"Well now, we'll finally get to taste proper French bread!" Mr. Oki laughed, rubbing his hands together. Even this vigorous old man seemed to have finally succumbed to fatigue; he slumped against his chair back and remained motionless until dinner preparations were complete. "No—before anything else, let's have Marseille wine first! Hey! Wine! Wine!" "Coming right away." The woman answered briskly, then arranged red and white varieties. Now the entire group silently raised glasses to toast their shared fortune in reaching this point unharmed. For an instant, solemn expressions never witnessed aboard ship flickered across every face.

“Bottle-san.” When one person said this, everyone drank their wine in turn. Mr. Oki turned to the waitress beside him and raised his glass, using the ready-made French phrase he’d learned earlier that meant “I love you”— “Jya-tem! Jya-tem!” “Merci.” The woman smiled and began busily arranging bread, plates, and forks on the table. Overjoyed that his French had finally been understood, Mr. Oki boomed— “Well then, everyone! I’ve taken first blood in this campaign, haven’t I?”

With grandiose bravado, he made the entire group roar with laughter. Soon appeared purple-tinged small shrimp mixed among hors d'oeuvres, heaped in a bamboo basket. On tables facing the sea, oyster shells and clusters of sea urchins—freshly lifted from the water—were being piled up. The scent of dissolving lemon wafted through pale crimson sea air. Amidst the shifting twilight around them, lights entered the harbor. A sweet melancholy, like vein-like waterways spreading across surfaces where seagulls gently crisscrossed, flowed abundantly throughout.

"I wish I could disembark here too." Chizuko said while adding milk to her tea. When Yashiro heard Chizuko’s voice, he realized for the first time—oh right, Chizuko was there too. The ship's metal fittings glittered from the water's surface. On the luminous water reflecting the evening glow, a sailboat glided by in crisp white.

“Ms. Chizuko, you should come to London with me. Leaving the young ones here to totter along with an old man—that’s not such a bad plan either.” After disembarking in Marseille, Mr. Oki had already noticed that the young men had forgotten all about Ms. Chizuko and remarked on it. However, what the group members had forgotten wasn’t limited to Ms. Chizuko—the squabbles and interpersonal entanglements from their voyage had now scattered away, leaving them all in such a state that their feet had left the ground and were floating adrift in their hopes for this foreign seaport, whose lights now spread across the expanse of a large window.

By the time they finished their meal, the port of Marseille had turned completely to night.

The group was now going out to savor this singular city’s particular atmosphere—all except for Chizuko. Since this had been their greatest solace against the tedium aboard ship, the group’s expectations ran high. However, sending Chizuko back alone to the ship at the wharf at night was a dangerous proposition—especially since the fearsomeness of Marseille’s docks was something everyone had long since heard about and was famous for. Thereupon, the guide decided to first escort Chizuko back to the ship, and the group headed out.

The sea surface reflecting the town's glittering lights swelled richly, wetting the hems of the buildings.

A light like flowing crimson mist suffused the main streets and alleys, dyeing them in a maze of hues. Then, just as they approached the slope beneath where they had been shown during the day—the site where Yugoslavia's emperor was assassinated—Yashiro's leg suddenly stiffened and stopped moving. It was an illness that afflicts those who have been on long sea voyages. Yashiro had been told about this illness aboard the ship and thought it had finally come, but when he tried to move his leg, spasms of pain shot through it. At first Yashiro walked while massaging his leg, but soon he could no longer take another step. If he simply endured it, this would immensely hinder the group's enjoyment. Thereupon Yashiro explained the situation to everyone and decided to return to the ship alone first.

“Then having Ms.Chizuko accompany you would be just right.Take care on your way back,” said Mr.Oki.

Since Chizuko had now gained a companion for her return journey, she spared the guide further trouble and promptly hailed a car with Yashiro, directing it to the wharf.

“Are you in pain?”

After remaining silent for a while, Chizuko asked.

“No, if I stay still, it does not bother me at all.” “But despite that, if I move it even a little, it becomes problematic.” “The ship’s vibrations must have affected the nerves, causing the muscles to stop functioning.”

When they left the bright city and entered the dark port district, the pier stood nearby, but as the car could not pass through the gate, Yashiro had to walk to the ship. As they passed through the iron gate, Chizuko took Yashiro's arm—he was dragging his leg haltingly—as if to support him.

“Hold onto my shoulder. Are you all right?”

In the midst of dark, deserted warehouses where not a single soul remained, receiving such kindness from Chizuko was an unexpected joy for Yashiro as well.

“Thank you, thank you, I’m all right.”

Even as he said this, Chizuko—with her strong perfume—took his arm. Though entirely coincidental, being this close to Chizuko had never happened aboard the ship; thinking it pitiful if the ship didn't soon come into view, Yashiro dragged his paralyzed leg through warehouses of jagged quarry stone with a shrinking feeling. Even when the ship's lights shone brightly ahead, Chizuko kept assisting Yashiro unhesitatingly.

“It feels like I’m the only one who’s sunk—what a shame.” He had meant to express the loneliness of being left behind while the group remained safe, but to Chizuko at that moment, it did not entirely resonate with Yashiro’s intended meaning. Indeed, while everyone now reveled in that heart-pounding city of pleasures, his sigh—born from unbearable solitude at returning alone to this old ship’s nest—must have seemed exactly that. “But you should rest tonight. Your complexion doesn’t look well either.”

Chizuko comforted him. Yashiro thought that indeed it was so but silently climbed the seawater-soiled ship’s ladder supported by Chizuko’s smooth yellow marten coat.

The ship’s interior, now completely emptied of passengers, was hollow and echoed cavernously like a cave. To Yashiro—who had spent a mere day yet been bathed in Marseille’s light—it felt like clambering into the inner workings of an old Meiji-era clock; he found it unexpectedly strange how this novelty now overshadowed his recognition that this was indeed the same vessel he had inhabited until yesterday. Yashiro and Chizuko each entered their own cabins. Yashiro lay down on the berth gazing at the familiar ceiling, but the loneliness of there being not another soul soon drove him back out to the salon. Yet here too, though the lights blazed brightly, it stood so silent it seemed to reverberate. Yashiro forgot his leg’s pain and, while gazing at Marseille’s lights visible through the window, soon found his stiffness mysteriously healed. Since this ship’s interior now alone carried lingering traces of Japanese air across the vast continent, his nerves must have been suddenly soothed like a fish returned to its original tank. In any case, with this rapid healing—yielding the same outcome as when he had targeted this passengerless ship to tempt Chizuko—Yashiro now found himself feeling utterly at loose ends. After a while, appearing unable to sleep herself, Chizuko too came up to the salon and approached Yashiro.

“How are you feeling?”

“Thank you. Strangely enough, my leg began healing once I returned here. At this rate, I think if you fall ill in Europe, being hospitalized on a Japanese ship would be best.” “But it was perfectly fine. It almost felt as though I were the one being seen off.”

“I must have troubled you earlier,” Yashiro expressed his gratitude to Chizuko for the nursing care he had received,

“But I never imagined I’d cause you trouble in a place like this.” “When you come to Paris next time, I’ll take full charge of guiding you, so please be sure to let me know when you do.” “Please do.” Chizuko smiled softly, revealing her beautiful teeth.

Had this been Yashiro in his usual Japanese milieu, he would never have been one to make such flippant remarks to women; but this Yashiro—whipped about by European winds for a full day—had grown giddy with excitement, frivolous words tumbling out, until even the familiar Japanese women he knew somehow no longer seemed quite like women at all. "I'll go to Paris as soon as I can." "I only need to return to Japan by late autumn this year." "Come as soon as you're able." "Though if it's too soon, I'll practically be making you show me around instead."

“But aren’t you going to London too?” “I will go.”

“Then we’ll be able to meet again, won’t we?” “Yes, I shall welcome that occasion.”

With that remark, Yashiro pressed the bell to order tea. The wind flowing through the window and lightly brushing past their faces felt as soft as the familiar breeze one senses by a window when with family. Both remained silent. Though his stiffness had eased, it seemed all that fatigue had instead spread through his entire body; Yashiro lay limp, even moving his back requiring great effort.

"My, how quiet it is."

As if marveling at how far they had come, Chizuko let out a sigh and spoke while looking at the peach sprout on the table that had stretched unnoticed during the Indian Ocean's heat. "Tomorrow I go to Gibraltar. Don't you wish to see Spain?" "I would certainly like to see that place." "Then won't you come?" "Well," Yashiro said, gazing out the window as he considered. Though he couldn't help imagining the pleasures of touring Gibraltar with Chizuko aboard this emptied ship, it now seemed that parting from her here and awaiting her Paris arrival—where he would meet a Chizuko who must have transformed by then—promised far deeper anticipation.

“Still, I’m going to Paris. That way I’ll get to see how you change. I’m looking forward to it.” “You’re being cruel.”

When she said that, Chizuko—suddenly smiling for some reason—started to rise toward the deck but sat back down, "But I'm the same way." "I would like to see your changed faces." "Well, until next time then."

“Men don’t change, I tell you. They’d just wander around aimlessly—but women adapt to the local ways so quickly you see. Their transformation leaves a deeper mark than any change we could make.” “The way you all must be wandering about—how amusing it must look from afar.” “My brother said that after two or three months abroad, he hated it so much he couldn’t bear another day.”

“I was nearly overwhelmed today. What I’d imagined about Europe differs slightly from reality—at least for someone like me. This isn’t about Europe having superior culture to Japan’s. It’s that our minds breathe differently. If anything, before coming here I’d been breathing in the European way, but now I’ve begun to understand—just a little—that my heart still breathes as Japanese.”

Chizuko fell silent and lowered her gaze. Yashiro felt that before he knew it, even the content of his conversations with women had taken on a different quality compared to when he was in Japan—changed imperceptibly without his awareness. Even if he were to tell this story to Europeans exactly as it was, it would not make sense; and yet, he lamented that even if he were to tell it to Japanese who had not yet seen Europe, the content would similarly fail to resonate. “Ms. Chizuko, how Japanese did they appear to you?” “Today?”

Chizuko seemed to hesitate, her manner briefly considering how to respond, but as a faintly sarcastic shadow flitted across her lips— "I found myself troubled by how beautiful Westerners appeared," she answered softly. "The men?" "Yes." "Ha ha ha ha ha," Yashiro laughed in spite of himself. "I'm the same way. The women here are so beautiful it's troubling." He started to say this but suddenly fell silent; as Yashiro thought how even the expression of today's strange events—having moved about all day and faced unfamiliar visages—could take no form other than this pitiable shape within this cavern, he grew lonesome.

By Japanese standards, Chizuko was undeniably a woman of first-class beauty to anyone who saw her. But when this beauty appeared in Europe, enveloped by its scenery, it took on ill-suited ephemeral hues—so faint as to seem almost nonexistent—and looked pitifully lonely. Whenever he thought of this, he felt certain that his own figure must have appeared even more desolate and clouded with sorrow than hers. “They often say that when married couples come to Europe, the husband grows to dislike his own wife, and the wife becomes averse to her husband—but I think it’s just as well I’m not married.”

Chizuko continued laughing while gradually lowering her head until she fell silent. Oppressed by the helplessness of having touched truths they both sensed in their hearts, the two grew increasingly heavy with discomfort, and Yashiro now wished for anyone else aboard the ship besides Chizuko. Ah—was this what travel meant? Were these two even Japanese? Thinking this, Yashiro suddenly felt an irritated intensity flare up—a fierce emotion compelling him to embrace Chizuko and find some way to console each other.

Yashiro abruptly stood up and walked to the center of the salon. Yet he didn't understand what he'd meant to do when rising. Like one whose feet touch riverbed stones kicking upward with desperate force, Yashiro remained standing there pale-faced and rigid. Now Japan felt unbearably dear—so unbearably dear it choked him.

Then, the lights of Marseille reflected in his eyes. All his predecessors who had journeyed from Japan to this land must have been made to feel emotions identical to what he now felt there. It was an indescribable fury; yet before long, resigning himself that this too was for his own sake, he resolved to keep wearing what needed keeping close and cast away without regret every last old garment meant for discarding—then at last regaining composure, he went out onto the deck. As he leaned against the railing, gazing down at the dark cobblestones of the quay with the quiet exhaustion of fading anger—the captain, now changed into a suit, came rustling down alone from the poop deck.

“Oh, you’re back early, Mr. Yashiro,” said the captain. “Yes, my legs stiffened and became immobile, so I found it regrettable.” “Well, that’s a shame.” “I’m about to go see one of the usual sights.” “It’s just the usual sights—nothing particularly interesting—but since a passenger asked me to. Well then.”

The captain nodded, descended the deck, and disappeared toward the quay. For those accustomed to frequent visits, Europe long ceased to offer any stimulation—how could anyone stay so composed? Yashiro wondered, unable to tear his envious gaze from the captain’s natural gentlemanly bearing.

“Who is it?” After a while, Chizuko came up behind Yashiro and asked. “It’s the captain. He said he’s going sightseeing now.” “That captain has such admirable self-assurance.” “Foreigners may put on a show of delight the more we fawn over them while secretly looking down on us—but when Japanese people clamor over everything European like this, it’s as if they’re practicing how to put on a poor man’s foolish face.” “Honestly, that’s exactly how I felt today.”

“That’s exactly what I thought too,” “When I was walking through the city today, a Western parent and child were walking together ahead of me.” “Then the father said to the child, ‘You should walk with your chest out properly—like this,’ and he demonstrated by arching his back as he walked.” “Then the sixteen- or seventeen-year-old child stopped slouching too and straightened right up.” “Hah! So Europeans really do think about that constantly,” “Once you start acting shy or self-conscious, it’s all over.”

Yashiro thought about the various virtues of the Japanese people. About Japanese society, where an educational system that extinguished all hope of advancement unless one maintained a humble demeanor even in Western clothes was gradually creating more stooped postures clad in such attire. —— However, at this moment, Yashiro found it utterly strange why he had come to think so much about Japan. Even though these were by no means new thoughts he had just conceived, each idea that surfaced now revived with new vigor and began to stir his heart. From the moment Marseille came into view, what he had been thinking of constantly was nothing but Japan—it would not be wrong to say. It was as if, as Europe drew nearer, Japan had instead launched a full-scale assault on his mind—but if this were to continue unabated henceforth.—

Ah, now—now while he remained safe—Yashiro groaned inwardly at the thought of wanting to marry a Japanese woman.

While Yashiro remained silent, Chizuko too stayed wordless in the same posture, her chest pressed against the railing. As this continued for a while, Yashiro gradually began to sense a dangerous tension—that if either of them were to utter even a single word now, some confession poised to spill straight from his heart might slip out unbidden.

It wasn't that he was in love with Chizuko at all. It was simply that Japan had become unbearably dear to him. ―― Yashiro understood well that such emotions were impure things far removed from the concept of marriage. But in the foreign lands he would visit from now on, faced with countless adversaries in the form of women, there remained for Yashiro no Japanese woman to marry except Chizuko alone. To others this must have seemed laughable indeed, but for Yashiro—who desired purity of blood—compared to the anguish of losing his chastity to a foreign woman, he wanted at least to affirm the validity of choosing Chizuko.

“You know, there was a doctor I knew who had something happen to him here at the quay late at night. When he was returning alone to his ship, a man came out from near the warehouses, pointed a pistol at him, and demanded money.” “That must be right around there.”

Chizuko pointed toward the black warehouses stretching out directly below them. Yashiro was disappointed to realize this was all Chizuko had been thinking about, but for him—who had been gazing at his own chest while dangerous words nearly escaped—this proved an absolute salvation. “So that area where I’ve been in your care all along.” “What became of that man?” “When he gave him some money and said ‘The real sum’s on the ship—come there,’ the robber even followed him up the ladder.” “Here, if you were shot—that would truly end things.”

Yashiro masked his feelings with laughter, yet as he found himself engrossed in such light conversation, he considered that he still lacked the qualifications for marriage. “Strange things may happen here,” he said, “but truly, I’ve found myself thinking only of matters that seem impossible to properly grasp—thoughts flitting through my mind like mayflies.” “These strange notions keep surfacing in my head since earlier, and it troubles me.” “Now that I’m going to Paris, I can no longer imagine what will become of me.”

“I do too.” Chizuko looked at Yashiro’s face and, with a smile of satisfaction in the dimple of one cheek, nodded.

“So I realized I hadn’t come to see foreign lifestyles or scenery—in the end, it was like I’d come to see myself.” “Well yes—I’ll see the sights and visit museums—but more than anything, it’s as if I came because watching myself change fascinated me.” “In just this single day, I’ve changed so much.” “It’ll be quite a sight to see what expressions everyone comes back with tonight.” “The only one still full of energy is that old man Mr. Oki.” “I’ve even lost the use of my legs, and—” “Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Yashiro laughed and, distancing himself from Chizuko, walked across the deck.

No—it was good. He had narrowly escaped danger. If he had carelessly let something slip at that moment—the thought sent a slight shudder through him.

At the pier shrouded in morning mist, the ship’s loading was soon to be completed.

The group departing for Paris gathered from their cabins to the salon with sleepy faces. “Well, is everyone here? Then let’s go.” the guide said simply. The sailors who had become friends with the passengers gathered like birds on the deck and mid-sections of the ladders to bid farewell, but none of them showed any sign of leaving the railing’s side, their expressions filled with heartfelt sincerity. The passengers, who now felt anew the beauty of the sailors’ hearts, also turned back sorrowfully again and again, repeating their goodbyes as they slowly walked to the cars waiting before the checkpoint.

Chizuko and Mr. Oki followed along with the passengers to the cars. “Goodbye, and fare you well.”

“Let us meet again in Paris.”

When the three cars were filled, Yashiro glanced briefly at Chizuko. Chizuko was smiling and greeting everyone in a manner that suggested the joy of parting lay in looking forward to their next meeting. The cars drove off carelessly toward the station. Marseille Station stood atop a slightly elevated part of the city, lined with beautiful hackberry trees.

When they got out of the cars, the faces of the group appeared small and tinged with blue from the coldness of the morning mist and the tension of departure.

Now that they were finally about to board the European train, like athletes lined up at the starting block, they all followed silently behind the guide with shining eyes even after receiving their tickets. Above the platform, high glass clouded with smoke arched dome-like in a circular shape, beneath which brown trains stood lined up in multiple rows enveloped in tepid air. When Yashiro took a seat with Kuji in one compartment, the young people noisily crowded into that single space.

“This should be enough now, right?” For the first time, one person spoke. Even at this moment when it felt as though there were still many things left undone, “Yes, with this settled, you’ll simply need to stay aboard until Paris.”

the guide laughed and answered.

“Well then, shall we get around to talking about last night?”

When one person said this, they all finally returned to an easeful relaxation and began talking about the intriguing aspects of Marseille’s night streets they had seen. However, everyone found those stories interesting. Yet it was precisely this that led them to describe it as somehow uninteresting. “How was it for you?” Kuji asked Yashiro with a smile. Everyone seemed to immediately sense he had been teasing Yashiro about being alone with Chizuko aboard the ship; just as they all turned toward him, the train departed for Paris.

“I found it quite interesting too.” Yashiro had meant to preempt Kuji’s teasing, but now that they had left the station behind, everyone else was too absorbed in gazing at the beauty of the fields outside to pay him any heed. As the peninsula they had glimpsed from Notre-Dame the day before came into view—followed by hills and an expanse of sea—Marseille slowly faded into the distance.

Fields where apricot blossoms bloomed riotously, soft farmlands with sprouting young buds, pastures, and rivers—these scenes alternated endlessly along the passing railway line as white apricot blossoms overflowed everywhere. Then the Rhône River began flowing sinuously alongside the train, twisting its body with supple ease yet never managing to break free from the train’s path.

Yashiro gradually began to feel the enjoyment of the journey. He marveled at how the French countryside possessed a softness entirely different from Japan’s—a beauty that seemed to invite caressing. It was a field that resembled a landscaped garden, where even each tree and blade of grass seemed imbued with meticulous care. As the Rhône River’s flow widened and narrowed through that field, nothing but flexible pastures resembling stretches of lawn continued to appear. Apart from gentle curves devoid of even a single weed, not a single mountain was visible.

“The French countryside boasts about being the world’s most beautiful—and honestly, faced with this, you can’t exactly argue with that.” said Mishima.

“When it’s this beautiful, I don’t even feel like looking. If it’s like this here, I wonder how beautiful Paris must be then,” said the trade official.

“I’ve been looking for a while now, but there’s not a single advertisement on either side of the railway.” “There’s just a single butter advertisement.” “The villages aren’t even a tenth the size of Japan’s, yet with this, their urban culture has developed so much.” “Since France has enough within its own borders to feed its people, military expenses alone can be fully covered from the colonies’ coffers.”

To this doctor, the trade official spoke again. “However, there certainly was a reason we’ve been clamoring about Europe all this time.” “After all, wanting to improve one’s own country is a natural human sentiment shared by all, but if you stir up too much commotion, what’s frightening is that next you’ll see even unwelcome sentiments arising.” “Well, you see, when people start pondering the concept of a nation, even we doctors find ourselves instinctively struggling.” “But ah, if someone like you goes around indulging in sentiment, patients will die.”

the doctor said, looking at the trade official. "But even doctors must have some humanity in their healing arts, eh?" "If we're talking quacks, that's one thing—but with such heartlessness, it's the patients who suffer." "You studied in Germany and now use the same drug dosages on Japanese people? That's dangerous business." "No—doctors must keep people alive even when they don't want to die." Everyone burst into laughter at the doctor's remark.

However, once such topics arose, even those with opinions would startle upon realizing their own minds had skidded perilously close to a dangerous line and fall silent. Educated individuals engaged in professions never failed to speak up whenever an opportunity arose to demonstrate their erudition, but once the conversation touched upon perilous aspects of their own occupations, they all withdrew from the discussion. Equally amusing were the faces of those who had secretly prided themselves on their intellect. These people wore expressions of dawning realization that even the intellect they had prided themselves on was merely borrowed habits of others—temporarily lent to them last night—while their exchanged glances bore distortions tinged with dangerously optimistic self-mockery.

When the conversation came to an abrupt halt, Kuji wanted tea and tried pressing the call button to summon the bellboy, but couldn’t find any button. As everyone was making a commotion shouting “This one!” “That one!”, Kuji suddenly stood up and pulled the stirrup-shaped handle dangling above his head.

Then, shortly after, the train that had been moving came to an abrupt stop. Without understanding why they had stopped, the group peered restlessly out of the windows when the conductor entered the compartment. Kuji had been listening to the conductor’s words, but his complexion began changing visibly. He stammered and raised one hand, “No, no—there was no call button, so I just pulled this. Terribly sorry about that!” he apologized profusely in French. The group finally seemed to realize it was Kuji who had stopped the train; they stared at the conductor in stunned silence as if expecting a major incident to unfold. But here such matters appeared routine—the conductor, after hearing Kuji’s explanation, surprisingly exited to the corridor without further ado.

“You’re one hell of a guy—since you stopped an international train, you could already go back to Japan and brag about it!”

said the doctor.

While everyone remained pale, the train casually started moving again.

As the Rhône River narrowed into a slender stream and pastures transformed into forests stretching onward, with dusk gradually approaching—suddenly,

“Ah, this is it—we’re already in Paris!”

Someone exclaimed in surprise as they compared the timetable with their watch. "How can this be Paris? Isn't this the countryside!"

“Well, that’s certainly true.” Rain fell steadily on the village. Because everyone had been too talkative and forgotten to check the time, when they each took out their watches, indeed every watch showed it was indeed time to arrive in Paris. Since they said they should start getting their luggage down now, they began taking it one by one from the racks, but before they had even removed half, the train came to a stop at the station.

“Is this really Paris?” said one of them, gazing restlessly around the dirty, desolate station. “Well… It does say Lyon here.” he said, still half-convinced. As the group stepped down from the compartment toward the platform, foreigners came pouring out from every car. Though their doubts had vanished, expressions as if caught in a dream lacking visceral reality flowed unmistakably across every face in the group. When departing Marseille, they had asked their guide to send a telegram to the inn where they would first settle, so everyone stood lined up beside their luggage expecting someone to meet them—yet none could tell who among the crowd might be from the inn.

Before long, the foreigners who had disembarked from the train vanished from the platform one after another, leaving every car empty—but the group alone remained huddled together, dejectedly motionless for what felt like an eternity. "What are we supposed to do?" "Just doing this..." Kuji said. "Because they said someone would come to meet us, we're waiting," the doctor replied. "But since we haven't received a reply about whether they're coming to meet us, how can we know?" "This isn't Japan." "This is Paris."

“This isn’t Japan,” said another member.

Indeed, they were not in Japan—this realization struck them like a sudden awakening, transforming their complexions once more. Yet despite this clarity, none among them could discern where the inn might be located. Even so, they couldn’t just keep standing rooted to the platform forever. So there, having the redcap carry only the luggage, they first made their way toward the waiting room. However, even in the waiting room, the group continued to wait in a daze with a sense of grasping at clouds, still unaware of who would come from where. Not only had night fallen without them noticing, Their ears were ringing deafeningly as if they had gone deaf, and on top of that, hunger was closing in.

“Is that inn for foreigners?” “Or a Japanese inn?” Kuji asked. “They said Botan-ya—the Japanese inn—was full, so they booked a foreign one instead,” replied the mechanical engineer. “Waiting until tomorrow won’t make them come! And even if they did come, how would they know we’re their guests?” Yashiro said.

said Yashiro. Since they agreed this made sense, they decided they would first speak to a car driver themselves—and once finally settling on the plan to try going to the fully booked Japanese inn before making rounds to foreigner-friendly lodgings—they called for a car for the first time.

The group was jolted along by the car through dark, dirty streets with a rumbling sound. Even though it was Paris, no matter how far they went, nothing resembling Paris appeared before the group. When they crossed a river resembling a miniature Sumida River,

“What’s this river called?” Kuji asked the driver. “Seine.” The driver only replied with a single word. So, faced with this being central Paris, the group was left utterly speechless. Even though not many days had passed, when Yashiro thought of that night they arrived in Paris, it already felt like a distant memory from long ago. They arrived at the station at six in the evening, and it was nearly eleven at night when they reached Hotel Masune. What would now take merely thirty minutes had ended up requiring four or five hours as they detoured by car. After Yashiro began staying alone at his current hotel in Montparnasse, he received no word from the friends who had scattered to various countries after their voyage, meeting only with Kuji, who remained in Paris.

When they arrived at night and couldn't see well in the dim light, Paris struck them as an unexpectedly rural backwater; yet when dawn broke the next day and they looked again, there stood not just a metropolis but something akin to centuries-old Buddhist temple buildings they had never seen or heard of before. Yashiro, who had come from a Japan that seemed all fresh vegetables and water, initially could not acclimate himself to this parched black-stone city. Just as a frog regulates its respiration by releasing gases through its wet skin, Yashiro—a Japanese man accustomed to humid climates—found his own skin reacting to Paris's bone-dry air with clogged pores that dulled his senses daily and left him catching perpetual colds. Even when walking among sculptures, paintings, and buildings of such startling vividness they might wake the dead, their beauty seemed unworthy of the fuss people made, plunging him deeper into melancholy. Though his throat rumbled at the sumptuous feast laid before him, after two bites nausea would rise, leaving him to subsist on coffee and water alone. After brief walks through town, an unbearable thirst for water would seize him, his feet naturally carrying him toward the Seine's banks.

"Somehow, my senses really do resemble a frog's," Yashiro thought with a bitter smile. Each time he walked, he wore a tearful expression from the piercing pain that reverberated from his shoe heels to his head; when he sat on a chair, before anything else Yashiro would take off his shoes.

"My friends in Tokyo must be laughing their heads off by now." When he thought this, even the faces of each and every friend charging forward with Europeanism grew irritating.

He often met with Kuji, but at first he had nothing to talk about and remained silent. Occasionally, Kuji would,

“Paris is nice, isn’t it.” There were times when Kuji would murmur dreamily with an entranced expression, but even to these remarks, Yashiro found himself unable to simply nod back, irritation prickling through him. “Can’t they see this deep chasm between Tokyo and Paris? Just try following this chasm and descending even once. Have they ever considered when they’ll emerge on the opposite shore?” Yashiro said within himself. Yet when he considered how people could build bridges across this great chasm without footholds, the thought echoed back as his own dilemma rather than another’s concern. Compelled to leap over it somehow—first realizing he was in Paris, then seeing his own parched-nosed dog-like state—Yashiro understood he needed movement more than thought, wandering the streets aimlessly all day. To him, this felt exactly like climbing a high, arid mountain range devoid of life. The moment it struck him that humans had built this mountain, his consciousness clattered down from summit to base headlong. As he kept falling daily like this, he gradually realized he wasn’t alone in tumbling down. Looking around, not only were all foreign travelers slipping and rolling, but many seemed stuck sitting on their backsides, utterly immobilized.

"Hmm, this is interesting." Around the time he began thinking this way, Yashiro—even as he tumbled and slid—felt as though he were still climbing to higher ground, gradually regaining his vigor. Yashiro's room was a ten-mat space on the fourth floor with scant sunlight penetration, equipped with a telephone and adjoining bath. Kuji often visited there, but having retained his vitality, he had already ceased staying at the hotel from their arrival night. When Yashiro thought of him, he felt certain Kuji must have discovered some reason to preserve his vigor.

“Where did you go that night we arrived? We looked everywhere for you.”

One time when he asked Kuji, “When I called a friend, they came right over and took me to Montparnasse.” “It was somewhere around here, I guess.” “I’d asked them to arrange a language teacher for me, so they introduced me right away.”

Kuji answered nonchalantly and laughed. It was not long after that Yashiro began noticing Henriette, a young female language teacher, frequenting Kuji’s place. Since everything about Kuji—so carefree and lively, unlike Yashiro—was just as it was, Yashiro could see at a glance that Henriette held affection for him.

“You’re always full of energy, but that vigor of yours isn’t something to take lightly.” “Watch yourself—it’ll all come rattling down soon enough.” “My foundation’s already crumbled away.” “The real rising starts now.” One day, Yashiro teased Kuji while repeatedly stroking his arm.

“Quit your nonsense.” “The one who came clattering down first was me.” Though they burst into laughter despite themselves, Yashiro thought there must surely be a vast difference in how they perceived what they saw and heard—between someone like Kuji, who could suddenly attach himself to a foreign woman and gaze up at Paris like a frog clinging to a utility pole, and himself, who staggered about gasping for breath with no foothold to leap from. Even so, Yashiro now felt a resentful anger—that Kuji had committed such a wasteful transgression by leaping over this irreplaceable opportunity to understand the vast difference between East and West without sparing even a moment to wander through it.

Though winter still clung stubbornly to the air, there came a day when his meals finally began to settle—a day when Yashiro, Kuji, and Henriette went together to the Auteuil racecourse. The sky stood clear that day, and the sight of horses running across the broad turf encircled by chestnut groves became the first living beauty that scraped away the numbness from Yashiro’s senses. The shared gleam of chestnut coats between Western-bred horses known in Japan and those here—like gas abruptly igniting from a stuck valve—suddenly pulled even the surrounding landscape’s splendor into his awareness. When evening fell at races’ end, spring sleet began pelting the chilled fields. Yet even drenched by icy rain, Yashiro remained transfixed—the elegance of that riderless horse clearing the final obstacle to dash sleek and unburdened through budding chestnut groves... To this day he remembers that twilight’s emotion.

From around this day onward, it could be said that Paris's quiet, still beauty began gradually seeping into Yashiro's mind. He rode alone on a penny steamer down the Seine River to see it. He also went to the Vincennes Forest and visited the Saint-Germain Castle. He even ventured out to places like the Montmorency and Fontainebleau forests, journeying far into Paris's distant suburbs. Each time he left Paris in this way and returned, what had been faintly glowing from every corner of this ancient temple-like city would grow steadily brighter.

In this way, Yashiro also felt the seething movements within his head—which had been boiling over until now—subsiding in accordance with the city's form. He had gradually stopped trying to hurriedly resolve the various questions that arose, leaving them as questions. Even if he hurried, what he did not understand would remain beyond his grasp. For the only thing he could believe in now, he thought, was nothing other than the Japanese within himself. But if he were to carelessly say such things to Japanese people, he could vividly imagine how enraged—and even derisive—the Japanese here would become; yet whether he could envision it or not, he had clearly seen with his own eyes the profound disparity between Japan and foreign lands.

No matter what anyone might say, he would not lose himself—Yashiro steeled his resolve.

On one such afternoon, as Yashiro was walking with Kuji, they were informed that Chizuko would finally be coming from London. Kuji and Yashiro had often initiated conversations from both sides about the ship's passengers and reminisced fondly, yet for some reason they took care to avoid topics related to Chizuko. Even though Kuji openly discussed news from Oki, the doctor, and Makiko, when Yashiro imagined Kuji’s feelings in avoiding any mention of Chizuko alone, he couldn’t help wondering if something had already begun progressing between him and Henriette.

“I wonder where Ms. Chizuko will stay when she comes.” At the very moment Chizuko was finally coming from London, Yashiro sensed Henriette’s shadow lingering behind Kuji’s letting slip such concerns to him. He looked at Kuji sitting there uncharacteristically sullen and ventured: “If looking after Ms. Chizuko troubles you, I don’t mind handling it myself.”

“I see. If it’s not a bother, I’d like to ask you.” “It’s not that I have any particular issue with Ms. Chizuko, but after being so kind to her on the ship, it would be rather rude to suddenly change my approach now.” Kuji looked at Yashiro with suddenly casual ease. “If you’re okay with it, I’ll handle it.” “That’s a relief.” “It’s not that I dislike Ms. Chizuko, but right now, you’re the only Japanese person I need.” “If I associate with any more Japanese people, my words will just revert to Japanese.”

Yashiro had long observed how Kuji had been single-mindedly devoted to hastily becoming more foreign-like since arriving in Paris, yet he somehow found the disposition of his heart to be rather provincial, and each time, he thought of himself as wanting to lash out at Kuji.

“You could invite Henriette for dinner, right?” “I’ll treat you tonight.” Following Kuji’s lead, the two of them came to Saint-Michel and, turning their backs to Notre-Dame on the left, began ascending toward the Panthéon.

At the spot where the slope of Saint-Michel turns left, there was a restaurant called Italienken. Kuji had long favored the Italian cuisine there, so they chose this place for dinner that night. Having called Henriette en route, Kuji ensured that while Yashiro was drinking an aperitif, Henriette entered wrapped in a pale tea-colored suit and fox fur. Kuji offered her a chair while saying, “Since we have plans to go dancing tonight, once you’ve finished your meal, please excuse yourself.”

Kuji said to Yashiro while looking at the menu. “Yashiro, what’ll you have? The Pureouri again?” “Ms. Henriette,” he continued, “I’ll leave this to you.” They ordered thinly sliced lamb with young chicken shoulder meat, spaghetti topped with cheese, and salad—all accompanied by wine. Though famous among gourmets for being frequented by the poet Paul Fort, neither Kuji nor Yashiro had ever actually seen him there.

“You know, I also want to study conversation. If you have time, could you have Ms. Henriette come around to me sometimes?” Yashiro gazed at Kuji and Henriette as he remarked jokingly. “No—that won’t do.” “You see, this person’s practically my secretary now.” “I’ve been having her test all sorts of things, so I’m swamped.” “But what’s wrong with me paying tuition and asking to become a student?”

“That’s your Japanese logic at work.” “Here, Japanese logic doesn’t apply—you know the saying: ‘When entering a land, follow its ways,’ don’t you?”

“That’s Japanese logic too, isn’t it?” Yashiro said with a laugh. “However, this alone is universal logic after all. When you enter a land, it’s only natural to follow its customs.” “Then what about foreigners coming to Japan? If only Japanese people must ‘enter the land and follow its customs,’ then doesn’t that completely negate the authority of universal logic?”

When it came to such matters, even if it started as jest, the debates between Yashiro and Kuji never reached resolution. “Spare me today,” said Kuji. “Let’s observe Parisian etiquette tonight.” He poured wine into Henriette’s glass as he spoke. Henriette had been smiling all along, crunching red radish appetizers with her lovely front teeth, but when udon-like spaghetti arrived steaming, she deftly twirled it around her fork.

“Well then, I’ll treat you tonight,” Yashiro said. Here, for some reason, life seemed to consist of nothing but sinking into logical arguments—a state they often found inescapable—so there had long been an agreement between the two that whoever instigated the logic would pay for that day’s dinner. Thus, Kuji, his fork halfway to his mouth with spaghetti, slammed the table as if declaring victory. “That’s right. I’d forgotten,” he said. “Tonight’s your turn—with this, I just made a hundred francs.”

Kuji promptly explained to Henriette in French that since Yashiro was treating them tonight, she could eat as much as she liked. Henriette said thank you in Japanese, passed the wine to Yashiro, and laughed. From Henriette, Yashiro heard almost nothing but French and hardly any Japanese at all, but since her father had studied it for three years while stationed at the Yokohama branch of the Massaajuriimu Shipping Company, he thought she likely understood simple Japanese without issue.

A pale twilight pressed in from outside the window. Amidst the scent of celery that Henriette was snapping drifting over the white table, Yashiro thought that the juices pooled in the young chicken’s flank now had a flavor beyond compare. “Whether it was Francis I or VIII,” he said, “he declared, ‘Could anything in this world be as delicious as this?’ and no matter how much his attendants tried to stop him, he dashed to the kitchen and sank his teeth into this very dish—truly, this alone is irresistible.”

Yashiro said as he thrust his knife firmly into the chicken’s flank.

“Damn it. I was supposed to eat that thing too. I thought I was paying, so I held back and ended up losing out.” Kuji cut through the limp, cold beef-like slices of lamb while casting longing glances at Yashiro’s chicken. The hostile rivalry of their dinner—each flaunting their meal as they ate—only served to mellow the food’s flavor all the more. “Is Heichinro in Yokohama still there?”

Henriette asked. “Yes, yes, it’s still there.” “I can’t forget the sufta there.” “Right, Kuji?” Henriette turned to face Kuji and asked him in French where served the best Chinese cuisine in Paris, though she herself was fond of it. When oranges emerged from the confectionery shelf, Henriette taught Yashiro that to gauge a Parisian restaurant’s quality, nothing surpassed examining the sweets displayed on its confectionery shelf. When they switched from oranges to coffee, Kuji wiped his mouth repeatedly and stretched.

“Well now, Ms. Chizuko is coming tomorrow—this is a problem. How am I supposed to explain to a woman that morals on a ship and on land are completely different? It’s tricky, this one.” “That sort of thing—she understands it better than you do. If we’re the strange ones here, then Ms. Chizuko is strange too.” “Well then, I’ll leave that matter properly to you. Strangely enough—though I wrote about Ms. Henriette in my letters—despite that alone! For her not to send you any while writing to me? First and foremost—isn’t this outrageously rude toward you?”

“There’s nothing rude about it. She wants to use you that much precisely because she respects me.” Kuji glared at Yashiro as if tripped up, then suddenly smirked. “What on earth have you done that’s so boastworthy without permission?” “When it comes to women, I’ve always been of the carefree spring breeze school.” “What could you possibly know about what I’ve done?” The wine had circulated enough that even Yashiro’s breathing turned rough.

“Alright, I won’t let you get away tonight. I’ll chase you down to the ends of the earth. Garçon!” When the waiter came, Yashiro ordered the check. By the time they had settled the payment and stepped outside, night had fully fallen. The three climbed the gentle slope toward Luxembourg Gardens. At the street corner where wavering lights clustered, a Western-style sunshade with fresh red-and-yellow stripes drew sauntering footsteps through the spring night. The terrace of Café Soufflé was packed, but at last they found chairs and sat down.

“I’d like to go to Yokohama.”

Henriette said to Yashiro when the chocolate was served. Kuji was watching the foreigners packed into the row of yellow rattan chairs while exhaling cigarette smoke when he suddenly turned back toward Yashiro and asked with a serious face. "You, you—what’s been the most difficult thing since coming to Paris?"

Yashiro remained silent for a while, thought, and then answered. “Well, it’s that no one at all tries to imitate Japan.” “Ha ha ha ha ha.” Kuji involuntarily burst out laughing. However, as he suddenly stopped laughing, he too gradually grew gloomy. It was just when the light texture of the chocolate on the tongue was about to end tastelessly due to Kuji’s careless question. Kuji let out a sigh and, “Ahh, why wasn’t I born in Paris?”

He rested his cheek limply on his palm propped by his elbow and muttered. In an instant，Yashiro felt anger welling up from the depths of his chest and turned pale. Yet he remained motionless，staring fixedly at the blackened trunks of street trees standing in rows. “Lately，I can’t help but think how happy Europe would be if it followed Japan’s example.” “That’s exactly right.” “Hmph.”

Kuji snorted and called the waiter. After settling the bill, the three silently circled along the iron fence to the left around Luxembourg’s outer perimeter. Even though they both understood these were words of stubbornly clashing wills, yet—to Yashiro—this was the Japan he found most unbearably regrettable: that within Kuji, this refined and intelligent Japanese man, such a foolish mindset could lurk. “Knowledge certainly has aspects that make humans foolish.” “It wears them out beyond mere foolishness.” “The only souvenir I’ve brought back from Paris is that.” “People who come to a place like this and act all delighted—well, I suppose they must have something downright auspicious about them.”

Yashiro felt something chest-piercing—something he couldn’t acknowledge without first confronting head-on—rumbling within his body, and said:

“Then why don’t you just go back home early?” Kuji laughed mockingly. “Whether I go back or not is my own business.” “I want to see just how far humans can sink into foolishness—to watch it a while longer.” “What’s got you so worked up?” “You’re practically itching to force Japan back into topknots and ceremonial robes.” “That’s not your concern.” “If you’re parading around in Parisian topknots and robes yourself, what grounds do you have to complain?”

“Compared to Japanese topknots, Parisian ones are still better, I tell you.” “Do you think you could walk around with two of them nowadays?” “If wearing two [topknots] is so bad, then go naked—the Japanese will be completely exposed.” “Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Kuji tucked Henriette’s freed arm under his own and laughed hysterically as he said to Yashiro, “You, let’s part ways here. This isn’t fun anymore. I want to enjoy myself tonight, you know.” “If there’s anyone who can enjoy this situation, let them enjoy it.” “Well then, goodbye. Being involved with a fool like you will only ensure the Japanese have no prospect of advancement.” “Do you want to get ahead that badly?” Having said this, Yashiro stood staring at Kuji, who was trying to break away. Then, suddenly, Henriette approached Yashiro’s side.

Kuji grabbed Henriette’s arm as she tried to go to Yashiro’s side, “Let’s go, let’s go,” he said, pulling her along. However, Henriette approached Yashiro and, “You should come too.” As she said this, she linked arms with Yashiro, then with her right hand also linked arms with Kuji, and turned right at the corner of Luxembourg Gardens.

“Let’s go to the Dome,” said Henriette, linking arms with both men as they turned right at Luxembourg’s corner. “It’s still too early for dancing.” Kuji forced a wry smile. “Why must you and I always quarrel like this?” “Take that up with Paris,” Yashiro retorted. “Haven’t I told you? Those who admire me are already dead. Go look—right here.” Blue gas lamps stood along one sidewalk, their light falling on stone buildings with moss-like stains where no pedestrians passed—all windows shut tight against the night. Walking between horse chestnut trunks and iron railings, Yashiro found himself drained of all will to dispute the street’s hushed beauty.

“Where are you, Mr. Yashiro?” Yashiro, who had never once walked arm-in-arm with a woman, felt as though one side of his body were being hoisted up even as Henriette linked arms with him forcefully, his steps threatening to falter at any moment. “Raspail, 303.” “303.”

In Paris, where there’s only one house per address, stating the number seemed to immediately conjure up the building, and Henriette too nodded, saying, “Ah, over there.” “Then come tomorrow. I’ll go at six in the evening,” she said soothingly.

“Please do.” Yashiro said this, but he still had to consider Kuji’s expression. “Are you sure about this?” “Ah, never mind—as long as it’s here, I’m satisfied no matter what happens. Look at the beauty of this very place!” Between trunks that seemed to grow from dull ore, gaslight flowed faintly while the three’s clacking footsteps echoed back. Yashiro suddenly thought Chopin’s preludes were manifest in this very scene. And there he was—walking through it all arm-in-arm.

“It will still take two hundred years for Japan to develop streets as beautiful as these.” “We’ve lived through Japan’s two hundred years just by seeing this place.” “It’s certainly true.” “There’s nothing left to say now, is there?” Hearing Kuji’s wistful words, spoken as if tears might surface at any moment, Yashiro found himself unable to muster any counterargument. While sensing Henriette’s rose scent wavering like the night’s own fragrance, his heart grew faint as though drifting through the underworld, wondering whether this would be the aroma lingering over Japan two centuries hence.

When Yashiro and Kuji arrived at Bourget Airport, it was just before Chizuko was due to arrive from London. In the waiting room of the hall built on a grassy square under clear skies, the two stood gazing at a map of countless air routes radiating from Paris like rays of light. Lately Yashiro—who would sometimes be struck by sudden waves of homesickness for Japan as dusk turned to night—found himself single-mindedly wishing he could fly straight from here to Singapore.

“Why don’t we go to London one of these days too? What do you say?” As for Kuji himself, he seemed to be ensnared by some private reverie.

“London is fine—but I’ve begun wanting to return to Japan soon.” “Have you finally begun feeling troubled too? They say anyone who doesn’t struggle when first arriving abroad must surely be a villain. You’ll just have to put up with it a while longer.” “Then you’re clearly exhibiting villainous tendencies yourself!”

“Well, I’m troubled too—I’ve just come up with a way not to be troubled.” “Now that it’s come to this, there’s nothing to do but enjoy it.” No matter how certain they felt of their awareness, these days it was undeniable that something pathological had taken root in both of them—yet neither could pinpoint where exactly this sickness lay. If one sank lower, the other had to rise by that same measure to preserve their mental balance—a maddening seesaw that left them both irritable. And this condition persisted endlessly between them. Just as they were about to slip into that state once more, the drone of a propeller reached them from the western sky. Kuji looked out at the sky from the window.

“That’s it. Coming down from the sky has its charms too. What you’d call a divine descent.” A silver-gray monoplane bearing Air France’s emblem on its tail appeared large in the sky almost instantaneously.

“Seeing she didn’t come by a British plane, she must’ve really wanted to reach Paris.” “Let’s go down.” Yashiro moved toward the entrance and gazed at the aircraft spiraling in at a diagonal angle, imagining Chizuko must surely be looking down at them from directly above. Soon, as the airplane slid over the grass and stopped before the hall, people streamed out of its fuselage like insects. Chizuko appeared sixth or seventh among them, still buffeted by the wind from the still-spinning propeller.

“There she is!” Kuji exclaimed joyfully. The perfectly fitted black fur coat looked elegant, unlike the Chizuko aboard the ship. Her stride too seemed acclimated to foreign soil as she approached with confidence that kept its pride intact. She still appeared unaware of the two men’s presence—how swiftly women transform, Yashiro thought.

“You’ve changed, Ms. Chizuko.” “Ms. Chizuko.” “Hmm.” As Yashiro watched this scene—where Chizuko alone, mingling among foreigners, seemed to lend a certain radiance to the group’s atmosphere—he felt a bright excitement akin to discovering a splendidly nurtured thoroughbred he hadn’t noticed maturing. When Chizuko saw the two, she smiled warmly and approached them with a nostalgic look. Kuji immediately shook hands with Chizuko, “Wasn’t it turbulent?” he asked.

“No, but my ears still feel a bit strange.” Chizuko started to extend toward Yashiro the hand that had shaken Kuji’s, but suddenly withdrew it,

“Thank you for coming after all.” “I thought about informing you too, Mr. Yashiro, but I refrained.”

What could it mean? As Chizuko laughed lightly，the baggage inspection had already begun behind them. "At any rate，this was good for now，" Yashiro thought，and as he watched Chizuko’s back while she opened her luggage on the inspection table，he let out a sigh of relief. When they arrived in Marseille，Chizuko had appeared so ephemeral and faded，yet now she looked this beautiful—perhaps because he too had grown accustomed day and night to the sight of foreign women. Compared to the large-built European women with rough skin，Chizuko appeared crisply defined at first glance，like an agate imbued with a deep luster.

But even so, what a strange thing this was. Even when Chizuko had appeared so pitifully forlorn to him in Marseille—during that very time when he had resolved to marry her at any moment—now that he encountered her beauty restored like a fish returned to fresh water, the ache born of Marseille had already begun fading from Yashiro. This was good. With this, Yashiro thought that even were he to abandon Chizuko alone in Europe now, his own anxieties would disappear.

Chizuko, Kuji, and Yashiro did not take the aviation hall's bus and instead called a separate taxi to have it take them to Paris.

“I’ve reserved a hotel. I thought it would be inconvenient if it was too far from us, so I chose a nearby one.”

“I’ve reserved a hotel,” Kuji said to Chizuko. Yashiro thought that Kuji—struck by Chizuko’s unexpected beauty—must have forgotten all about last night’s events. Yet even so, recalling how Kuji had shown kindness to Chizuko aboard their ship made Yashiro feel resignation settle naturally over him like a calming weight. Inside the car too, Chizuko and Kuji conversed animatedly while Yashiro maintained silence with his characteristically Japanese air of lonesome reserve. As Paris drew gradually closer, Chizuko peered out through her window,

“We’re already in Paris.” “What an elegant place!” “I can’t go back to London like this now.” As Chizuko spoke buoyantly, Kuji held her as if cradling her, “Stay here.” “A woman must be in Paris.” “When did you say you’re going to Florence?” “If you go, perhaps I’ll join you?” “I think I’ll go in about two weeks, but you can’t, can you?” “Didn’t you write in your letter that someone like Ms. Henriette was here?”

Kuji grinned boldly at Chizuko’s teasingly uttered smile,

“Since I wrote about it in my letter, you must understand.” “Right, you?” he suddenly wheeled sharply to confront Yashiro with his gaze.

“Hmm.” Yashiro answered irritably, and though he could not maneuver around Chizuko with Kuji’s deftness, he thought he would at least comply with Kuji’s plan to protect her from foreigners. “Henriette—she likes you, Yashiro.” “I was really put through the wringer last evening too, you know.” “You have no idea, do you?” “Nothing.” Kuji laughed, peered at Yashiro again, and asked. “Right.”

Chizuko flashed a fleeting smile and looked at Yashiro, then remained silent as she was jostled along in the car.

Yashiro did not think Henriette had made any particular expression of affection toward him the previous night, but he also felt no pressing need to explain himself to Chizuko at this time. “Now that you’ve come to Paris, Ms. Chizuko—I’ve finally been able to relax. Every single day now, Kuji and I are always fighting.”

“Oh, why?” Chizuko asked with a surprised look, her smile fading. “If I say that, we’ll immediately start arguing here too, so I won’t say it.” “When you’re here—I don’t know why—once you start talking about it, there’s no retreating.” “It’s such a strange place.” “In Japan, I never engaged in arguments like this.”

“That’s right—it certainly is.”

“That’s right—it certainly is,” Kuji also said. “So I’ve come at an awkward time, haven’t I?” Chizuko asked with her smile fading into a look of surprise. “What could you two possibly be arguing about? If you keep this up, I’ll be at my wits’ end.” “It’s not something easily put into words,” Yashiro replied hurriedly. “Our minds here have become like ropes woven from two strands—Europe and Japan—and unless we plant our heads firmly on one end or the other, we can’t move forward at all. If we try straddling both ends while advancing, we won’t just fail to take a single step—we’ll end up gaining nothing whatsoever.”

“Well, yes—I somehow feel that way too.”

Chizuko nodded as if something had come to mind.

"But in reality, any young person like us back in Japan would be just like we are now—yet when you're in Japan, even if you stay silent, the surrounding customs and human relations naturally resolve everything for you each day, so you can manage without thinking about such unnecessary two strands." "It's a strange thing."

“No—you think you can manage without considering it? Isn’t that precisely the awareness of modern people?”

Kuji interjected again from the side.

“Wait a moment.” “Well, even if what you say holds true—people in Japan can manage without thinking about ethnicity as life’s most fundamental problem.” “The reason is—we’re not just riding atop it, but have nothing within ourselves except ethnicity.” “If what fills our being is solely ethnicity, how could human understanding about this ever take shape?” “Because perception itself becomes indistinguishable from ethnicity itself.”

“How could there be such absurdity? Consciousness and ethnicity are entirely separate matters.” Kuji seemed to have completely forgotten they had come specifically to meet Chizuko. “But even these European-style ideas you take such pride in—they’re merely what Japanese people imagine as European.” “Your very passion for Paris—it’s still a Japanese man called Kuji who’s loving it.” “No one exists as merely human—not a single soul in this world can switch between being European and Japanese or be both simultaneously.” “They’re all just observing their own ethnicity from within themselves.”

“But if you start saying such things, wouldn’t that eliminate this so-called logic of international common sense?” “It doesn’t disappear.” “We must construct it.” “You’re just trying to protect what you’ve been led to believe exists.” “That’s sophistry,” Kuji declared vehemently. Yashiro regretted having spoken too harshly, but with no recourse left, he answered with a grin. “What sophistry?” “If there truly existed such a grand thing as universal logic, I too would want to bind myself with it once.” “But you—both you and I—have personal minds that want to speak privately apart from all that.” “Isn’t that freedom?”

The debate was no longer being held for Chizuko’s benefit alone, and as the two young men’s minds remained fiercely entangled like wrestlers locked in combat, the car carrying all three of them had plunged into the heart of Paris before they knew it. Even so, Kuji’s agitation showed no signs of abating. He tapped Yashiro’s knee and said, “Your arguments always dismiss science out of hand.” “If you keep rejecting scientism like this, you can spout any preposterous claim without batting an eye.” “Had Paris lacked this spirit of scientific reverence, it never would have achieved such magnificence—nor would its ideals of freedom have advanced to this degree.”

Yashiro thought nothing was as devoid of interest as a debate where the word "science" emerged in its final throes, and when he realized Kuji had at last produced his ultimate projectile weapon, a smile naturally escaped from his lips.

“Science?” “What they call science means nobody understands anything.” “If this were truly understood, would wars even happen?”

“Then what can we trust?” “By denying even the only science we can rely on—what do you propose to do with humanity?” Yashiro had intended to hold back from continuing their argument today with Chizuko present, but Kuji pressed forward as though lunging to bite him. Yashiro wrenched himself free. “You came all the way to Europe only to spout such simplistic notions?” “Something like science could’ve been conceived even back in Japan—don’t you think?”

Kuji’s complexion abruptly changed, and even the muscles of his face lost their equilibrium. “The fact that you can feel triumphant despite having lost so much knowledge—that’s already an illness.” “If you weren’t ill, there’s no way you would oppose even such absurd notions that anyone could recognize!” “I’m not saying what you’re saying is wrong.” “I’m just saying I don’t want to hear such things—things everyone already understands—especially from you.” “Even if you state obvious things flawlessly, how could that possibly change anything about people?”

“Then are you saying I should spout nonsense like you?” “What I’m saying is that to someone like you—who uses science as a tool of incantation—it only appears as nonsense.” “It’s precisely because I consider myself more of a scientist than you that I don’t want to cheaply toss around ‘science, science’ like you do.” “You don’t realize science has become the deity of modernity.” “If humans truly understood that, they would perish.”

“Hmph. Does that sort of scientism even exist?”

When he turned away, the muscles from Kuji’s jaw to his ear kept twitching incessantly.

“You’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you?” “You’ve been doing nothing but arguing about such things every day in Paris, haven’t you?” Chizuko asked Yashiro with an amused smile.

“Well, that’s right.” “Here, arguments like these are something of a pastime, so please don’t mind them.” “Anytime.” “So does this mean I’ll have to hear about such things every day from now on?” “I’d hate that.” Chizuko frowned and gazed out the window at the city.

“If you were here, I would find ways to avoid saying such things.” “No—I’ll say it anyway!” Kuji retorted in a tone still tinged with lingering irritation. Yashiro had chosen a hotel at Luxembourg Park’s edge for Chizuko, thinking she would appreciate a sunlit room—a choice that delighted her beyond expectation. Her sixth-floor chamber had walls entirely covered in rose patterns. When opened, the window revealed a row of horse chestnut trees stretching from the park below like a sea of young leaves filling the vista. Beyond them loomed the hazy towers of the Pantheon and weather observatory.

“This avenue of trees is the famous one that Fujimura used to come and enjoy every day.” “Since twenty years have passed since then, compared to back then, these trees should have grown considerably.”

Yashiro explained, “Right next to here, there’s a café called Rira.” “Since Fujimura went there every day too, this hotel might be the hotel where Fujimura stayed.” “Then I’d like to go to Rira.”

Chizuko peered happily out the window to the right and said. Since there was nothing to unpack, the three of them left the hotel right away and decided to stroll through Luxembourg Gardens until dinner.

“But I want to go to Rira first.”

“Rira’s just old tales and boring now.” “That place is full of old people; everyone who gathers there just mutters to themselves.”

Having said that, Kuji briskly entered alone under the row of horse chestnut trees. The pruned row of trees, when viewed from below, appeared like a long corridor lined with young leaves. In its center stood a statue of a goddess controlling eight powerfully leaping horses within the fountain, and countless pigeon droppings cascaded down her gently sloping, beautiful shoulders.

“You have to go back now, don’t you? Henriette said six o'clock!”

Kuji said to Yashiro and took out his watch.

“Oh, right,” “But that was just her mocking me. I’m not going.” Yashiro remembered his forgotten appointment with Henriette, but he wanted to stay with Chizuko a little longer.

“No—that won’t do.” “The French never make mistakes about time.” “If we’re even a minute late then, all dealings will come to an abrupt halt.” “Japan and here are psychologically different.” On this particular day, Kuji kept insistently trying to foist Henriette on him, but Yashiro thought this too was just a convenient way for Kuji to poke fun at him. “Still, being alone with a Parisian woman is awkward.” “There’s really nothing to talk about.” “What did you say earlier?”

“Just talk about Japan or something.” “Give your usual lecture on what you know best.” Yashiro confirmed the dinner time and place with them before parting ways and returning to his hotel.

Henriette came to Yashiro’s place at the promised six o’clock. She entered the room and immediately shook hands, “Did you go to Bourget today?” she asked in French. “I went.” When Yashiro answered in Japanese, Henriette said, “No—starting today, Japanese isn’t allowed. This time is for studying,” and waited for Yashiro’s reply in French. It was Henriette who had slipped into his hands so quickly after he had carelessly asked Kuji—intending it as a joke—to arrange for her as a language teacher.

“I went to Bourget.” “Ms. Chizuko is walking in Luxembourg with Kuji.” Yashiro replied with a somewhat teasing air, answering in halting, poor French. “Right.” “You waited for me, didn’t you?” “Thank you.” Henriette could not be called a striking beauty at first glance, but in the fleeting smile that momentarily passed by, an unforgettable beauty emerged, centered around her perfectly aligned teeth.

“Mr. Kuji says I should talk about Japan when meeting you, but do you truly want to know so much about Japan?” “Yes, I do want to know that.” “I like that aspect of Japanese men.” “If I were to live anywhere, it would be Paris or Tokyo.” “Then you’re someone who seems Japanese even among Parisians.”

“I’m not sure about that—since I don’t know myself.” While Yashiro stammered through such exchanges, he began sensing a bright European-esque ease emerging from what had initially felt like the mechanical coldness of having to regard this woman as an instrument, making their conversation gradually more comfortable. “For some reason, since arriving in Paris, Japan keeps weighing on my mind.” “If you ever see newspapers carrying articles about Japan, would you buy them all for me from now on?” “I’ll pay triple the price.”

“No, you can’t say that in Japanese.” “Again.” Henriette laughed and covered Yashiro’s mouth with her hand. When Yashiro found the conversation growing tedious, he asked Henriette to read a book aloud to practice pure pronunciation. Then, needing to share a single book between them, she moved her chair so close their cheeks nearly touched. Yashiro had requested the reading without any ulterior motive, but when she leaned in this intimately, he regretted it as a blunder. To Henriette’s mind—or so it seemed—she assumed any Japanese language student would eventually find this posture amusing enough to keep studying, an attitude that left Yashiro once more ill at ease.

Yashiro followed Henriette through the dialogue of Sacha Guitry’s play and proceeded to read along himself. Henriette read in a flowing voice tinged with slight nasal resonance and moist timbre, occasionally tossing back her swirling hair. Each time their stiff shoulders—bent over pages held in one hand—would relax, only to lean in again from both sides before long. Yashiro suddenly thought that many Japanese who had come abroad must have studied this way. Given that this costly study required significant funds, enjoying oneself while learning seemed natural—yet when imagining maintaining such an awkward posture daily hereafter, he kept his body rigidly upright, resolved to preserve at least Japan’s etiquette traditions without slouching. This reading practice made time pass unexpectedly fast through the tension of supporting strained shoulders. Henriette snapped the book shut,

“Let’s stop here for today.” With that, she stood up from the chair. Yashiro wanted to treat Henriette strictly as a teacher, so

“Thank you. “And how much is the fee per hour?” he immediately asked. “Mr. Kuji’s is twenty francs, but I’ll set yours at ten francs.” Since she was coming over from her place, ten francs per hour converted to two yen and fifty sen in Japanese currency, making it an exceptionally low rate. “Thank you for that.” Although Yashiro expressed his gratitude, finding himself offered a rate lower than Kuji’s, he naturally felt compelled to compensate by covering the meal expenses. Henriette put on fresh leaf-green leather gloves,

“My pronunciation method still isn’t perfect yet, you know.” “Most Parisians’ pronunciation remains inadequate.” “After all, unless I enroll in Gaston Baty’s acting school or somewhere like that to learn proper pronunciation, I can’t be trusted.” Yashiro was astonished that even Paris’s lofty culture fell short in this way. “Is that how it is?” “But even in Japan, nowhere has perfect Japanese pronunciation.” “After all, even Tokyoites are ultimately using the Tokyo dialect, you see.”

Henriette descended the dark spiral staircase first. Though Yashiro would follow behind, his unconscious urge to gaze at the natural whiteness of Henriette’s neck felt like an ambush, forcing him to repeatedly avert his eyes. Yet no matter how far they descended, the narrow spiral staircase remained unchanged. The only thing that persistently caught his eye was Henriette’s smooth neck descending continuously from above. Moreover, as the endlessly coiling stairs stretched downward, the nape of her neck—jutting forward like a bullet’s trajectory—appeared each time he glanced as a raw, eyeless visage, until Yashiro gradually found his breath growing labored.

“At the Dome, Kuji and Ms. Chizuko should be waiting, so why don’t you join us?” Thinking that Henriette might restrain herself if Chizuko were present, Yashiro had made the suggestion, but instead she looked pleased. “May I really come?” she asked in return.

“Please do.”

The two of them walked straight ahead under the hackberry trees lined up in two rows. From the subway entrance, stifling gas emitting a sour odor brushed against their faces. Whenever Yashiro was struck by this airflow, he would always feel nauseous, turn aside, and hurry across in front of it. “Those decorations at the subway entrance, you know. That’s from before the war, but back then everyone was into those ghostly things. People’s heads were also like that, I hear.”

As he was told, Yashiro looked and indeed saw that the entrance had only two curved columns shaped like bracken ferns standing abruptly.

“If ghostly things like that became popular, no wonder a war broke out.” “That’s right. Those ghostly things were all the rage back then. It’s quite famous, you know,” said Henriette. However, Yashiro wondered how things were now. The city was flooded with Japanese toys. The utensils in cafés and restaurants were almost all Japanese-made wherever you went. Yashiro, who had come from Japan—where prices were the lowest—to Paris—where prices were the highest, felt that merely walking through the city was like beholding two opposing poles of the world.

When they arrived at the Dome, in one corner of the crowded terrace, three or four Japanese people were clustered together talking. When everyone saw Yashiro, they averted their eyes as if touching a sore spot, but among them, only one middle-aged man—Higashino, a former writer whom Yashiro had once heard lecture in Tokyo and who now served as an executive at a washi paper company—stared fixedly at Yashiro while silently blowing cigarette smoke, their gazes meeting. Since Yashiro had seen in the newspaper that this writer had departed Kobe a little earlier than himself, and since he had thought that if he went he might encounter him, he chose the chair beside Higashino to take this opportunity to speak with him.

“Excuse me, but I heard a lecture you gave about a year ago in Tokyo.” “This is who I am.” Yashiro said as he presented his business card. “Is that so.” “I only arrived recently myself and still know nothing about this place yet.”

“So am I.” “I’m about two ships behind you.” “Then, I suppose that makes me the senior.” “I look forward to your continued guidance.” Higashino, looking lonely, began searching his wallet to produce his business card.

At that moment, Kuji and Chizuko appeared from a corner of the radial road.

Kuji said, “Did I keep you waiting?” and approached Yashiro’s side, “This is Ms. Henriette.” and suddenly introduced Henriette to Chizuko. Henriette and Chizuko naturally faced each other and shook hands. In any case, the current situation was such that no hostility could arise, but even so, Yashiro sensed a subtle, awkward moment trying to take hold and promptly introduced Kuji to Higashino, who was right beside him. “Mr. Higashino, was it you?”

Kuji—who amidst all the introducing and being introduced had been managing dizzying expressions like birds fluttering up from underfoot—unlike with Yashiro, seemed to feel that Higashino alone might understand his feelings, and suddenly leaned toward him,

“How do you find Paris?” “I’ve been doing nothing but quarreling with this Yashiro every day—this man’s such an incorrigible Japanist, you see.” “I can’t help but side with Europeanism—what about you?”

In Japan, posing such a question so abruptly to someone one had just met would rightly be considered unbearably affected, yet here, uttering it felt strangely natural. Higashino showed no sign of annoyance, "Well, when in Japan, no matter what we might be thinking, we're like trees with roots growing from native soil—but having come here, it's as if the soil around our roots has been washed away with water. For now, believing that our soil still awaits us back in Japan remains my only comfort."

“But really now—rationalism shouldn’t change whether it’s in Japan or Europe, should it? Even if the tree species differ, a tree remains fundamentally a tree—don’t you think?” Carried along by his own momentum, Kuji found himself expounding on matters he hadn’t even intended to raise.

"That may be so, but isn't modern European skepticism precisely the realization that rationalism—having governed how the world operates until now—has led us to an impasse?" Higashino said with a look that appeared to take interest in Kuji's unrestrained forthrightness.

“But then, we can’t do anything at all, can we? In the end, wouldn’t we just have to accept even violence as it is?”

“Well, if you put it that way, things become conveniently straightforward—but knowledge refers to the totality of what has already broken free from rationalism,” said Higashino. “When criticizing something like violence, a bit of pragmatic convenience should suffice.” “So you’re saying that’s nihilism then?” Kuji reverted to his earlier disappointed expression—now entirely unrelated to the discussion—and stroked his chin.

“Aren’t you accompanied by a lady? Today seems an adequate stopping point.” Kuji laughed loudly, “My apologies. Shall we go?”

he said to Yashiro and stood up. Since it was just the right time for a meal, Yashiro also stood up and left with everyone, but as he walked, he, “Today you were done in by Mr. Higashino too, huh? Your composure’s definitely cracked.” Yashiro peered cheerfully into Kuji’s face. “Hmph, any writer who rejects rationalism—their work’s transparent.” “No—as ten eyes would attest, you’ve lost this round. Delightful—utterly delightful!” Yashiro laughed again.

“So you’re still insisting we should throw away all the most beautiful things humanity has sustained until now?” “Oh. It’s snowing.”

Suddenly, Chizuko stopped and let out a cry of surprise at the petal-like something that had landed on her arm. Snow? "No—they must be flowers." As they debated this and all stared up at the sky, Kuji alone walked ahead without so much as a sideways glance.

Yashiro, Henriette, and Chizuko lagged behind Kuji as he entered the Coupoile, but it seemed everyone already understood how uninteresting this dinner would be. The interior of the Coupoile closely resembled the inside of the Kabukiza Theatre. Thick pillars, pale peach walls, a ceiling that spanned from the lower to upper floors—the more one looked, the more it resembled the grand entrance of the Kabukiza Theatre.

“All the Japanese people in Paris seem half-mad. Don’t any of you feel anything about it?” Chizuko asked Yashiro when she finished ordering the meal. “Well, that aspect certainly exists,” he replied. “I’m probably becoming rather suspect myself.” “Once you start doubting rationalism, madness becomes inevitable,” said Kuji, the lingering sting of Higashino’s earlier blow still reverberating in his head. “Your rationalism is just a measuring stick you brought over from Japan. Try taking proper measurements with it—it stretches all the way to the Indian Ocean.”

Yashiro no longer had any intention to force an argument with Kuji, but sensing the increasingly intense silent hostility between Chizuko and Henriette, he thought that continuing the rivalry between men might at least make the dinner atmosphere more pleasant. However, the situation had grown increasingly tense. They remained stiff; no one tried to speak, and they even avoided meeting each other’s eyes, staying silent. “The food here looks lovely.”

Chizuko seemed to suddenly notice the group’s somber mood and spoke while looking at the row of fresh fish on the serving cart being wheeled through the pillars. “Yes, the food here is quite excellent,” Henriette replied in French. Even when shrimp, chicken, and flounder were served, the four of them didn’t exchange a single word. The hall packed with guests was filled with smiles from people of various nations like an opulent flowerbed, but around their table alone continued to hang an indescribably oppressive gloom.

Kuji, sulking furiously, tore off pieces of bread and stuffed them into his mouth, as if on the verge of demanding why you had brought Henriette along. Yashiro, too, used his fork and drank wine without understanding when each dish had arrived or how he had eaten them. Then, suddenly, Kuji, still looking down, “Skepticism, huh?” he said, smirking to himself. “Are you still at it?” Yashiro stared fixedly into Kuji’s eyes.

“No—I didn’t lose to Higashino.” “Absolutely not.”

The group burst out laughing in unison. “What’s so funny? If I lost over that, I’ll slit my stomach.”

Kuji alone remained sullen, yet this conversely kindled animated small talk among the three around him. However, Kuji abruptly summoned the waiter and ordered the bill settled. While the group sat dazedly silent,

“Well, I’ll take my leave here today,” Kuji said, settling everyone’s bill alone and going outside.

Since Chizuko had come, Yashiro’s life had gradually begun to change. In the mornings, they each remained in their own hotels as before, but at noon they would meet at the Dôme to have lunch together. Afterward, while strolling around, they would visit one or two notable places at a time. For dinner, depending on their preferences of the day, they would select a different restaurant each time. Before returning to their respective hotels, they had developed the habit of stopping by the Dôme once more for tea. Foreign travelers who had fallen into this habit were no different—upon reflection, everyone was leading an extremely monotonous life. Once one arrived in Paris, any desire to go sightseeing here and there, meet this or that person, or engage in study would completely vanish; it was a place where simply living an idle life came to be regarded as the best form of education. And in fact, there was no mistaking this.

The most enjoyable things were either debating with others or sitting alone on a roadside bench without speaking to anyone; setting aside the pleasures of particular amusement parks, there was nothing else beyond these. Therefore, once it turned into a debate, it would continue endlessly. Each day's debate became an extension of previous ones whenever they met, and no matter which position they took, they had come to discover this strength—that neither side would ultimately lose. For instance, were such debates held in Japan, they would inevitably brush against the net of law in their final stages, forcing both parties to either fall silent and let the discussion fade into ambiguity or else channel the water of argument into European logic's gutter, clashing over Japanese history as though it were foreign territory. Even though errors had already been made at that point—given that it was a chain of mistakes—when trying to correct them through one's own intellect, one could not help feeling compelled to spew out every last root of what resembled logic. Then he would reconsider once again. Yashiro was now in a period when he constantly repeated such things in his head.

One day, based on this conviction he had gained, Yashiro tried to tell Chizuko not to be servile toward Europe.

It was a day warm enough to make one sweat slightly even while walking, but after Yashiro and Chizuko viewed the murals at Saint-Germain church, they entered Luxembourg Park and rested. On the shoulders of a stone statue enveloped in young leaves, several pigeons were perched, and beyond that, aside from a pair of a young man and woman sitting on a bench, only empty chairs lined the path. Yashiro sat facing them across the lawn. “The murals in Japanese temples—well, there are many depicting hells and paradises, but these church murals here are all Europeans conquering barbarians and presenting crosses.” “When we’re shown those paintings, even the altar becomes distasteful—we end up wanting to leave immediately—but back then, no one imagined Orientals would see such things.” Whenever they spoke, their conversations naturally turned into critiques of what they’d seen—the traveler’s habit had now manifested unchallenged in Yashiro too.

“Since I began sightseeing in Paris, I’ve realized that both what’s admirable and frightening about France ultimately comes from this country’s traditions.” “But when I consider how Japan possesses them too, Paris grows less intimidating—though if Japan lacked traditions and I’d come here, I can’t imagine how wretched I would have felt.”

Chizuko’s observation wasn’t so much correct as it was what pleased Yashiro. “That’s right,” he said. “But Mr. Kuji refuses to admit it outright. What frustrates me is how he won’t acknowledge even those Japanese traditions that sustain our silent resolve.” A green leaf fell straight through the apricot petals fluttering from the thicket, its descent marked by a heavy swoosh. With each gust of wind, the white clock face emerged momentarily from the swaying foliage only to vanish again behind young leaves.

“But even Mr. Kuji merely says such things aloud! Just the other day, he told me, ‘Paris is lovely, but Japan has its charms too,’ and then added—oh, but he said I mustn’t carelessly mention this to you, Yashiro.” “It was when we were looking at Mr. Fujita Tsuguharu’s paintings.” “I knew it.” “Even he.” “I think Fujita Tsuguharu only came to realize how magnificent Paris truly was after arriving here.” “I think it’s remarkable how he managed to stir up this city so much.”

“A painting where the lines of the woman look like peony petals.” “That... that’s what’s so interesting about it.”

Chizuko started to say this, then suddenly blushed and looked downward.

“Oh, a sparrow has come all the way here.” “How adorable.” “Take a look.”

She lightly tapped Yashiro’s arm. Yashiro was watching the sparrow when he suddenly stretched his back against the cold iron bench. Then, on the bench across from them, he saw a man and a woman who had been sitting there quietly with their faces close together for some time. Yashiro often witnessed such scenes there and thus did not find this particular sight unusual, yet sensing Chizuko’s effort to direct their gaze toward the sparrow, the bird hopping about in this soundless, confined world gradually loomed larger before his eyes.

“Why are there so many sparrows?” “They’re everywhere.” Chizuko turned sharply away from the couple but straightened again when she found Yashiro beside her, her eyes following the sparrow’s path.

As they continued in this vague manner, Yashiro became aware that their feelings had grown increasingly stagnant and stiff, and he thought of rising from the bench to leave. Yet when he considered it—since they were walking through a foreign land, he and Chizuko were bound to encounter such places eventually—he remained seated, continuing to gaze fixedly as if waiting for the couple’s faces to separate, thinking they must go through this at least once. “Please don’t look there so intently. Come now, let’s go.”

Chizuko blushed and stood up. However, Yashiro did not move. He recalled how in Marseille he had once felt Chizuko was someone he could face directly in his heart, and now wished to quietly resolve that earlier emotional turmoil here once and for all. “Oh, do sit down here. It’s beautiful.” Yashiro said to Chizuko as she remained standing. A pigeon that had landed on the grass waddled toward them, its breast feathers brushing through the leaf tips as it approached. Apricot petals drifted ceaselessly onto the entranced, motionless couple before them.

As he watched, Yashiro could no longer think of it as a foolish spectacle; he even began to feel envious of this scene that was astonishingly beautiful. A faintly cold wind rose from the bodies of pigeons clattering through the air, sending a chill to the roots of their ears. “Are you still staying here?” Chizuko reluctantly sat down next to Yashiro, “Oh, a monk this time.” she said with a gentle smile. When he looked, a young Catholic monk took a seat and began intently reading the Bible.

The young pastor came from between the thicket on the right, so he was likely a monk from Saint-Thomas. Yet seeing on the bench to the left lovers in heightened postures of passion and on the bench to the right a monk turning Bible pages—though even this could hardly be called an unusual sight there—for Yashiro it was not about social strata but rather a diagram of two poles dwelling within his heart, steadily measuring its weight.

While looking to the right and gazing to the left, Chizuko—as if struck by something in her heart—suddenly looked up and gazed at Yashiro. Yashiro also looked at Chizuko, but when their gazes met in such moments—even if it meant nothing—they flushed and hurriedly averted their eyes, which only deepened the meaningless significance all the more. Even as they remained like this, Yashiro felt himself—before he knew it—becoming engrossed in pursuing whatever thoughts were passing through Chizuko’s mind. He gradually felt suffocated, as if filthy smoke were enveloping the surroundings.

“Let’s really go now.” “Mr. Kuji is waiting!” Chizuko’s expression turned cold as she stood up. Yashiro too rose from his seat and stepped away from the bench. Around the circular iron benches that cinched the thicket’s trunk like a corset, there was not a single person. As Yashiro gazed up at petals scattering through the rustling wind from nowhere, he now forgot everything, feeling only his hometown’s sky-color as his chest grew lonely and damp.

“Somehow, whenever I come here, I start wanting to go back.” “I do too.” Yashiro, his hands thrust into his pockets, thought that here matters of love were nothing compared to his longing to return home, and walked on kicking at the soft sand with his toes.

Under the yellow canopy between the trees, a merry-go-round spun idly, gleaming. Chizuko looked around at the faintly white buds between the trees,

“But soon, the horse chestnut trees will bloom,” she said.

“Yes, Paris is a month behind Marseille.” “In another month or two, Mr. Yashiro, you’ll surely say you won’t return to Japan anymore.”

Yashiro let out a bitter smile, likely thinking she was referring to Henriette, but he had no intention of explaining himself and continued walking while listening to the sand crunching underfoot. Along the streets, in the forests, and by the riverbanks where trees stood, horse chestnut trees began blooming in unison, their white flower clusters aligned at the tips. This tree—appearing as though stately chinquapin branches had been adorned with elegant paulownia flowers—stood beautiful like the sole slender hope of summoning the past into the present. One night after Yashiro, Chizuko, Kuji, and Henriette finished dinner at the Dôme, they encountered Higashino. Discussions about where to go after supper always sparked debates that remained unresolved, but on this evening Kuji’s proposal to visit Lake Bois de Boulogne was immediately accepted. One reason lay in Henriette’s imminent departure—she would soon guide newly arrived Japanese through rural areas—making this everyone’s farewell too.

“How about it? We’re planning to go to Bois now—would you like to join us?” Kuji invited Higashino, who was nearby, with his usual good-natured smile. The four immediately had the automobile head toward the forest. Inside the automobile, Chizuko,

“Just for tonight, please don’t engage in any more debates.” Chizuko entreated them all. Everyone burst into laughter together.

“The French never argue when there’s a woman present—they’ve decreed women are foolish beings, you see.” “Which means when we argue with you here, that’s exactly how we show our respect.”

Kuji turned around, looked at Chizuko, and laughed.

“But on such a beautiful night, I don’t want to get a headache.” “But if we keep idling away every day like this, we won’t even feel like we’ve done any work unless we have at least some debate.” At Kuji’s words, Yashiro—

“When we’re here, none of us have any real life to speak of.” “If you want a life that draws blood, there’s nothing to seek but arguments—so you might as well consider that even listening to debates counts as living, Ms. Chizuko.” “No more arguments.” “Then I’d just run off to Florence or Tyrol.”

“Right, let’s go to Tyrol!”

Then Kuji suddenly exclaimed in a loud voice. "When I was listening earlier, it seemed the group of Japanese people beside us were discussing going to Greece—why don't we go somewhere too? Debating while seeing Europe's foremost scenery in Tyrol would be truly something special!" "Ishikawa Goemon, huh." While Chizuko was laughing, they cut through Foch Avenue, filled with the sweet-sour scent of flowers, and came near the entrance to Bois de Boulogne forest.

“My friend said something interesting when leaving Japan,” Higashino said. “‘When you go to Paris, don’t study anything—just play,’ he told me, but playing turns out to be truly exhausting, doesn’t it?”

To this Higashino, Kuji— “Exactly! You’ve no idea how much easier working would be,” he agreed.

From between the upright trees of the forest, one end of the lake surface already came into view like a glowing pink creature.

After abandoning the automobile, the group walked toward the lake, passed through pines that at first glance could be mistaken for kaya trees, and boarded a boat. Kuji and Yashiro held the oars while Higashino sat at the stern, and with Chizuko and Henriette sandwiched between them, the boat left the shore. The lake’s surface made it difficult to see anyone’s face clearly. The smell of algae flowed into Yashiro’s nose as the long-forgotten scent of Japan. Boats with alluring crimson lanterns as round as watermelons attached to their sterns glided silently past the side of their boat, one after another.

“Someone said that if you’ve rowed a boat in Bois de Boulogne forest, you can go back to Japan already—but with this, even Mr. Yashiro should be satisfied,” said Kuji. “Well, this is fine—here, at least.” When Yashiro thought of how he had now sailed across the Indian Ocean and Arabia only to be rowing a boat in Paris, even a single drop of water that touched his hand became a sentiment akin to gazing at a faraway hometown—a feeling as if a window had opened. “Why are you silent? This is youth!”

“This is youth!” said Kuji, vigorously putting his strength into the oar alone. Each time boats passed each other in the darkness, the scent of face powder trailed across the water’s surface, lingering like a veil. Over Café Pavilion Royal’s canopy—visible in a forested corner along the shore—a crimson mist hung like draped fabric, while the lake glowed with lamplight, its tension swelling from where forest met horizon. “Oh, careful!” Chizuko cried out. At that instant, a branch hanging from the island grazed Kuji’s head, making only its cluster of pure white flowers stand out as they trembled wildly. From the waterlogged shore where island grass met lake, several swans descended to the surface with poised elegance, then swam through crimson lantern halos that faintly tinged their forms with light. In boats moored beneath trees, couples occasionally merged into single shadows and grew still.

“Let’s go ashore to the island—since we won’t be able to come here again for some time.”

Henriette whispered to Kuji. After docking the boat at the island landing, the group moved ashore and walked toward the café to drink tea. Passing through the flowerbeds of Dong and tulips spread out in a radial pattern, they entered the bright café garden where the five of them faced each other and gathered around a table. As Yashiro tapped the thick trunk of the horse chestnut tree and looked up, flowers plopped down, striking his nose with their chill. In the garden assembled from countless flower clusters like candles stuck in candlesticks, stripes of light appeared to flow distinctly.

“Tonight’s delightful.” “Thanks to that, I’ve got blisters on my hands.” “These.” Then Kuji opened both hands and showed them to everyone. Even as the lemon split by the waiter’s hand filled the tray with dewdrops, horse chestnut blossoms kept falling onto the table. Each time, the waiter brushed away the flowers while pouring lemon into each of their cups. When the floral chill had cooled their sweat slightly, a gavotte could be heard from the radio fastened to the treetop.

Kuji looked up at the lamp shining among the dense treetops with an air of deep contemplation. For a while, as the group sipped orangeade and listened intently to the radio,

“Oh, Mr. Higashino is gone.” Chizuko said, looking around.

Only the lonesome echo of footsteps passing through the second-floor corridor draped with young leaves remained; among the tree trunks, green chairs and tables arrayed throughout stood without a single customer, nothing but white flowers falling aimlessly. From amidst the blossoms mingled with sand at their feet, a discarded cigarette sent up vivid plumes of smoke. “Ah, I don’t want to go back to Japan anymore.”

Kuji tilted his head back on his clasped hands and looked at Yashiro mockingly. “Tonight, well—I can say whatever I like.”

Yashiro gazed at the red lanterns circling the island and suddenly wondered what he should do if he returned to Japan. In the emptiness of having seen what people most desire, he strongly felt the fatigue of losing the ability to think day by day, and now he wished to dissolve into the whiteness of these flowers and surrender himself to whatever may come.

“We mustn’t let the boat drift away. Let’s not go on.”

Henriette cautioned Kuji. “Oh, right.”

Kuji started to rise, but since Higashino was nowhere to be seen, the four of them sat back down in their chairs and waited.

“There’s a waterfall over here just like Japan’s waterfalls, you know. Wouldn’t you care to see it?” At Henriette’s suggestion, Kuji shook his head. “I don’t want to see anything Japanese—not even here. I came to forget all that for a while.” “Oh? Then we’ll have to consider avoiding you too.”

Chizuko glared at Kuji sarcastically.

“That’s not what I mean.” “Since I’m in a foreign country, I want to feel like I’m truly here as much as possible.” Kuji’s halting excuse inadvertently betrayed his preference for Henriette over Chizuko, and Chizuko’s faint smile that briefly surfaced drifted away from him in a peculiar manner before vanishing. When Higashino emerged from the flowerbed, the group left the café and returned to the boat they had left behind. It was so dark beneath the trees that they had to grope their way along the path. Though the ground beneath their feet was gently grassy, there being no railing and the slope dropping straight into the water made it not only dangerous. Given that this area’s carefully arranged darkness under trees existed precisely for concealing amorous couples, disturbing these hidden figures ultimately amounted to their own carelessness.

The group, apparently aware of this, followed Kuji without a word, trailing along in single file. Then Kuji, who had been leading them, abruptly stopped mid-path.

“What is it?” Yashiro asked. “I took the wrong path.” “This is bad—we’ve come to a dreadful place.” “But that lantern over there must be our boat.” “No, it’s not.” Even as he said this, Kuji began descending toward the water’s edge,

“Ah!” With that, he stopped again. Yashiro approached Kuji’s side and looked around. Round, stone-like masses—each large enough to fill one’s arms—lay scattered here and there, perfectly still; but upon closer inspection, each one could faintly be sensed moving ever so slightly. “This here is a swan’s nest.” Henriette said from above. “What the… Oh, right.” “Oh, right.”

With that, Kuji’s voice suddenly regained vigor. Chizuko—who until now had appeared apprehensive—descended as well and, gripping Yashiro’s shoulder, peered at the assembly of swans. In darkness where water blurred into turf, Yashiro bore Chizuko’s weight upon his shoulder and felt as though some covenant were nearing fulfillment; he remained motionless thus, gazing without end at the congregation of swans.

“I’ve never seen a swan’s nest before. But they look so pitch black,” Chizuko whispered close to his ear. Was she still unaware? To Yashiro, this too could be taken as a metaphor that couldn’t be interpreted at face value.

“It’s quite slippery!” “You’ll hurt yourself!” “I see.” “Don’t slip.”

Yashiro said, pressing his weight into the damp grass beneath his feet.

For a while, they stood like that in the darkness. Then Kuji, who had been beside them, had somehow drifted away, and the sound of footsteps—him walking and talking with Henriette somewhere above—reached their ears.

“Let’s come back at noon.” “It’s too dark to see anything properly.”

When both felt that just looking at the swans had stretched their time together a bit too long, Chizuko detached herself from Yashiro and climbed up the grass slope. Yashiro followed from behind, but an anxiety—not knowing when he might collide with shadowy figures—slowed his steps with every movement. Before long, not only had Henriette and Kuji’s figures become impossible to locate anywhere. Chizuko’s form too had become completely engulfed by the darkness, making it difficult to distinguish.

“This is trouble. Ms. Chizuko, where are you?” Even as he said this, Chizuko’s voice no longer reached him. Wondering if he alone had lost his vision, Yashiro walked forward, scraping his shoe tips like a blind man.

Flower-like things and the metal latticework at the border between the path and the lawn snagged on Yashiro’s toes. Yashiro grew irritated that taking a slight detour had led him astray to this extent, but more than that, leaving a woman to walk alone here at night was akin to feeding a tiger—they were in the perilously unrestricted Bois de Boulogne forest. When Yashiro imagined the danger of someone leaping out at Chizuko in the darkness, he now felt ashamed of his own recklessness in not holding her hand as they walked and was overcome with frustrated regret.

“Ms. Chizuko,” Yashiro called out. “I’m right here.” Chizuko’s voice nevertheless reached him from an unexpectedly distant place. “It’s dangerous—please stay where you are.” Yashiro advanced vigorously toward the voice, resolved to collide with trees if necessary, “Can you actually see anything like that?” he asked. “It’s dark, isn’t it?”

Chizuko acted as though she couldn’t hear Yashiro’s voice. Yashiro suddenly felt as though seeing pitfalls layered one upon another, and even grew irritated at the thought that the landscapers there had planted the trees with consideration for human eyes at night. However, making Chizuko speak now was tantamount to informing the tiger lurking in the darkness of her whereabouts as she wandered lost. “Stay right where you are.” Even as he spoke these words, Yashiro considered Paris’s profound scheme—this forest planted within the city where humans became creatures more fearsome than wild beasts—felt the already unspeakable chill of modernity, and thought Indeed, this is darkness itself as he pressed forward.

“Where are you?” “Here.”

This time, Chizuko answered right beside him. The moment their outstretched hands touched, instinctively, the two clasped each other's hands. The lantern light was clearly visible from here. The road widened into a downward slope, but the lantern soon disappeared again, hidden behind overlapping tree trunks. "This forest is called the demon forest—a terrifying place—so please be careful."

“That’s scary—don’t say such things.” Grasping Chizuko’s approaching hand over her ring, Yashiro walked as if pulling her along. The scent of face powder that had been drifting between the damp tree trunks clung to their walking bodies and pursued them. Perhaps because of the slope, Chizuko kept pushing Yashiro forward vigorously while—

“When we came with many people, the path seemed shorter—but we took a wrong turn.” As she said this, she stumbled heavily over something and nearly fell. Yashiro walked while peering toward the water’s edge and urging himself forward, but the boat was nowhere to be seen. Even if the boat had disappeared, Yashiro thought that as long as he was with Chizuko, it might be better not to be found at all—and slowly, his resolve began to solidify. “Ah—this is bad. We truly can’t go back now.”

Yashiro said and came to a stop.

The two stood silently looking down at the water’s edge,

“Alright, let’s go.”

When Chizuko spoke again in a spirited voice, she took Yashiro's arm of her own accord and resumed walking. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the forest began releasing myriad scents. Yashiro suddenly remembered words from someone long-resident in Paris—that nothing in this world brought greater happiness than walking through a forest at night with a woman. So this was happiness—just this? Yashiro wondered alone, even as he nodded at the crimson lantern floating perfectly round on the lake—its sad final redness, all radiance extinguished, persisting in disquieted beauty.

“It was Napoleon Bonaparte who insisted on preserving this forest in the heart of Paris—or so they say. I think he was a remarkable man.” “That man was not merely a great warrior.” “It’s spacious, isn’t it? I wonder how large this area is.” “They say it’s five leagues around.” “Well, that’s something.” Even though Chizuko said this, she didn’t look particularly surprised. Below the path the two were walking on, the shore continued, and branches bearing pure white flowers hung over the water’s surface. Thinking there was no way the boat could be this hard to see, Yashiro called out, “Hey!”

“Hey!” Higashino’s voice came from beneath the thicket of trees. “Oh, Mr. Higashino—you’re alone in the boat.” When Chizuko circled through the thicket and went down the slope, she found Higashino sitting dejectedly alone in the boat, just as she had suspected.

“Is Mr. Kuji still not here?”

Yashiro asked while boarding the extinguished lantern boat with Chizuko. “What were you doing here alone?” Chizuko inquired with compassionate tone. “I was making haiku.” “Did you make a good one?” To Yashiro’s question, Higashino merely said “No” and kindled the lantern’s fresh candle.

“Hey! I’m ditching ya!” Holding an oar，Yashiro called out to Kuji in the forest while trying to row around nearby． “Where’re ya at?” came Kuji’s voice from deep within the distant darkness．

As Yashiro called out again and steered the boat toward the voice, Kuji soon appeared at the water’s edge with Henriette. “Ah, this is awful! This is awful!” “All these boats look different—I can’t tell which is ours.”

Into the faint lantern light that barely revealed their faces, a swan came swimming through clusters of water-floating flowers, parting them with its breast. As everyone exchanged remarks about the path’s darkness, Kuji boarded and took up the oar. To him, Yashiro—

“Mr. Higashino was composing haiku, I heard. If I were alone, that might be nice too,” he said with a laugh. “Haiku? What sort of haiku could one compose here?” Kuji’s tone carried a hint of mockery. “A swan parts the blossoms adrift on spring’s waters.”

With a serious face, Higashino offered only the verse. The group fell silent for a moment in contemplation—when suddenly, "Oh, you got me!" Kuji exclaimed in a shrill voice.

Yashiro forced a wry smile as though caught off guard, yet now even the boat's rocking felt pleasant in response to Higashino's jest. As the boat moved away from the shore, the sound of the waterfall striking the rocks became audible.

“There.” “The waterfall.”

Henriette pointed under the drooping tree. “Well then, maybe I’ll try composing a haiku too,” Kuji said, turning the oar. “Let’s see… Brounyu’s waterfall also breaks the silence.” “How about that, Mr. Higashino?” “That’s not a real haiku.”

When Yashiro said this, everyone burst out laughing. Kuji, once again, “Well then, how about this one?” Tilting his head slightly, he said, “Brounyu’s oar chases the birds away a bit.”

In that shift where even Kuji’s previously jesting haiku had gained some tautness, “Hmm.” After remaining silent in thought for a while, Yashiro said. “Well then, how about this one—A swan’s nest—a spring forest filled with flowers.” “You’re good at this. When did you learn that?” Impressed, Kuji said, “Alright, then I’ll do another one,” and once again began thinking competitively. Chizuko was at the boat’s edge, alone, doubled over with laughter. Occasionally, the lights of cars racing along the road pierced through the forest trees and disappeared. The group was lightly moving their oars, but it seemed they had begun seriously composing haiku; no one looked up at the sky or gazed at the forest, all remaining silent. Before long, Kuji—

“Alright, done. This time it’s a masterpiece,” Kuji prefaced, as if recalling it. “Spring night’s moon—dappled light on the water.” he recited in a lively rhythm. “Isn’t that a high school song?”

When Yashiro teased him, laughter once more filled the boat. Yet Kuji alone kept rowing vigorously with a proud look while retorting, “Don’t talk nonsense.” Higashino brushed cigarette ash into the water as he stared fixedly at a swan’s graceful form. “Come now—let’s hurry ashore to the Champs-Élysées.” At Kuji’s urging, Yashiro too put strength into his oar and rowed in unison. Henriette began singing a fashionable little tune matching the brisk rhythm.

—A violin in the night faintly played. Through its sweet gentle melody, it whispered to us both love's delight and life's joy. —— Even such sentimental songs, when sung by a French woman, made the swan floating on water and flowers intensify Yashiro's travel melancholy. From passing boats too came voices singing low in tune with Henriette's song. Chizuko dipped her fingertips in water while gazing back at receding boats' crimson lanterns, never tearing her eyes from ripples trailing like tails across the surface even as oars splashed. When Pavillon Royal's pink lights came into view, flowering trees thick on the island gradually emerged white and hazy above the water.

Café Touriouf, so close that there was hardly time to take a car from the Bois de Boulogne to the Champs-Élysées, was one of the large cafés on the left when coming down from the Arc de Triomphe. Many Japanese in Paris who had to maintain an upper-class image did not frequent the working-class areas around Montparnasse, but often appeared at cafés in the upscale Champs-Élysées district. The Montparnasse Japanese derisively called their uptown counterparts "Sixteenth Arrondissement folks," while the Champs-Élysées clique viewed them with contempt, thinking that getting close would only lead to being cut down; however, Kuji and Yashiro's newly arrived group had no time to consider such Japanese territorial divisions.

On the terrace of Café Touriouf, hundreds of crimson rattan chairs were always lined up facing the road. As it was nighttime that day, Kuji and his group entered the red leather-covered interior and ordered coffee. The walls, lined entirely with pale red hydrangeas, were draped with luxurious curtains, and the flower clusters reflecting off each other on three sides formed flower beds that seemed to surge like mist. It was just when the musicians’ tango began to play from among the hydrangeas.

“Oh!” One of the three Japanese men who had entered while uttering this raised his hand upon seeing Higashino, approached, and took a seat beside him. Higashino introduced the newcomers to Kuji and Yashiro in turn. They were Shiono—a young engineer who frequented the Japanese embassy—Baron Hirao, and Oishi the embassy secretary. Though these men could be considered exemplary gentlemen of the upscale districts due to their obligations to attend Parisian upper-class salons, as Chizuko and Kuji answered nostalgic questions about Tokyo’s unchanged state during their long absence, Oishi suddenly turned to gaze at Chizuko,

“So, you’re Mr. Usami’s younger sister from London?” he asked in surprise.

“Yes—do you know my brother?” Chizuko too looked entirely surprised.

“It’s not just that I know him—I’ve seen you when you were little.” “Ah, that Mr. Usami,” Shiono said in a manner suggesting he recalled.

“Mr. Oishi and I were classmates at Gyosei, and I believe Mr. Usami was as well.” As their conversation progressed with growing alignment through such connections, mutual acquaintances began pouring out one after another among the three. “Well then, I’d like to invite you once—how about tomorrow? If you’re free, please come at six o’clock—we’ll all be together there,” said Shiono.

“Yes, thank you.” Though Chizuko thanked Shiono, she glanced furtively at Yashiro, discomforted by being the sole invitee among the many others present. Yashiro, who had been observing nearby and grasped the circumstances, sensed rather a genuine sincerity in Shiono’s proposal to single out only Chizuko. With eyes tinged by coffee’s hue, he gazed at the musician’s trumpet gleaming above the hydrangeas and thought that those who frequented Paris’s upper-class salons must be accustomed to offering greetings in Shiono’s style even before others.

“Well then, I’ll be waiting—six o’clock in the evening.”

Shiono reiterated. In truth, this Shiono was the only son of an esteemed academic family, but his well-proportioned features suggesting noble dignity and his bright, frank, and kind-hearted nature radiated unmistakably from the young man. As Yashiro listened to Higashino, Oishi, and others speak, it became apparent that Shiono was a professor at a photography school and that his solo exhibition held in Paris had been quite well-received among Parisian photography specialists. Before long, the group’s conversation shifted to each person’s troubling stories from the time they had first arrived.

“I once saw a place like this.” Higashino, who had remained silent until now, spoke.

“That was also at this café here, you see. “Exactly, I was right there where Mr. Kuji was sitting. “There were three other Japanese people there as well, but at the neighboring table, about four Annamese from French Indochina were huddled together. “Just then, about three foreigners came in and tried to sit down, but all the chairs were occupied—there was nowhere left to sit.” At that point, the man said to the waiter, “Get rid of all the Orientals here—I’ll pay for their seats.”

“he said‚ leaning back.” “I was furious‚ but first I kept watching intently to see how the waiter would handle it‚ and then the waiter—”

Higashino said and glanced briefly around the room to see if the waiter from that time was still there.

“Unfortunately he’s not here today, but that waiter—when pushed—pointed at the Annamese and said, ‘These are Orientals, but they’re our compatriots.’ ‘Get out!’ he roared at that hulking man, striking a grand pose.”

“What happened to that man?” Yashiro asked, leaning forward. “The man left without a word—but for a moment, all the Japanese there were seething with rage.” “What happened to the Annamese people?” Yashiro asked excitedly again. “The Annamese people remained silent and said nothing.” The group fell completely silent; for a while, no one spoke. “If there are idiots around, war is bound to break out.”

Yashiro said resentfully. And then, suddenly turning to Kuji,

“You—are you still a Europeanist?” “Yes.”

Kuji nodded gravely. Yashiro, pale-faced, thudded his back against the leather and stilled; tears spilled from both eyes.

When eleven o'clock at night came, Shiono and the others left the café, saying they were going to see a film. Yashiro and the others also left Touriouf and went down the Champs-Élysées.

The fountain rising from the clustered mouths of glass carp appeared to blaze like fireworks under the blue illumination of gas lamps. The mist scattering from that fountain spread across a block in all directions, shifting course with the faint breeze as it dampened the white forest of blooming marronnier trees. The magnificence of the old marronnier trees in this forest was truly exceptional. The symmetrical clusters of branches, resembling tempered steel, bent gently under the weight of their splendid floral clusters, their bearing one of having long grown weary of people’s admiration—an elegant figure resigned to the sorrow of leaving no successor. It was no longer what one would call a tree—having endured an age unknown to man, still ceaselessly unfurling pale crimson blossoms, it had become something akin to a maxim.

Yashiro and the others walked along the sandy path and emerged into Place de la Concorde. The square spanning several blocks shone like the Hall of Mirrors and stood serenely quiet, not a soul passing through. The thousands of gas lamps encircling its perimeter exuded a frigid solemnity, like a plane composed of countless muted gazes.

The colossal statues of goddesses in all eight directions were now each sated with the solemnity of their own cultures, quietly gazing downward; having entrusted their weather-worn forms to the moon and stars, they remained motionless in their deliberate postures. Accompanying the goddesses, fountains were also rising from all directions. They became the jewels and plants that adorned this square, symbolizing all too well the resplendent craftsmanship of nighttime Paris. "What an incredible view this is!" Kuji said, standing dumbfounded. "From this vantage point, what is that disgrace of Tokyo? All I can do now is want to bite my tongue."

Higashino was silently gazing at the square while composing another haiku. Chizuko, having apparently already sensed the heads of the three rigidly standing figures jostling in silent tension, walked away alone.

“Come now—let us go.” “You’re always so quick to say ‘let’s go’—fine then, move along.” Kuji said irritably.

“But that’s right,” Chizuko said. “What do you mean?” Kuji asked. “I’m already sleepy,” she replied. “You should sleep then,” Kuji responded irritably. “Let’s go.” Higashino started walking as he spoke. The group trailed after Higashino in a straggling line. Only Kuji remained behind, clutching his hat and shaking it wildly like a petulant child. “I’m never going back to Japan,” he declared.

“After twenty years of gazing at this place, they say you’ll want to piss right here,” Yashiro said. “Hmph—that fellow must be a cat.” “If I were Tokyo’s mayor, I’d plant massive pines along the Tokaido—straight through from central Ginza all the way to Kanda.” “You can’t imagine how beautiful it’d be with pine needles scattered across that avenue.” “Male pines don’t grow in foreign lands—not a single one.”

Even as he said this, Yashiro found himself utterly lost for words before the beauty of this Place de la Concorde—with the Tuileries Palace to the east, the grand park of the Champs-Élysées adjoining to the west, the great church of La Madeleine to the north, and across the river to the south, Napoleon’s tomb. “This here is the center of the center of the world’s culture.” While extolling it thus, Kuji gazed tirelessly at the surrounding magnificence.

“There’s no need to surrender so quickly. Once things reach this point, those who panic lose out. Mr. Higashino, have you finished your haiku?” “I have.”

The group hailed a car and, exhausted, returned limply to the hotel.

Yashiro would call Chizuko, but she was often not there. It was not unreasonable for a woman’s instinct to prefer the Champs-Élysées over Montparnasse, but each time they met, Chizuko’s conversations had begun to differ from her former self. One day, when Yashiro was walking with Chizuko in Luxembourg, she spoke cheerfully of Parisian high-society salons. Yashiro asked how Chizuko had come to frequent salons that many found difficult to enter, even though she had arrived after them.

“That was something I didn’t even know myself,” she said. “At first, Mr. Shiono requested my help because he was short-handed with his work.” “So when I told him I was always free, he explained they actually needed another woman for attending the French Finance Minister’s salon—they were in quite a predicament about it.”

“Why must he socialize with the Finance Minister?” Yashiro asked again, finding this perplexing.

“I didn’t understand that either.” “But here’s how it works.” “Japan is currently exporting canned salmon to France.” “But French regulations have made further exports nearly impossible, so they need to find a way to relax those laws and increase shipments.” “The Embassy is working frantically on this.” “The Ambassador can’t just intervene directly in such matters.” “His staff must lay all the groundwork first through these salons.” “But Mr. Shiono says it’s terribly difficult without a proper partner.”

When Yashiro heard this far, what Chizuko was saying finally began to sink into his head.

“So, do you also ask various questions about salmon?” “No.” “I just need to be someone’s dance partner at the salon and have tea with their secretaries, that’s all.” “In the meantime, Mr. Shiono and the others will be probing their general intentions, I suppose.” When he heard such talk, Yashiro found it troubling that even Chizuko, who had been close by until now, appeared to him as a woman living at a great distance. “Well then, there must be quite a lot of interesting things happening.”

“Oh yes, there are some now and then, you know.” “The other day, a young French secretary named Pierre kissed my hand.” “I was all flustered.” Chizuko lightly wiped the back of her hand and spoke again.

“But I do admire the upper-class young ladies of Paris.” “I thought they were quite different from Japan.” “At eighteen, they’re reading difficult philosophy books and coming to ask the men questions.” “The house on Avenue Foch along the way to Boulogne.” “The lower hall is as large as the Shiseido in Ginza, and there’s a cook from Maxim’s in a separate room.” “After we have our meals and tea there, we dance in the hall—but aren’t the walls beautiful?” “The tapestries are all Gobelin weaves, with large Renaissance-era statues placed about—it’s truly splendidly classical.”

While listening with keen interest to such stories—somewhat out of place for a student—Yashiro entered the park. Then his feet naturally began moving toward the bench where he often sat with Chizuko. Though Chizuko, being the second daughter of an iron wholesaler, was not financially constrained, frequenting Paris’s most exclusive salons would likely instill unexpected luxurious inclinations in her; yet Yashiro found himself enviously thinking that seeing what others could not in one’s youth would become a comfort free of regrets in later years, bringing peace of mind.

“If you start frequenting salons like that, it’ll become hard for us to talk.”

Yashiro laughed and looked up at the sky.

“I wonder if that’s how it is, but I think it must be mentally taxing for the men constantly attending such places.” “We women just have to sit quietly, but when the men return home, they collapse utterly exhausted—as if their very bones had melted away.” “Is someone like Shiono actually skilled in salon techniques?” “He’s so naturally sociable—handling every situation effortlessly wherever he goes.” “When meeting those young ladies there, they kiss your cheek.” “Even then he makes proper appearances, and he frequents several salons where he needn’t address the young ladies as ‘Mademoiselle Such-and-such.’” “They say it takes at least a year to drop the ‘Mademoiselle.’ Every time those people establish a new salon like that, they cheerfully declare ‘Ah! We’ve captured another one today!’” “Isn’t it absurd?”

Yashiro gazed at Chizuko with fresh curiosity, thinking to himself how life indeed contained such peculiar hardships.

“So, ‘capturing’ salons is their job?” “Those people.”

“That’s right. So when those people complain about the Japanese—even if the Japanese get angry at the embassy staff for being cold—we’re in no position to deal with that. Capturing just one salon is like storming a castle. They’re utterly exhausted and can’t take it anymore—that’s what they grumble about.” “I thought it was only natural.” “Right, I suppose. Handling the concerns of Japanese people is the consul’s job, so they probably can’t handle every single service for them on top of that.”

“Moreover, they say that if you use even a hint of Montparnasse slang in the salon, they’ll stop acknowledging you entirely.” “So they mentioned that the more fluent you become in the language, the more clearly you recognize your linguistic flaws and grow uneasy—until it brings on nervous exhaustion.”

“Hmm, hmm.”

Yashiro nodded earnestly each time as he listened. Even merely being moved by the various sights of Paris struck Yashiro as intense labor; let alone having to playfully capture castles as they did, it wasn’t hard to imagine their hardship. “Don’t you find Western clothes troublesome?” “That’s a problem.” “Thanks to that, I’ve had as many as three made at Sainte-Honoré for the salons.” “Won’t you let me see you wear them sometime?”

Yashiro laughed as he imagined Chizuko attending the salon.

“I truly would like you to see them.” “Let’s go to the opera together soon. Shall we?” Chizuko looked up at Yashiro with a radiant expression.

“Well then, I agree,” Yashiro said cheerfully, looking up at the sky.

The iron bench beneath a particular thicket in Luxembourg Park had become Yashiro and Chizuko's place of respite. Yashiro had been thinking that to complete even one historical work for his job, he would soon need to part from everyone and journey alone to Germany. Though he would return to Paris again, he couldn't know whether Chizuko would still be there then; yet neither had their friendship deepened to that inseparable bond that makes farewells painful. It was May—a season when even gazing at a single tree's blossoms could set one's heart ablaze with beauty—and here spread the view of chestnut blossoms overflowing every street and park. Yashiro too thought he'd rather enjoy this intoxicating journey's scenery with someone than spend his days gazing at it alone.

However, since this May—the most splendid season—arrived, the hues of the left-wing wave had also begun to sway with deepening intensity through Parisian streets. This grew even more pronounced after the general election results made clear that the Socialist Party majority had started gaining decisive momentum.

On one such clear afternoon, Chizuko and Yashiro met again in the park. An old couple with their shoe tips gleaming splendidly walked slowly toward them, their steps in unison. From somewhere among the trees came the sound of a bouncing rubber ball gradually losing its momentum. As the two silently gazed at the pigeon feathers scattered across the green grass, Chizuko suddenly let out a reminiscent laugh and covered her mouth.

“The other day, Mr. Shiono went to take photographs of Notre-Dame.” “Since photography is his specialty, he was taking pictures from various angles when he finally lay down on his back on the ground covered in pigeon droppings and pointed his camera upward.” “Then one of the American tourists who’d been watching nearby tried lying on his back just like that to take a photo too.” Yashiro too found it amusing and laughed as he spoke.

“Mr. Shiono seems like quite a pleasant person.” “Will he be staying here much longer?” “What do you mean? He mentioned he’d be returning soon—that once he compiles all the Notre-Dame photos into a book, that would suffice.” Whenever he heard about people returning to Japan, Yashiro couldn’t rid himself of envious feelings. “When are you planning to return, Ms. Chizuko?”

"I'm fine with whenever, really." "But you see, if I don't look around here while I have time—being a woman—I might lose the chance." "Well then, you should visit as many places as possible while you still can." "But it's remarkable that your parents allowed you to come alone like this." Yashiro naturally proceeded to ask a question he had always forgotten to ask. Chizuko seemed troubled when trying to explain why she herself had been granted such special trust,

“Well, I suppose it’s because my brother is here.” “They didn’t say anything particular.”

She answered briefly. "But wasn't your brother worried about you coming to Paris alone? You came here all by yourself." "Would my brother ever worry about such a thing? Besides, I told him about the friends I made on the ship." Yashiro nodded silently. He thought Chizuko's solo journey must have been permitted by both her brother and parents to give her an opportunity to choose a good marriage partner—and if that were true, then his own friendly behavior toward her might be sweeping away her chance for a favorable match.

However, Yashiro had heard that women who came to Europe, unlike men, often had a common tendency to dislike revealing their research purposes, so he also thought that Chizuko must be secretly conducting some kind of research through this.

“Ms. Chizuko, it would be good if you were conducting research, having gone to the trouble of coming all the way to Paris. Is that your intention?” “I simply wish to look around, you know. But someone like me is just a boring woman who can’t do anything at all. Compared to those who must work ordinarily, I’m somewhat fortunate. So I believe I must at least joyfully safeguard whatever happiness I’ve been given—otherwise, I’ll incur punishment. Don’t you agree?”

Yashiro found himself unable to immediately respond to Chizuko's perspective. Society was becoming one where a woman's sincere efforts to protect her happiness when she possessed it tended to be perceived as thoughts that seemed, at first glance, lacking in reflection. "There's something rather daring about your philosophy," Yashiro said, choosing what he considered a safe response. "But we so rarely attain happiness," she replied. "Since something resembling happiness came to me a little sooner than others, I feel I must cherish it all the more. That's how I think about everything. Is that so wrong?"

Chizuko gazed into Yashiro’s eyes with tender scrutiny. “Because there’s no truth beyond that.” “Everyone’s making such a commotion precisely because they want to feel as you do.” “That’s Paris now.” “Is it?”

Chizuko smiled as if she had been told something unexpected and turned her eyes to the fast-moving broken clouds among the treetops.

Sunlight shone on the white thighs of a child who had ridden up on a bicycle, and through gaps where vines swayed in the gentle breeze walked a single gentleman with razor-sharp trouser creases, moving in quiet precision.

"But I truly have nothing to think about. It feels like standing atop a high mountain, gazing at distant places." "Hmm," Yashiro responded with nothing more than a light nod. At a time when it would have been enough to simply observe, he no longer had the energy to dissect others' flaws and virtues. Beside an old woman reading a novel aloud, another elderly listener occasionally gasped in surprise as the story progressed. As Yashiro stared at the slender hawthorn flower—its coral-like allure emerging from crepe-textured leaves clustered in furrows—Chizuko beside him gradually came to resemble the blossom itself.

“What a beautiful flower.”

“What a beautiful flower,” Yashiro blurted out. That people and flowers could merge into one like this was something he had never before experienced in his life. His chest strained against the perilous emotion welling up like drowning water within him, yet Yashiro found himself leaning closer—peering intently through narrowed eyes—unable to tear his gaze from those exquisite hawthorn blossoms that seemed to beckon him toward their very danger. When they had walked through the park and reached the pondside, “I’d like to try Alsatian lamb tonight,” Chizuko said with unexpected vivacity. “Won’t you join me for Alsatian cuisine?”

With a smile unlike her usual self—lighthearted yet suffused with palpable awareness—Chizuko invited Yashiro.

Emerging from the trees into a sunlit square, they found another field of hawthorns before them. At first glance, they were flowers that escaped notice. But once they struck someone with sudden force, they became blossoms that would not cease until they had relentlessly eroded that person's heart. Yashiro drew near the hawthorn blossoms as if intoxicated by his longing to approach Chizuko, yet he grew increasingly uncertain whether he could ever depart alone for Germany in this state.

Every two weeks, new Japanese would appear in Paris from the mail ships arriving in Marseille and the trains that had come around Siberia. Even at the Dome, Yashiro felt himself becoming more of a veteran day by day. The Japanese men who had left their wives in Japan all looked gloomy during weeks when no letters arrived from Siberia, but on days when letters came, they were so cheerfully energetic that one could tell at a glance. Among them was a young man who, upon finding worrisome passages in a letter from his lover, briefly dashed back to Japan for a month only to return again. On the other hand, there were also frivolous ones who would go out of their way to write letters to their wives in Japan saying things like, "I’ve taken a lover, but don’t worry about it."

However, generally speaking, those who had been in Paris for two or three years were the most cold and annoyed by new Japanese arrivals, and these people were also in agreement about being the most ardent Europeanists. However, the reason these people looked down on Japan was entirely attributable to the single fact that the Japanese could not perfectly imitate Europe. Indeed, as they said, Japan had many flaws. First, there were many poor people. Tuberculosis was rampant. Farmers were so barbaric as to sell their daughters. Licensed prostitutes took the lead in urban development. Knowledgeable people searched for others’ flaws with eagle eyes. When it came to culture, it was a mix of Europe and America. If one were to enumerate its flaws, there were so many in such countless numbers that one would be compelled to ask where any good points could possibly exist. However, upon thinking a bit more, those flaws arose from the Japanese people’s virtues and were connected to bulbs that could be seen as remnants of a flower unseen in other countries. Moreover, even if those were considered stains, Yashiro found greater joy in the virtue that Japanese civilization—which rejoiced in nature—had fewer villains than in any of those flaws. He could not help but feel that a barbarian dwelled within such thoughts of his. However, he thought it was a barbarian who loved a beauty of emotion entirely distinct from the barbarity lurking within European knowledge. Yashiro came to think that even in advancing his historical writing work, he must first thoroughly examine this difference, base his foundation there, and connect it to the development of human life. As these thoughts deepened daily, he became resolved to leave Paris alone, yet when his mind was suddenly caught by Chizuko as an individual, confronted by the subtlety with which the human history unfolding in his consciousness came to a halt, he would wryly smile at this fundamental human anguish that could not be dismissed as mere jest—resigning himself yet savoring it—and from this unbearable heartache, he even found himself greedily wishing to grasp the very essence of thought itself.

One day, as Chizuko and Yashiro were drinking chocolat at the Dôme, right before them a Black woman and a White man sat deep in some intimate conversation. As he watched, Yashiro felt himself thrust into the realization that he was seeing living specimens of races that could never truly unite. In the palpable void between those two people—a chasm resembling despair—tears began seeping through. Why was he crying over such a thing? This must mean his nervous exhaustion had grown severe, he thought. Yet the longer he stared at them, the more his tears flowed without cease.

“Oh dear, what’s come over you?”

Chizuko, having apparently noticed Yashiro’s tears as well, asked this. "It’s nothing. I’ve come to realize this is no longer a place where one can love others." "Why?" Chizuko’s eyes flashed as she looked at Yashiro for an instant. "Love doesn’t operate here anymore." "It’s all just technique now." "And even that technique has reached its end."

“Then what remains?” “Nothing remains.” Chizuko fell silent with an astonished expression that suggested she no longer comprehended Yashiro’s feelings at all. “Yet this very emptiness explains why I’ve grown fonder of Paris lately—because nothing we seek exists here. It resembles watching a yokozuna past his prime lose every bout. So long as you focus solely on the ceremonial aprons during ring-entering rituals, it feels tranquil and demands no spiritual exertion.”

Yashiro’s way of speaking—hacking through words like splitting firewood—was less mere brusqueness than a desperate urge to expose himself to the self-sacrificial thrill of abandon; yet in truth, even as he spoke thus, Yashiro found some measure of calm in surrendering to the force of his own words. “This is a place people come to rest.” “If you want to rest, it’s somewhere you can rest as much as you like.” Chizuko too now attempted to soothe Yashiro’s irritation with noncommittal remarks.

“Exactly. When people rest, what expressions they wear – it’s as if we came here just to see that. Though I’ve thought about many things here, in the end, it became clear that people must work. The homeland of the heart is nothing but labor.”

Chizuko squinted her eyes at the glint of brass studs reflecting from the road surface where even the shadows of her fingers were clearly visible, “But that’s ironic.” “Someone like me can’t work at all.” “Look at these hands.” She briefly stretched out both hands in front of Yashiro and laughed. “You came here to cultivate a critical eye.” “In our lifetime, there will absolutely never be another city surpassing Paris in culture.” “Once you’ve seen this, you can critique anything with confidence for the rest of your life.” “So while you’re here, you must enjoy yourself—it’d be wasteful otherwise.” “If you dwell on things like daughters being sold in Japanese villages, you’ll never build strength here.”

“Then, it’s all right if I go to the salon again, right? That’s what I’ve been wanting to ask you about for a while.” “You should enjoy yourself to the fullest and then return.” “That is your duty.” “You can’t afford to worry about others now.” In her joy at having drawn out an answer unexpected even from Yashiro, Chizuko hunched her shoulders, “That puts my mind at ease too.” “Actually, tomorrow evening at six o’clock, there’s an event I need to attend.” “The salon of the president of Prédéli Oné.”

“Anyway, I’ve enjoyed having fun with you, but it’s about time we said goodbye.” "I have to go from Munich toward Vienna, you see." Yashiro found that even things he had thought difficult to say could be uttered with unexpected ease, and as he steeled his resolve—believing the time had truly come to act—he envisioned in his heart the distant skies toward which he must journey. Chizuko did not seem particularly surprised by Yashiro’s sudden announcement, perhaps because she had already noticed his uncharacteristic change from earlier.

“Then, if you find a place with nice scenery, please send me a telegram.” “Then I’ll come right away.” “Could you please check the dates of the hotels where you’ll be staying?”

“I will do that.”

Yashiro said. However, in his heart, he had resolved to part with Chizuko around this point and never meet her again in his lifetime. If they were to meet any further, he would lose all mental equilibrium; continuing the unsightly spectacle of desperately chasing after her even upon returning to Japan, his underfunded studies would surely be crushed by the hardship of supporting Chizuko—this was clearer than fire. As Yashiro walked Chizuko back toward her hotel, he thought that even managing to avoid uttering a single word that would attest to his love was yet another blessing bestowed by this journey in a foreign land. When he looked up at the sunlight faintly illuminating the upper floors of the buildings, gentle floating clouds were drifting. Clusters of light, dried cotton-like flowers, washed by the rain and accumulating between the stones of the pavement, would swirl up each time a car passed, sucked into the wheels and spiraling as they chased after them.

After departing Paris, Yashiro entered southern Germany and toured through small towns and regions until he came out toward Tyrol.

The mountainous region straddling Austria, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland was called Tyrol, but for Yashiro—who had left Tokyo—this journey marked the first time he had been completely severed from all Japanese company and found himself truly alone. Here, hardly any of the words Yashiro knew were useful. Not a single Japanese face could be seen, and with no means of communication whatsoever—so much so that he marveled at how carefree and pleasant it could feel—Yashiro drank deeply of true solitude. Ah, so there was such joy in the world? Each time he looked out the train window, he felt his heart grow as clear and resonant as a flute's note. His body too seemed perpetually washed with fresh water. Lakes would occasionally appear and vanish from within the forests, but he never once tried unfolding a map.

Yashiro would sometimes think of Chizuko, but now he felt that parting with her had been the right decision. After being alone, whenever he suddenly saw women with strong physical allure on trains or in the streets, he was assaulted by an unpleasantness as if grimy hands had stroked his skin.

As he drew near the southern German border, mountain ranges with glaciers flowing down from upright rocks amidst pasture flowers grew more frequent. They wound their way through spaces where cliffs—casting a pale iridescent glow like the inside of seashells—towered within the clear sky, their forms intermittently severed by floating clouds. And it was only when he reached the vicinity of the Austrian border that Yashiro was finally let off the train. Because he had been told it was a direct train, when he found himself dumped at that desolate village station, Yashiro had no idea what had caused this situation. When he finally learned through his long-forgotten German—a language he had once studied but since abandoned—that he would have to wait a full two and a half hours for the next train, Yashiro rather saw this as a small blessing and settled onto a bench amidst the flower field before the station.

Among the mountains he had seen while passing through the highlands, there had never been another that astonished him as much as the mountain Yashiro was now gazing up at. Like a gigantic mass of milk, without a single blade of grass. From its peak that seemed to pierce even higher than the sky, its form draped with glaciers appeared less of this world the longer he gazed. Perhaps from gazing too intently, the back of his neck had grown tired, but he walked on picking flowers and gazed absently at the mountain once more.

Before long, fatigue seemed to have spread throughout his entire body, and though he wasn't sleepy, his eyelids gradually began to close. As he rubbed his eyes repeatedly and looked up at the mountain again and again, the surroundings grew hazily blurred. This was it—he had really been done in this time, Yashiro thought. When he had departed Japan in a severely weakened state—having thought he might well die during the journey, and now recalling how a few friends had cautioned him—he steeled himself for the likelihood that this solitary trip would not end without incident. Yet now, Yashiro felt his chest swelling with joy. He entered a tea shop that stood amidst the flower field, sat down on an outdoor chair, and ordered milk. As he tilted back his head to gaze at the mountain while spreading his legs and drank freshly squeezed cold milk from a large beer stein, the mountain, the clouds, and the glacier all slid coldly down his throat together.

Leaning back on the creaking chair, Yashiro looked around at the surrounding plateau and drank his milk again. Lush green pasture grasses spread out in all directions, their flower spikes aligned uniformly, creeping all the way to the glacier’s base before vanishing. On the wooded mountainside behind them stood hotels and villas, but those passing by were mostly sunburned girls from the villas who had gone flower picking. “I’d like some postcards.”

Yashiro said to the tea shop hostess. The hostess studied his expression before producing postcards—among alpine flora designs were two showing a fawn emerging from an eggshell beside a stag with antlers. Yashiro marveled again: could deer here be born from eggs? Since even the scenery seemed unearthly, he reasoned their creatures must naturally differ too; deeming this the finest souvenir, his fatigue vanished and vigor returned—yet upon leaving the shop and walking toward the station, he felt weariness darkening his vision. Though he shouldn’t have felt particularly tired before seeing that mountain—that gigantic mass of milk looming before him—why had this strange peak brought such crushing fatigue since their encounter?—

Yashiro tilted his head slightly and stood blocking the center of the road, yet he kept gazing at the mountain without stopping. Then, that gigantic mass of milk reaching up to the clouds began to appear like a quietly concealed nest of thunder and lightning, and the longer he looked, the more his strength seemed to drain from his chest.

“It must be harmful to look at this mountain,” Yashiro thought. He hid in the waiting room where the mountain was not visible until the train arrived, huddling close to his luggage, but he simply could not shake his preoccupation with that mysterious mountain. He would occasionally emerge from under the roof to steal furtive glances upward at it. Each time he did so, a dark, gloomy pain awakened along his spine, and he would panic and duck back under the roof. When the time came, a narrow-gauge train arrived. Yashiro boarded it and regained some measure of composure. Coal dust came pouring in through the window, but the plateau around the rails became filled with flowers so dazzling they stole his eye. As he leaned his head out and watched the train curve through the flowers as if parting them, he found amusement in the laboring locomotive belching puffs of smoke—it resembled a comical old man. Beyond the pasture flowers stretched Swiss mountains with their flowing glaciers. No sooner had a flock of sheep hazed into view through the grass of the mountain gorge like smoke crawling along the ground than flower-filled plateaus unfurled on both sides.

If this place was this beautiful, Yashiro thought, then perhaps it would be all right to send Chizuko the promised telegram after arriving at the hotel tonight. When he had departed Paris, he had informed Kuji of his arrival date and lodging in Tyrol, so he thought that perhaps even Kuji alone might have already arrived at the hotel by now—but even so, for the time being, he still did not wish to meet him.

When he thought of their various debates in Paris, his longing for Kuji grew stronger each day until he reached a point of muttering to himself in Japanese—a language he had scarcely spoken at length—directing fragmented words toward Kuji. Yet even now, the joy of this solitary journey through lands where language held no meaning remained irreplaceable.

“Not coming to a place like this—you’re such a fool. What a fool you are.”

Yashiro would even say such things aloud. Resting his chin on the window frame and gazing at the glacier-clad mountains, he felt as though all the world's air had been granted to him alone—tears overflowed, and he wiped his eyes again and again. It was as if the accumulated weight of time since birth had been momentarily released, resembling a dream of liberation that soared on beating wings. He leaned out the window as if determined not to miss a single speck of the unfolding scenery. Waves of multicolored flowers rose and fell in undulations as they enveloped an ancient castle. A girl pedaled her bicycle straight through the heart of that plateau. Fog welled up from the valley.

"No—coming here was worth it." "I don't need anything else."

Before Yashiro’s eyes that nodded deeply, the locomotive endlessly unfurled its pages of scenery as if declaring the plateau’s vistas had only just begun. And so when Yashiro finally arrived at Innsbruck in Tyrol just before dusk began to fall, he found himself thoroughly exhausted with disappointment.

The Hotel Kaiser, which they had asked Cook to reserve in advance, stood right by the station. When he inquired whether any letters had arrived from Kuji and found none yet, he wrote his name in the presented guestbook - then noticed Chizuko's signature above his own, written in her recognizable hand. As weariness blended with newfound loneliness, Yashiro felt the room abruptly fill with a brightness warmed by living presence. Even the unfamiliar stairs he was guided up now felt like his own beneath his touch, their texture inviting him to hurry upward in eager familiarity. After unpacking his luggage in the assigned room, Yashiro went straight to ask about Chizuko's room and knocked on her door.

“Entrez.” A voice came from within, and Yashiro opened the door. “Oh!” Chizuko, who had been writing a letter, turned around and—suddenly relieved—threw down her pen and stood up. “I was so nervous—I arrived this morning, and I was just thinking what I’d do if you hadn’t come, Mr. Yashiro.”

Yashiro momentarily felt what seemed like a chrysanthemum-scented breeze wafting from Chizuko's body. "Oh my, how pale you look—you must be exhausted." Standing motionless before the concerned Chizuko, Yashiro—

“You’ve understood well, haven’t you?”

With that, he gave a firm handshake. He stood there for some time gazing blankly around the room, filled with a joy he had never imagined—a blazing fire coursing through him. “This is the first time I’ve used Japanese today.” “It feels rather strange.” “But I’m glad you’re safe and sound.” “I am safe, but it feels like I’m dreaming.” “On my way here just now, I saw an extraordinary mountain—one that looked like a towering thunderhead, yet the entire thing seemed made of magnetite. Just looking at it left me completely exhausted.”

Perhaps because their sudden ease was so great that their words threatened to become disjointed, the mere fact that the two of them were here now rendered any conversation utterly unnecessary.

“Well, what kind of mountain?”

Chizuko also asked this in return, but she showed no further sign of wanting to inquire deeply. Yashiro, working his aching shoulders,

“Well, the postcard says ‘Mittenwald,’ but when I kept repeating it in my mouth, it started to sound like ‘it’s bad if you look,’ so I got startled and ran away.” The two of them laughed as they settled onto a bench facing each other.

"But I too found this town such a strange place." "That's right—this place feels frightening too." "After all, it's the sequel to 'you mustn't look.'"

Even within the view from the window alone, from the summit of a treeless rocky mountain resembling rhinoceros hide, a glacier flowed down all the way to loom above the town. At the narrow base of that glacier cascading from three directions stood this city, maintaining profound silence. Wrapped in pastures brimming with saffron flowers and cleansed to where not a single mote of dust dared settle, this town lay still with deep cold folds like those of the finest sculpture.

“It’s bearable now that it’s dusk, but when I look at that mountain by daylight, I grow so afraid I begin to tremble.” “I couldn’t endure even a single day alone in such a place.” As Yashiro gazed at the mountains, he felt something akin to an eternal, undecaying sorrow welling up within him—even his joy at reuniting with Chizuko after so long being drawn away into the rocks’ chill. It resembled being pressed against an intellect of incomparable frigidity, a sensation akin to being ceaselessly hounded by an inexorable destiny.

This was even more unbearable than Mittenwald. Still, tomorrow he would at least climb up that mountain.

Having said this and turned his back to the mountain, Yashiro inquired about Kuji and Higashino’s recent movements. After bathing, the two had their evening meal, and as they spoke of their travels, rain began to fall. When they agreed to wait out the rain before their night walk and resumed talking in Yashiro’s room, the downpour intensified into a sudden evening storm, lashing down with such violence that it seemed to shred the air like bamboo spears. Exhausted, Yashiro bid Chizuko goodnight and resolved to sleep early, but even after dousing the lamp, he lay awake amid the rain’s relentless roar. He rose again, drew back the curtain, propped his elbow on the windowsill, and gazed up at the mountains. The torrential rain fell slantwise as though skewering the glacier, hammered against the building’s facade, cascaded down stone walls, then crashed onto the roadway with a thunderous din.

The rocks of the mountains, warmed by the daytime sun, must have cooled by now. The sudden chill in the air made Yashiro’s body shrink, but the beauty of the rain pouring into the deeply carved night-cloaked city—devoid of a single soul—was an eerily intense aura that seeped into the bones.

After a while, there came a knock, so Yashiro turned the key in the door, and Chizuko stood there in a pure white dress.

“I’m too scared to sleep, you know. Please keep talking a little longer.” Chizuko hunched her shoulders and entered as if shivering from the cold. “This rain is terrible, isn’t it? I couldn’t sleep either, so I was just watching it. Shall I close the window?” “No, it’s fine.” As they spoke, a powerful lightning bolt flashed in the nearby sky. The glacier glowed blue and crackled instantaneously before the flashes darted shuttle-like from mountain to mountain.

Chizuko had covered her ears and shrunk against the back of the chair, but the lightning continued to flash with a sound as if tearing through the mountains. Yashiro closed the window. “That mountain’s all iron, so the lightning gathers there. It’s like war.” Chizuko was still covering her ears, so Yashiro’s words seemed inaudible.

“I can’t stand this terrifying place—let’s go back to Paris soon.”

“Incredible.” Leaning back on the sofa, Yashiro lit a cigarette and gazed at the sky’s light whose reach remained unknowable. The rain fell as a white forest, assaulting them with its fury. “Oh, not again!”

Chizuko turned pale. The glacier flickering amid explosive reverberations resembled a massive deity guarding the nocturnal world. Yashiro forgot his fatigue in the visceral pleasure that felt like having his body severed apart as he waited for more flashes. Each time lightning illuminated her, Chizuko lost all expression and appeared like a stiffened pistil within her white dress—to Yashiro, she looked beautiful. "I won't sleep tonight. Thunder frightens me most." "Then rest in this room. I'll wake you when it's time."

Whether she had heard or not, Chizuko remained silent and still did not move. Before long, as the thunder gradually subsided and the rain lessened to a drizzle, the air grew even colder. Chizuko's face regained its vitality and began to move. When the rain had completely stopped, the two of them addressed Kuji in writing about both the terror and beauty of the Tyrolean mountains, then talked late into the night again.

It was a morning without a single cloud.

In the dining room adorned with Rococo-style life-sized portraits, Yashiro had breakfast with Chizuko. The late morning meal in that room—where sunlight already spread across white tablecloths dotted with roses, with no other guests present—felt instead like a time of relaxed ease for them both. After finishing their meal, they went out into the town. The glacier floating in the clear sky enveloped the town so closely it seemed almost touchable, giving the impression of crisp white buildings lining a seaside promenade. Yet as they kept gazing at it, the mountain slopes began taking on a hazy glow like peering into deep ocean depths. Chizuko wanted one of the locally made Tyrolean hats displayed in decorated shop windows and went from store to store.

“How about this?” “For me?” The Tyrolean hats with ribbons twisted like rope around their curd-textured brims seemed to delight city women， yet they also resembled manifestations of travel melancholy. In this town， few locals were to be seen; among the visitors， travelers from England and Germany seemed to be numerous. The items in the decorative windows were also numerous—cameras， wooden toys from mountainous regions， folk-style ribbons， hats， and the like. Even in the postcard pictures—showing a local girl’s sadness as she bid travelers farewell with a glacier behind her—and in paintings of figures gazing at rain flowing toward distant foreign lands， there had lived on for Yashiro the melancholy of travel.

“It’s truly so quiet here that the silence almost hurts my ears.” As they walked along the echoing pavement where their footsteps resounded, Chizuko stopped when she caught sight of the glacier’s base peeking through a gap between buildings. “If Mr. Higashino were here, he’d surely be composing haiku again in this spot.” “At Lake Brounneu, it was rather delightful, wasn’t it?”

Yashiro walked toward the park while lightly nodding each time. The park at the edge of town was more beautiful than any park Yashiro had seen. Through gaps between great trees whose branches hung down to the ground, the glacier that had descended the lead-colored mountainside appeared sharp and nearly within reach.

“It looks like it’ll be hot today. It must be because that mountain’s burning up.”

Beneath the looming summit of Harufurekaru lay a terrace. Tables draped with white cloths stood lined in the shade, and within this empty white expanse devoid of customers, the two rested and ordered milk. The aged song of a bush warbler overwhelmed the chirping of small birds, ceaselessly filtering down from the treetops.

Along the shaded path still damp from last night’s rain came an old gentleman of Viennese distinction with a splendid white beard, advancing his enfeebled gait with repeated taps of his cane. Chizuko wiped away the milk clinging to her mouth with a handkerchief while,

“You should try composing haiku too.”

and suggested to Yashiro with a laugh. "I'm past that point now. When I'm in a place like this, I don't know what to do anymore. I feel like a complete fool." Yashiro looked down at the nimbly moving tail of a squirrel that had approached his feet, his expression utterly listless in the crystalline air—a face seemingly on the verge of yawning. "If one were to live their whole life in such a beautiful place, they might either become intensely studious or end up doing nothing but gamble."

"But here in Austria, they say this is where the most wealthy people gather." "If you can shock people's livers out like this, money must flow easily. That's their scheme - profiting from glaciers." "They're trying to make money off glaciers, you see."

In the garden where great trees flourished, not a single leaf stirred as if suspended in vacuum. Around tree trunks where birdsong resonated clearly, clusters of pale pink hydrangeas drew swarms of bees. As Yashiro leaned against the table, propping one cheek on his elbow, the mountain ants crawling across the tablecloth gradually loomed larger before his eyes. He found it hard to tell whether his body was floating upward or sinking downward. When the sunlight warming his chest turned languid and oppressive, Yashiro murmured “Saa...” and slowly rose. In the dappled shade, people clustered on benches here and there—not a soul spoke. Every tree seemed a spring welling birdsong. Only squirrels sliding down trunks moved freely, scurrying like insects swarming through glacial crevices.

“Let’s climb the mountain after noon,” Chizuko said. “I wonder if I should buy a camera.” When Yashiro realized Chizuko too had nothing left to say, even her single meaningless phrase appeared to him as something pure he wanted to cradle in both hands. “Are you good at taking photos?” “That’s where I’m hopeless.” “But if I can just take them, I’m sure I’ll think they’re failures later anyway.” In the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, Yashiro could only nod at Chizuko, whose laughter bloomed around her like forsythia flowers opening with a soft breath.

Rather than have Chizuko buy the camera alone, Yashiro thought that purchasing it together would better serve as a travel memento. He insisted they split the cost equally and bought an affordable Schupasix at a shop.

“I’ll keep this camera.” “But that can wait until we part ways.” “I want to store it away carefully.” Yashiro naturally had no objection to Chizuko’s words. They were two people who would soon have to part without fail. And yet, even thinking this way, they felt no particular sadness. For theirs was but a fleeting friendship born of chance encounter in foreign lands—even their shared past in Japan now lay blank between them, a page neither felt compelled to examine. Though a lament seeped into their very beings as they guarded this mutual loneliness and impermanence, it remained no more than the bittersweet mood of a transient journey.

“Oh, a city where bicycle chains can be heard so clearly—how unusual.” Beneath the church’s lofty cross, Chizuko turned to look back at the bicycle gliding along the spotless street and spoke. There were scarcely any people in the town. To Yashiro—now accustomed to glaciers—the peculiarity of this city felt natural, its quiet streets like deeply carved sculptures where only shadows breathed with vivid clarity. From shops glimpsed in passing, clock sounds rang out with striking loudness.

After lunch, Yashiro and Chizuko rode a mountain bus to the mountainside. The people on the bus were those returning to the hotel there or heading to the summit, but none of the crowded faces around them looked like foreigners anymore to Yashiro and Chizuko. Before they knew it, even people of different ethnicities had come to look the same to the two of them as the faces waiting together for the bus at a Tokyo street corner. At the mountainside, they transferred to a cable car and changed rails approximately twice more until reaching the summit. Beneath the cable car lay a slope of flower-filled meadows. As the town gradually sank lower, the river flowing alongside it could be seen slowly opening out toward the plains of Vienna through the valley. The terminal station also served as a lodging house. People would all stop in that hall to enjoy the view before descending again from there, but Yashiro and Chizuko, leaving the station, climbed further toward the summit. No one else came after them.

It was a mountain path without a single tree. On both sides of the path, clumps of remaining snow—hard as ice—sloped and flowed downward. In areas free of snow, twisted shrubs crawling along the ground were filled with small, bell-shaped flower clusters resembling those of the asebi plant. “Oh my, there’s a cow.” Chizuko said and peered into the valley. It was a cow that had climbed up from a pasture pushing up a field of saffron flowers from the foothills. The cow walked alone through the snow, ringing the bell around its neck. The sound of the glacier’s melting, flowing water occasionally caught Yashiro’s ear as if it were rain. When they came upon the rocky path that caused pain in their soles, the clouds flowing toward the Swiss mountains gradually grew lower.

“I wonder if this spot where I’m standing is already Switzerland.” “Not yet, I guess.”

Chizuko's yellow waist belt, which surveyed the range of mountains all around, was now merely a single strand carrying the scent of human habitation.

Where the path veered sideways from the mountain's summit and curved around, there stood a mountain hut. Yashiro bought two ice axes, socks, and sandwiches there, then shared the load with Chizuko as they walked along the mountain path again. From the hut keeper they heard that unless they crossed the glacier soon coming into view, the path to the opposite summit would be blocked. Though they had tentatively prepared their purchases with the thought of crossing it once for memory's sake, they still found themselves unable to commit without first seeing the glacier's width.

“Mr. Shiono mentioned he crossed that glacier last year too.” “He said if you cross there, you’ll find flocks of sheep in the valley beyond.” Chizuko looked at Yashiro with childishly sparkling eyes, “Let’s go see them.” “When evening comes, the shepherd gathers the sheep by singing Tyrolean songs—that’s what they say.” “He kept saying it was so beautiful words couldn’t do it justice.” “Let’s go see them.”

“Seeing it would be fine, but by evening we wouldn’t be able to return, would we?” Yashiro said with a perplexed look. “But there’s a mountain hut—they say we can stay there.” “Though instead, they say you sleep in hay.” “That might be nice too.” “It could be so much better than staying at a hotel.” “Then let’s spend tonight there.” Even with no observers present, Yashiro found himself hesitating and falling silent about sleeping in hay with a well-bred young lady who was neither his lover nor someone he intended to marry. Yet the fearless innocence with which Chizuko made this proposal was the very quality that had brilliantly carried them through their repeated dangers in Paris. Now Yashiro too had simply adopted the mindset of a traveler who felt no suspicion toward such arrangements.

“Well, shall we go? But can you endure more than I can?”

Yashiro looked at Chizuko’s clothing and said.

“Staying here might be so much better than at a hotel.” “Since we’ve come to Tyrol, doing things the Tyrolean way would be so much more interesting, you know.”

Once their plan was settled, the two grew even more energetic. A swarm of bees flew around droning on both sides of the mountain path. The mountains along the German border stood as indigo-purple cliffs in a continuous row, while threads of white clouds—severed at mid-slope—flowed around ridge after ridge, their drape revealing the sharpness of the valley below. There were no longer any signs of human habitation in sight. As they rounded a bend in the path, a rush of cold air suddenly struck their faces with fresh intensity. The Swiss mountains cavorted with the heavens, writhing coquettishly, and from within the vibrant expanse bathed in sunlight, a white sea of ice came into view.

“Ah, that’s it. We’ll be crossing over there, right?”

Chizuko spoke while quickening her pace along the path. The semi-transparent glacier - its ice peaks serrated like saw teeth - now fully revealed itself before them with a faintly tilted aspect. Yashiro stood where the path ended, gazing down at the glacier, "But I must say, this thing looks rather dangerous," he muttered.

“Well then, Mr. Yashiro, follow me and cross over.” “I’m surprisingly good at this sort of thing.” Having been told this by Chizuko, Yashiro could no longer retreat. When they went down to the edge of the ice and looked, the glacier—packing countless sharp tooth-shaped undulations about five meters high into a width of two hundred meters—was flowing down the valley. The two pulled the socks they had prepared over their shoes as a precaution against slipping, put on gloves, and began to climb the glacier’s slope.

For the first one or two ridges, Yashiro took the lead, chipping into the ice with his shoe heels while creating footholds for Chizuko following behind. However, as they crossed three or four ridges, the crevasses between the ice peaks concealed a bottomless depth that grew increasingly deeper. A crevasse—where a single slip and misstep would send one plummeting to unknowable depths—opened its glassy maw in a vitreous hue like fractured crystal, awaiting the feet of the two descending figures. As all vegetation vanished and their surroundings became nothing but jagged teeth of ice before they knew it, Yashiro had to pick his way through clusters of irregular ice peaks that kept materializing before them, detouring around steeper slopes when possible. Yet he realized this endless crossing of icy crags demanded stonemason-like patience, and proceeded with unhurried caution.

“It looked narrow from above, but now that we’re inside it—the glacier is truly immense.” Chizuko struck her ice axe while grasping the band Yashiro had lowered from above and said. “I thought it’d be cold, but it’s not so bad.” “This—so much sweat!” “Me too.” “Let’s take a photo somewhere soon.” As he watched Chizuko climb while being pulled up, Yashiro lamented—if only he had a little more strength—feeling ashamed of his now undeniable lack of effort. And this was not merely physical exertion; each time he pulled her up, the awareness that his mental faculties were equally deficient struck Yashiro’s heart as doubly painful. Even as the thought arose—if he were to have the chance to marry Chizuko—the glacier remained his divinely appointed nemesis, drawing a wry smile from him.

Chizuko's face grew flushed and heated. With fine sweat beading at her hairline and her thighs bent as she inched up the ice surface, even the glint of their exchanged gazes appeared as nothing more than a single point of light within the brilliant white glare. When a dull ice slope appeared, the two slid down while keeping their hips pressed against the ice. Sharp icebergs occasionally opened hollows at their centers, and through those apertures the figure of Chizuko sliding across the other side became clearly visible. The tips of the icy teeth formed by the ridges had been blunted and melted by sunlight, yet still stood translucent - each maintaining its sharp form as they reached toward the sky.

“Just stay still for a moment, Mr. Yashiro.” Chizuko poised her camera at Yashiro, straddling the ridge like a mountaineer. Having leapt across the crevasse, Yashiro stood motionless while gazing into the lapis lazuli depths of the fissure. “Yes, thank you.” “If we find another hollow ahead, could you peer through it toward me?” “I’d like to capture that view too.” The ice surface—faintly dirtied with fine sand—unveiled fresh glimmers from its fractured planes each time they carved footholds. When Chizuko’s carmine-clad figure emerged fully atop the ridge, her elongated shadow bending over the conquered peak became enveloped in a seven-colored iridescence that radiated across every icy facet.

“If you grow weary, simply say so and I shall go ahead first.” “Please do tell me.” Chizuko said this upon discerning Yashiro’s fatigued expression. “I’ve grown somewhat tired.” “Are you skilled at mountain climbing?” “To some degree—though it seems I’m rather better than you, Mr. Yashiro.”

“I seem to be losing ground little by little in everything.” “This must be a Japanese characteristic, I suppose.”

Yashiro laughed while patting his waist as he spoke. Chizuko had barely let slip a fleeting smile when she planted both elbows behind her, cradled the camera on her bent knee, and slid down the ice slope without letting that same smile waver from her face. Yashiro, waiting below, made a gesture as if to catch her, but wiping his sweat-slicked palms on his trousers, he leapt across the crevasse once more.

“I think this must be the place—I remember reading somewhere that a newlywed groom fell into this glacier crevasse. “But since they couldn’t find his body no matter how long they searched, the bride went down to the mountain’s base and waited forever—until the glacier melted—and died there. You know that story, don’t you?” “Now that you mention it, I do recall that.” “That story might indeed be about this place.”

“I think this is the place.” “This is where such people come, you know.”

As she said this, Chizuko threw the ice fragments she had chipped off with her ice axe into the crevasse’s depths and peered in. The fragments quickly disappeared from view, but the sound of ice striking the curved cross-sections continued to ring out—*clink, clink*—a light yet forlorn sound that gradually grew fainter until it vanished. “Oh~, what a lovely sound.” “Do listen for a moment, won’t you?”

Chizuko called to Yashiro. The two huddled close as they crouched, tossing fragments into the crevasse and pressing their ears to the fissure. It was truly the sound of nothingness falling into the glacier’s boundless depths. Even after vanishing, the sound lingered as a phantom echo resembling the resonance of a half-tone from a plucked string. Yashiro looked up at the sky. Though the sun shone brightly, an emptiness like wind through pines and cypresses silently upheld the drifting clouds.

“Shall we eat sandwiches somewhere?” “I’m getting hungry.”

As Chizuko’s unmediated voice drew near his ear, Yashiro opened the cloth-wrapped bundle at his waist and took out a handkerchief. “If you keep dawdling here like this, you’ll fall into the crevasse.” “Then you should eat something too.” Yashiro turned his eyes away from Chizuko’s smiling face as she reached out to take a sandwich. It felt like vaulting over a rift in their self-imposed restraint—that unspoken boundary they had mentally reinforced by repeating *This must never be said aloud*. “I’m the supervisor here after all.”

Chizuko watched Yashiro laugh lightly as he also began to eat. “Oh my.”

With those words, Chizuko now took the lead and began climbing the ice fangs. Yashiro received the camera from Chizuko.

A hazy rainbow hung along the line of the ice ridge. The two of them continued to climb up and down within it. As sweat coursed through his entire body, Yashiro could no longer perceive his surroundings as entirely glacial. Even speaking grew increasingly burdensome, and he no longer felt the crevasse yawning at his feet as any perilous depth. “Are you getting tired?” Chizuko straddled the ice fangs about two-thirds up the glacier and looked down at Yashiro as she asked. Yashiro grabbed the band she dangled, climbing up with a “What’s this? I’m fine,” but the intense white light flooding the area began to ache around his eyebrows.

“If you climb up so quickly, I’ll feel jealous.” Though he muttered this as a joke, in truth, every time Yashiro saw Chizuko effortlessly traversing the glacier ridges without the slightest sign of fatigue, the glint of her brooch’s metal clasp at her chest irritated him whenever she turned around. “You’re hopeless.” Even as a joke, this struck Yashiro with undeniable force, as though branding his physical inadequacy. Occasionally, cracks about an inch wide ran in zigzag patterns across the ice surface. Hooking his ice axe into a crevice and finally catching up to Chizuko while lagging behind and gasping for breath, Yashiro found that now, somehow, the pleasure of losing to her was beginning to outweigh everything else.

“Just a moment, Ms. Chizuko—I’ll take it now.”

Yashiro, brimming with contentment, aimed the camera at Chizuko and spoke. The instant Chizuko turned from the ridge without warning, Yashiro pressed the shutter button. Feeling a peculiar satisfaction akin to a defeated husband photographing his triumphant wife, Yashiro allowed himself a solitary smug smile as he “I’ve taken it already. Here.” said. Chizuko twisted her body around and glared down at him from the ice spear with pouting coquetry, “Oh,” Yashiro climbed up to stand beside Chizuko.

“Come on, we just need to cross this one last part.”

“Somehow, that was enjoyable.” Yashiro looked back at the perilous peaks fraught with dangers they had crossed. The shadows of the two standing side by side stretched long across the ice in the western sun, from which seven-colored rays rebounded into the sky with heightened intensity compared to before.

“Since this is the end, let’s slide down together side by side.”

Following Chizuko’s cheerful proposal, the two lined up on the final glacier ridge and took each other’s hands. With the count of one, two, three, they slid down the icy slope. “I’ve finally conquered it.”

Yashiro laughed as he wiped his sweat with a handkerchief. “Really, now that we’re here, this is Switzerland.” The two took off the socks they had worn over their boots, removed their gloves, and set out on the path again to search for the hut. A little below the summit, a hut built of logs came into view. Chizuko took the lead and opened the door.

Inside the hut, cows lay with their heads and hips alternating, filling the room to capacity. There was a pathway just wide enough to pass through at its center, and upon proceeding along it, there was another door at the front landing. From the door opened by Chizuko’s knock emerged a bright, parlor-like room furnished with chairs and a table. When an old woman who had been knitting alone inside came out, Chizuko tried requesting tonight’s lodging in French. Since it was the off-season when guests were few, the two were able to secure a room with ease. When Chizuko asked where the valley where the sheep returned was, the old woman pointed to the mountain gorge gently visible below from the window and,

“The sheep will gather here in this valley soon.” After telling them this, she glanced back at the old-fashioned grandfather clock. “Soon, soon. Please go outside quickly and look.” Following the old woman’s words—urging them on with gestures—the two placed their belongings on the table and went out.

Now that they had secured lodging for the day, the two were relieved. They came out onto a path overlooking a pasture that spread across a treeless gorge and there began to eat their leftover sandwiches. “Since it was such fine weather today, I bet the little stars will come falling down.” “Truly, we did well to come here.” “How happy I am!” “My heart’s starting to pound!” Chizuko brushed back her hair as she looked around at the surrounding mountains. Silently, Yashiro alternated between lying down and getting up among the saffron flowers. The glacier revealed the contorted bulk of its broad flow along the left slope. Yashiro was beginning to feel somewhat tired. As he lay with his arm for a pillow, sniffing the scent of saffron flowers that brushed cold against his cheek, the temperature seemed to plummet abruptly, sending a shiver down his neck.

“Aren’t they here yet, the sheep?” As he said this, he plucked the flowers and released the petals one by one from his lips.

“It should be soon.” “They’ll definitely come, I tell you.”

Perhaps having grown tired of waiting herself, Chizuko started to lie back next to Yashiro for a moment but immediately sat back up again.

“From here, Japan really does seem like the edge of the world.” Yashiro suddenly let out a sigh and said. “I suppose it does look like the very edge.” “In that tiny place at the edge, made to sit silently and still—if told to face west, they’ll keep facing west forever.” “If they dare to even slightly consider east as east, then that shrew called ‘ideal’ will whip them about with her rod.” “How strange it all is.” Chizuko, seemingly unable to comprehend why Yashiro had suddenly brought up such matters, remained silent. Yashiro rose up and gazed for a while at the gorge beyond, then abruptly threw down the saffron petals he had crushed in his hand.

The setting sun had been casting its rays through breaks in the clouds. Just as the two had nearly forgotten about the sheep, a frog-like croaking voice began reaching them from afar. As it persisted, they realized it wasn't frogs but a Tyrolean song summoning sheep somewhere in the pasture. "Ah, that's it." Chizuko spoke while pulling Yashiro's arm. The Tyrolean song carried a rasping sorrow in its tone, resounding with a korokoro rhythm that gradually heightened and clarified into rukuruku refrains. It was a shepherd's voice tempered by clouds and ice.

Following the song, the sound of a multitude of bells beginning to move arose from here and there. Then, flocks of sheep swarming in from all directions gradually appeared in the valley. At first, the flock of sheep that had appeared like intermingling white clouds began to surge forward in a roaring tumult of thousands upon thousands; following this, like a great river breaching its embankment, they pressed forward in an instant to fill the gorge completely and came flowing downward, ever downward.

Yashiro felt the area below his chest grow cold and hollow. In the sunset light, the peaks of the mountains were faintly aglow. Beneath them, the sound of sheep bells symphonized, echoing through the valleys and returning as a doubled resonance that swirled through the air like a massive swarm of rising mosquitoes. The Tyrolean song became a single main melody piercing through it all, calling and gathering the flock of sheep high and low as they drew near. “Ruku-ruku-ruku-ruku, rurururururu—ruku-ruku-ruku-ruku, rurururururu—”

“It’s just like looking upon God.” Chizuko murmured this in a small voice and lapsed back into a daze, gazing downward. The flock of sheep still spreading out at the rear, pressed by dogs’ barking, coalesced into a new mass and accelerated as they streamed into the front group. The sky’s light faded moment by moment, shifting into purple. The flow of sheep—hazy like mist creeping along the ground yet swelling with bell sounds—was met by a stifling animal stench that swirled up to assail them.

“Wow.”

Yashiro’s involuntary exclamation was already drowned out by the barking of dogs chasing directly below. The river of sheep descended with the lapping pace of ripples, flowing through the gorge in opposition to the glacier, carrying the shepherd’s song onward to sweep it beyond the mountain slopes. Each time, the echoing *guran-kuran* of bells flooded the air with lingering reverberations as they traveled gradually farther across the deepening twilight of the valley floor.

The sun had completely set.

When the flock of sheep had vanished from sight in the gorge, Yashiro and Chizuko met each other's gaze for the first time, but neither spoke a word. In the hollowed pasture below, darkness now flowed where sheep had been. After listening for some time to the bells that still continued like a dream from a distant valley far away,

“Well, it’s grown quite cold.” Yashiro said and stood up. The two returned to the mountain hut.

During dinner as well, the two remained silent for no particular reason. After finishing the meal, Yashiro wiped himself while gazing at the stars scattered beyond the window. The fatigue hit him all at once, and once he lit a cigarette under the lamp, he found himself unable to move. In the next room, there was already the clattering sound of chairs being moved in preparation for sleep. Chizuko herself must have been exhausted, leaning back in her chair and gazing down at the gorge, yet her face retained its luster, her slightly sunken eyes appearing even larger and more beautiful.

“I’ve never felt such joy as I did today,” Chizuko said in a small voice, stroking the silver engraving on her ring. “When I think I’ll never know this happiness again in my life, it fills me with dread.” “It’s all right,” Yashiro replied, though he couldn’t deny there was truth in her words. “But you’re right,” she continued. “This solitude—I don’t believe it will ever be forgiven.”

Yashiro masked his feelings with laughter and stared at the stars again. Mixed with the cold air, the scent of hay drifted in from somewhere. Chizuko abruptly stood up and went outside without a word to Yashiro.

The stars emitted a brilliance that seemed ready to plummet at any moment, one by one. Yashiro finished his cigarette, then left the room to search for Chizuko who was slow to return. However, she was nowhere to be found. After searching the hills on both sides for a while, he noticed her figure kneeling in prayer at the edge of a dark hill where the glacier was visible. Yashiro had known Chizuko was Catholic, but now as he watched her quiet figure praying before him—overlapping with the mountain peaks arrayed in the night sky and drawn taut by a sacred chill—he discarded his cigarette.

While Chizuko prayed, Yashiro gazed at the stars in the sky. His heart filled with a melancholy that harked back to ancient times, and he gradually began to forget his own position standing atop the mountain. "Oh, you were there all along?" Chizuko stood up laughing and approached Yashiro's side.

The starlight on the glacier they had crossed during the day flowed with white bared fangs.

The next day, when Yashiro and the others returned to the hotel, there was a letter from Kuji in Paris addressed to Yashiro. It has been so many days since you left that I’ve lost count. In any case, I may have gotten ahead of myself, but you’ve likely already departed for Innsbruck by now. Since then, strikes have been breaking out frequently in Paris. Given these are events of historic proportions, we’ve encountered what for us is the most intriguing once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To miss this chance to observe them would, broadly speaking, mean missing a peak in history. If possible, why don’t you return here immediately? Since Paris, I’ve ended up spending days doing nothing but argue with you—but thanks to that, I’ve come to feel these disputes are gradually proving useful. I imagine we’ll keep arguing just as before if we meet—but even that can’t be helped now. There was talk of Ms. Chizuko following you there, so you may have met by now—but as Shiono and the others seem to have urgent matters arising, please tell Ms. Chizuko not to settle there too long.

On my end, some trouble has arisen lately. You probably know this already, but Ms. Makiko—the one who went to Vienna—suddenly showed up alone in Paris relying on me. After much struggling over where to place her, I decided your hotel would be better than keeping her here at mine, and since you're away, I've taken the liberty of using your room. It seems Ms. Makiko discovered her husband had a Hungarian wife and left him. Come to think of it, this year must be my unlucky year. Then a Russian film called *Our Youth* appeared at the Panthéon Theatre. It's magnificent. We're still young. Let us both fully imbue this youth of ours with meaning.

Though I have my own difficulties, I’ve come to feel deeply that Paris is ultimately a good place. I’ve truly lost nearly all desire to travel anywhere. And finally—forgive my abruptness—why have you no intention of marrying Ms. Chizuko? As promised, I too meant to go to Tyrol; but thinking it unwise to create distance between you and Ms. Chizuko, I resolved to refrain. Given who you are, even if Ms. Chizuko follows you there, I suppose things would remain unchanged from before. Yet when expressing oneself, decisiveness becomes necessary. Since coming abroad, you’ve fallen so completely in love with Japan as a nation that people—women especially—seem to have ceased mattering to you; this strikes me as a grave delusion. As you say, I too may now be viewing foreign lands through an unbroken chain of illusions. But you must likewise be seeing everything through illusions diametrically opposed to mine. In truth, regarding which of our opposing perspectives holds validity—I doubt any Japanese person before us could have furnished an answer. Since we must accept that this weighty problem will burden our youth eternally henceforth, I wish to find some means of reconciling our clashing views. Without you, I feel as though one wing has been torn away—it’s lonely. I want you back as soon as may be.

Kuji

Mr. Yashiro Koichiro When Yashiro finished reading the letter, he felt somehow unable to stay put and even considered returning to Paris by night train immediately. He stuffed the letter into his pocket without showing it to Chizuko and then invited her to walk toward the street corner where the fountain rose.

The sky after the rain began to clear as evening approached. The upper floors of Montparnasse's row houses glowed faintly like a mountain range bathed in sunset. Beneath faces that shone with dazzling smiles, the crimson sky mirrored in rainwater pooled on cobblestones—Kuji sat in the café composing a letter to his mother, his gaze fixed on that puddle. Under trees still shedding droplets through their green leaves, wet chairs sat abandoned while voices rose curiously bright from the street below, where pale pink clouds drifted slowly above.

“How is your health? I am in good health, enjoying each day and engaging deeply in my studies.” Kuji had written this line to his mother, but just as in his student days, nothing more would come after it. The cigarette smoke exhaled by a passerby neither flowed nor drifted into any distinct shape, lingering stagnant with an oily hue. Within the twilight-drowned leaves that seemed underwater, a light came on in the clock tower. “When I think of your neuralgia, it makes me gloomy even here—but if you were to visit a hot spring, I would feel at ease. The places I wish to go in Japan are now all hot springs.”

Kuji suddenly thought that where his mother was now lay beneath his feet, and imagined that right about now, she was in the middle of waking at night and thinking about tomorrow's auspicious direction.

Kuji’s mother spent all year making tea while worrying about auspicious directions; even for short trips, if the direction was inauspicious, she would first stay overnight at a relative’s house to disrupt the unfavorable alignment before departing for her destination—such was her way. On the day Kuji departed from Kobe too, since the Dark Sword Killing lay to the west, she had earnestly instructed him to be cautious aboard the ship. There was once a relative’s house where the toilet stood in the southeast direction; in that house lived a daughter in her four-green year. Kuji’s mother had persistently worried about this and repeatedly urged them to change houses. If they stayed there, it was said the daughter would die at twenty-three. The relatives laughed it off, but when that perfectly healthy girl turned twenty-three, she suddenly died of pulmonary gangrene or something within days. Since then, Kuji’s mother had grown even more obsessed with directions; these days, upon hearing someone’s age just once, she could immediately recite from memory whether their monthly directional alignment was favorable. Partly due to his mounting resentment toward her superstitions, and partly because Kuji—an inherent adherent of scientism—found this Oriental astrology utterly unbearable.

“Mother, really—if you take every last one of those things seriously and act on them, even what’s possible becomes impossible, doesn’t it?” “How utterly tiresome.”

Kuji had often scolded his mother. "No, no—we have always kept to the ways passed down from our ancestors, and never once have we been wrong. So as long as you move according to favorable directions, you can be at ease." "As long as humans can have peace of mind, isn’t that happiness?"

For her part, his mother had persisted in upholding the simple traditional beliefs passed down through generations, taking as the foundation of her own science such abstract systems as the twelve zodiac animals starting with the Rat and Ox and the nine celestial bodies—as if these held power equal to the Western abstractions Kuji believed in—and she had refused to budge no matter what anyone said. "The hemisphere beneath these feet moves solely by directions." "It has continued for three thousand years and still shows no sign of tiring indeed."

Thinking this, Kuji found himself disinclined to write anything in his letters to his mother beyond matters of health. However, there was nothing to be done about it being his own mother from the East. At times, as if suddenly remembering, he would write in the margins of his letters about how here there were microscopes that could magnify objects sixty thousand times and telescopes that could see to the farthest reaches of the universe's directions, attempting to shatter the astrology his mother believed in. However, upon realizing that it was now impossible to cast a ray of light into his mother's darkened mind, he also came to understand that the power of his own scientific spirit—which he held as his sole and absolute creed—still left much to be desired in terms of persuasive force. Nor was this limited to his mother alone—indeed, when he considered how even Yashiro, the intellectual who had come with him, was day by day becoming increasingly Eastern in orientation, he clicked his tongue in dismay: "Ah, has even that Yashiro succumbed to the zodiac now?"

As twilight deepened, the light within the marronnier leaves turned yellow like fireflies. Even after Kuji finished writing the letter, not a single car passed on the street.

Ah yes—there had been a strike today, Kuji realized for the first time as he rose from the table. In these turbulent days since Blum’s Socialist cabinet emerged, with the Left-Wing Popular Front gaining ascendancy, successive strikes had left Parisian streets increasingly desolate. That a Socialist cabinet should appear in Paris—a city long boasting itself as European civilization’s heart—marked an unprecedented event since the French Revolution; precisely for this reason, this leftward tilt in political thought ceaselessly buffeted people’s minds like rapids. Thus travelers crossing Europe’s ideological currents found themselves compelled to choose one path over another—they could no longer charge blindly down both roads simultaneously. Even Kuji, who advocated conforming to local customs abroad, found nothing more agonizing than walking these streets while questioning which ideology he truly endorsed. Being Japanese, I devised ways to maintain separateness—yet feared our knowledge alone might be abandoned by the world, leaving us stepchildren.

No—I am a scientific rationalist. Scientific rationalists must advance toward the unification of the world's knowledge, no matter what they say. That is what is called the will of humanism. There's no reason Japanese people can't participate in that.

Kuji thought cheerfully. Whenever the word "humanism" surfaced, he would lose himself in its aesthetic beauty like any impressionable youth—yet this very tendency had him riding an ideological elevator that conveniently maintained his position while allowing leisurely strolls. As he walked, geometric contours seemed to radiate toward his chest like laser sights. Darkness settled over the geometrically balanced city blocks. When inconspicuous daytime roses at the florist’s began glowing luxuriantly, the foreigners who had been out strolling started streaming back to their regular café for dinner. Just as hunger drove Kuji toward his usual restaurant, he came upon Higashino—evidently here for the same purpose.

“It really poured, hasn’t it,” Kuji said, looking up at the sky. “Here you can walk without even raising an umbrella—in that single respect alone, it’s something to be grateful for compared to Japan.” “It’s not just that single respect, surely.”

Higashino, the writer who knew Kuji's cheerful yet peculiarly tenacious honesty, seemed to think Here we go again and smirked. "Are you here for dinner too?"

Higashino sidestepped. There had been an occasion when Kuji confronted Yashiro’s Easternism with his own scientism; he had sought agreement from Higashino, who had been silently listening nearby, only to be retorted with “Yours isn’t scientism—it’s convenientism.” The lingering vexation from that humiliation had settled into an oppressive gloom, but now Kuji suddenly recalled this long-forgotten grudge. “How about it—shall we join forces?”

“Please do,” answered Higashino with a thin smile.

Since coming to Europe, whenever they met people—obliged to respond with foreign etiquette and timing for some implied significance—this suffocating formality had begun to resemble warrior's training for the two men during this period. Especially since Parisian politics had shifted leftward, people's eyes would cross like blades probing whether each man before them belonged to the left or right. Higashino seemed to sense Kuji's combative mood tonight, With a stance declaring "Hmph, come at me from any angle"—a posture welcoming all challengers—he strode ahead, found a recessed vacant seat, and plopped down.

“The strikes are gradually getting worse, aren’t they?” “Well, there might actually be a revolution breaking out.” “I can’t tell anymore.” “It’s beyond us.”

Kuji said with a casually dismissive smile. "But more than that, Japan seems to be in turmoil—last night I met someone who witnessed the February 26th Incident firsthand. It appears Japan too is whirling into rapid motion," Higashino remarked with a slightly troubled expression. "So Japan turns right while we turn left here?"

Kuji clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back against the chair. He could no longer bring himself to ask *Which side are you on?*—but here and now, the very essence of a logical world where no middle ground existed between either extreme had solidified into ideology and political consciousness, piercing through every mind. “What on earth does it mean that in knowledge’s domain—this realm neither right nor left—the middle ground has vanished?” “It existed until just recently, didn’t it?” “Has what persisted until yesterday suddenly disappeared?”

Kuji had no intention of criticizing Higashino, yet naturally and skillfully began to do so without even realizing it. Then Higashino preempted him with a laugh: "No, I'm neither right nor left." Kuji recalled how Higashino had similarly evaded him before and resolved not to let him escape tonight. "So what exactly does that mean? Are you talking about that thing called liberalism?" he pressed. "I do use those foreign abstract terms for analysis," Higashino replied, "but when measuring human psychology in daily life, I take great care to avoid them. They cause more errors than they prevent. You seem to think knowledge can't exist without foreign-made abstractions, but as I told you before—that's just convenientism. If you want convenientism, why suffer? Just follow what others teach. Left or right—those labels don't matter."

“Hmm.”

Kuji appeared to be deep in thought for a moment. However, he could only continue to think that Higashino was a defeatist man who kept fleeing from this ideological reality now pressing in relentlessly, leaving no room for refusal. “So what are you then? Are you dismissing even these intellectual systems—so to speak—that humans have painstakingly built?” “So you consider logic—in other words—to be nothing but a useless appendage, do you?”

Once someone inadvertently let their tongue slip into debate—trapping them in a Parisian time that felt like an inescapable world of pure logic—Higashino briefly made a pained expression, but just then the waiter approached their table. After ordering flounder and chicken, Higashino flung down the menu as if declaring *Well now, it'll only taste worse from here*, and— "And you?" asked Higashino. "I'm fine with that too—no, actually I don't want the flounder after all. Spaghetti." "Spaghetti."

When the waiter left, Higashino laughed and—for some reason— “Why did you choose udon?” he asked. “I like udon with fromage, you know. I haven’t had it in a while.” “I haven’t had it in a while.”

“So you don’t dislike flounder after all.” “I don’t dislike it. I like the light taste of flounder.” “Well then, just consider it a preference.” “That’s precisely what I mean.”

Higashino said this, lit a cigarette, and began closing in on his opponent from afar like a chef leisurely preparing a dish. Kuji, much younger than Higashino, sensed that his adversary's conceptual maneuvers strangely stemmed from culinary matters, and began to realize he had fundamentally misread his opponent. "Lately whenever I see people, I can't help wanting to pick fights—but aren't you suffering from nervous exhaustion too? What you say keeps sounding off."

“What’s strange? You deliberated between flounder and udon before choosing udon, didn’t you? Well, such choices hardly matter—why not try eating both? You insist one must analyze udon’s nutritional value versus flounder’s before eating, or else it won’t satisfy your stomach. But minds exist that would find such overthinking ruins the inherent flavor—rendering the meal not worth eating at all.”

When Kuji realized—Ah, so that was the middle ground Higashino had meant—he burst out laughing. “Then you’re suffering from nervous exhaustion too.” “They’re trying to gobble up both right and left through nervous exhaustion.” “I might try that method myself.”

“It’s not just right and left.” “It’s the top, the bottom, and the middle too.” Higashino further expanded Kuji’s mind, dragged him into a wilderness of confusion, and laughed with composed calmness as if urging, *Well now, get ready*. Kuji felt a haze in his head and, standing momentarily still, concentrated his thoughts on the two forms of flounder and udon.

“However. When there are clear statistical tables here showing the nutritional content of flounder and udon, there can be no precision surpassing that of the minds which created those tables.” “Without trusting that precision, there can be no knowledge.” “What we call scientism refers to the intellectual acuity of human brains that rely on that precision.” “Are you calling even that convenientism?” Higashino began to say something, but after surveying the foreigners gradually filling the spacious hall, abruptly—

“Have you been to Montmartre?” asked Higashino. To bring up something irrelevant at the critical moment when he should have been left reeling—how cowardly, Kuji felt the blood rush to his face for an instant. “You ought to come see Montmartre past midnight. They’re always exchanging fire with light machine guns—the Apache gang. You should visit my place sometime. You’re quite something, you know. But what those fellows say is rather amusing. When it comes to dying, they say a machine gun’s quicker than a sword. This counts as scientific, wouldn’t you agree?”

“But what does that have to do with nutritional value?”

“They’re considering the nutritional value for dying, aren’t they? It’s quite a convenient approach indeed.” Kuji suddenly felt a large pitfall opening before him. Yet now he wanted more than anything to drive a single, absolutely certain nail into Higashino’s eel-like head.

“That directs humans toward death.” “Our nutritional value concerns living—that’s an entirely separate matter.” “It’s precisely when knowledge contemplates how to live that it enriches humanity.” With the sensation of watching an eel sizzle and thrash its tail, Kuji gazed at Higashino while quietly laughing. “Well, that’s right. You must keep living.” Higashino assented with solemnity that seemed to wrench his defeated sentiment into compromise. Just as Kuji thought it would have been better to remain silent and compose haiku from the outset, Higashino—having once again executed an imperceptible grand detour—assaulted him with a sudden shift in tone.

“Even though our knowledge needs to live, convenientism kills even what is alive. What kind of science is it that stabs to death all the vibrant vitality of human emotions? If killing is science, then machine guns are more convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s just your bluff.” Kuji said in a voice like a sudden cry of someone ambushed and grabbed his fork. “There are all kinds of bluffs.” “Exquisite scientific conclusions all take the form of a bluff.” “Bluff itself is the truth.” “Not that you’d understand.”

At Higashino’s outrageous way of speaking, Kuji fell silent. He tightly clutched the fork in his hand. His head kept buzzing incessantly; he had drunk a lot of wine, but thinking it would make him even more breathless, he drank water. However, no matter how much Kuji thought and thought, the next words would not come out. And yet, he couldn’t feel that he had been absolutely defeated. If we were to lose here, then what had this highest civilization of Europe taught us?

When the flounder and spaghetti arrived, Higashino said, “Kuji, let’s pause our debate for a while. This fine meal will go to waste otherwise. After all, knowledge must vitalize things,” and picked up his knife. Thinking Higashino meant to resume arguing, Kuji felt his head might detach from his neck and take flight. “You keep emphasizing particularities of objects and ethnicities precisely when we Orientals agonize over pursuing knowledge’s universality,” Kuji retorted. “In that regard, you’re just like Yashiro. Though Yashiro doesn’t dig pitfalls like you do, talking with you renders words’ generality useless. Frankly, I’ve never met anyone as illogical as you. I see no progress there. You’re being absurd.”

“Ah, let’s eat first.” “It’s not that I’m saying what you’re saying is wrong.” “Do you know shogi?” Higashino suddenly pulled an absurd face and drank his wine.

“What is it? Are you going to drop me into another pitfall?” “Indeed—I intend to try dropping you into one. I’ll make sure you fall!”

“No—I won’t fall for it anymore.”

Kuji shook his head, wound spaghetti around his fork, and ate hurriedly. “That won’t do.” “Unless you experience falling where you ought to fall, scientism will never bear fruit.” “You insist on choosing only the safe paths that others have already spoken of or trodden.” “It is precisely because European science fell into the places it had to fall that it has blossomed so splendidly.” “You cling to science like a lion, thinking you mustn’t stray from the path—but a path isn’t something that’s been there from the start.” “Your path is one you must create yourself; it’s not something others will pave for you.”

Kuji, feeling mentally exhausted from navigating the labyrinth, let out a sigh and began dimly realizing that this old man's weapon was of a peculiarly strange sort. "I don't believe there are so many types of logic—your own logic, others' logic—as you seem to think there are. If that were truly the case, there'd be no need to deliberately call logic 'knowledge.'" "It's all just your sensations." "Sensation isn't public knowledge."

“What exactly is knowledge without sensation? I can’t say I understand, but anyway—tonight, just plunge into this empirical sensation we call a feast.” “Then you’ll understand the technique of cooking.” “Knowledge without technique isn’t science.” “If you consider that everything arises from sensation, you can only gain and never lose.” “You’ve gone out of your way to immerse yourself all the way in Europe, but if you don’t grasp even a single sensation here, you’ll end up merely failing to understand the connection between Europe’s technical order and science, won’t you?” “What are you tormenting yourself so much for? Is there any need to turn into a fool?”

Kuji, who had been continuously cornered, felt a vibration-like sensation from his tailbone reverberate through his brain as the wine circulated more swiftly through him. Then, as both fatigue and alcohol vanished, Kuji grew increasingly animated. Each time he lifted his back from the sofa’s Moroccan leather, the crackling sound of his clothing peeling away from the leather—warmed by his body heat—echoed sharply through his spine.

“Today I’ll let the elders take the flowers.” “Well, this can’t be helped either.” Kuji said, grabbed the bird’s leg that had been served, and bit into it.

“Come on, it’s not like I’ve lost all my spirit.” “Paris has no such thing as age.” “Here we’ve got nothing but pieces that strip away logic’s veneer of universality—no choice but to use ’em.” “In shogi there’s a piece called the knight—why’s that bastard leap diagonally over one square? You still don’t get it.” “When push comes to shove, that’s what makes the king surrender.” “Tonight I tried putting you in royal chariot check—which’ll you give me?” “Come on—answer!”

Even as they laughed amicably together, Higashino’s verbal blade suddenly thrust forth from within that very moment left Kuji all the more unable to formulate a reply. When he tried to silently pour wine into Higashino’s glass, Higashino clamped his hand over the rim. “Your answer.” “The rook or the king?”

Higashino's face—too severe for a joke yet bearing a mischievous look—was declaring that a single response would determine your worth.

“Alright! Then I’ll make sure to beat you tonight!” “Let’s settle this properly.”

Kuji declared and downed the wine in one gulp.

“Are you relinquishing both king and rook?” Higashino suddenly flipped the shogi board as if mid-game and, smiling, poured wine from his own bottle into Kuji’s glass. Kuji grew increasingly irritated by Higashino’s habit of slipping free whenever pressure was applied and striking at vital points the moment vigilance wavered. In the cavernous depths of the room, heavy with tobacco smoke, vigorous debates between left and right factions erupted from every corner. Talk swirled about Trotskyists dominating Communist Party activities and tacit agreements forming between them and Stalinists. Amid discussions of strikes raging fiercest in northern departments and near Marseille, only the diminutive man—rumored to be Germany’s former finance minister—sat silently nursing his post-dinner coffee, indifferent to the surrounding discourse. The lanky youth purported to be a Russian prince—dull-eyed and narrow-browed—paced incessantly through the crowd without engaging anyone. Beside Higashino, a German youth immersed himself in Yanagita Kunio’s *Japanese Legend Collection* in its original text, while others debated leftist matters in their native tongues. At one table, a heated argument culminated in such violent pounding that a waiter mistook it for a summons and hurried over.

When the meal ended, Kuji and Higashino felt a postprandial lethargy and remained silent for a time. Then, Kuji suddenly asked Higashino.

“Do you truly feel no interest in either the left wing or the right wing?” “That’s precisely what I want to ask you.” “Which side are you on?” “I thought I’d been speaking to you about nothing but that all along—must I really rehash it again?” Higashino answered in a drained voice while watching the foreigners. “No—I haven’t asked yet.” “To me, you—a Japanese entangled here—are far more intriguing to observe than any foreign leftists or rightists.” “What truly worries me is what someone like you even intends to do upon returning to Japan.”

“Hmm.”

Kuji uttered a brief remark and fell silent for a moment. “On earth, what do you intend to do once you return? The era when merely going abroad held any value is long gone. If you apply the left-wing or right-wing theories acquired here directly to Japan as they are, they’ll inevitably become riddled with errors—that much is certain. Yet even so, you can’t possibly remain the same as you were before coming here. After all, whether it’s you or me, the fact remains that our very consciousness for perceiving things has gone mad. So the only question left is where and how we’ll adjust our own accuracy from here on out.”

“Please wait a moment.” Kuji, with an even more contemplative air, cradled his head and began staring at the table. “What exactly do you mean by our consciousness having gone mad?” “Both you and I have become unable to express in a way that matches what we’ve witnessed with the words conceived in our minds.” “Before coming here, even when reading or hearing about foreign lands, we still had the advantage of not having seen reality—each could freely construct fantasies, assign them meaning, and regard them as legitimate formulas like equations.” “But now we’ve shattered those illusions—and even the act of shattering defies meaning.” “It’s as if they’re laughing at us—‘Serves you right!’”

With these words, Higashino maintained a lonely smile tinged with self-mockery and did not take his eyes off the face of the foreign woman he had been watching all along.

“But human perception doesn’t change whether in foreign countries or Japan—if such differences existed, nobody would trust knowledge anymore. We came here to observe how the essence of modern thought we sensed in Japan actually functions here. The more we see what substantiates these ideologies, the more enriched we’ve become—isn’t that right?”

“That’s precisely why you’re the one worrying me,” Higashino said. “If what you’ve observed can’t be applied as-is, what will you do? What Japan shares with what we’ve seen here amounts to mere fragments. Yet your intellectual class believes all of it exists back home intact. So why must they ape our side so eagerly? The masses won’t stir. Each faction deems the other fools—and those fools return the sentiment.” Kuji leaned forward, his voice tightening. “But if the Japanese harbor so many errors, we must declare them as such through some means. Speaking even a little surpasses silence.”

“However, it’s a question of what to do when it’s the thoughts of the masses—not the Japanese intellectual class—that are correct.” “These days, it’s become far more common for those masses who haven’t seen foreign lands to be correct than for those of us who have.” “Even if they’re mistakes, must we treat them as correct?” Kuji uttered irritably and laughed, lowering his gaze. Having said his piece, Higashino now seemed unable to hear even Kuji’s words. For the beautiful woman with unnaturally blue eyes whom he had been watching was being clutched tightly by a bald, one-eyed publisher despite her literary husband’s presence beside them. The handsome husband maintained a pretense of ignoring his wife—who was being drawn ever closer by the one-eyed man while giggling delightedly—wearing a smugly bearded expression as he calmly debated left-wing politics in English with the guest beside him.

At that moment, Yashiro entered from the doorway, sunburnt and glancing around. Spotting Kuji, he approached and lightly tapped his shoulder. “Oh, when did you get back?” “Just now.” Yashiro sat down beside Kuji and began gazing nostalgically at the ceiling of the dining area he hadn’t seen in ages. “But Mr. Higashino,” Kuji said again to Higashino, who was intently watching the blue-eyed woman’s movements. “Rather than thinking about ourselves after returning to Japan, I believe it would be more beneficial—while we’re still here—to consider our own affairs under the assumption that we’ll remain here permanently from now on.”

“As you can see, I’m being outdone tonight.” Higashino said, looking at Yashiro. “You?” “Of course—the one over there.” “Don’t spout nonsense,” Kuji said, lifting his head. “This Higashino here says things nearly identical to what Yashiro does.” “Only he’s slightly better at driving his points home than you.” “Generally speaking, I’ve always concerned myself with universal discourse—if an idea doesn’t hold globally, discussing it becomes pure waste.” “Yet you and Higashino keep dragging conversations into matters that only matter within Japan—obsessively plotting to choke off my arguments.” “The very notion that we Japanese can smugly confine our ideas to domestic relevance—that’s what most fundamentally warps our nation.” “That was settled long ago, wasn’t it?” “Where exactly lies the error in it?”

“So those who’ve erred now presume to save the world?” Yashiro plunged the blade he’d let rest in the mountains—a single decisive thrust. “What nonsense is that?” Kuji glared silently at Yashiro before releasing a dry laugh— “You don’t love Japan. You’re infatuated with Japan. And infatuation alone defies scientific analysis.” “That there are things beyond analysis—you’ve finally grasped that much lately, haven’t you?”

“That’s what’s destroying Japan.” “The ones trying to destroy Japan might already be emerging.” After Yashiro and Kuji began their clash, the one-eyed man—still embracing the blue-eyed woman—ignored his surroundings and persistently wooed her, bringing his mouth close to her lips. Beside them, the woman’s husband continued supporting the idealist Trotskyists to the point of weariness while ceaselessly denouncing the realist Stalinist faction.

Kuji and Yashiro’s heads too were struck by the resounding English of the American, their debate having come to an abrupt halt—when suddenly Kuji demanded irritably of Yashiro: “But can we strip away ideals? With a mind stripped of ideals, how could one build anything?”

“What does it mean to think about ideals through translated terms?” “Are you saying country folks who obsess over urban ideals in standard language will just die out?” Kuji fell abruptly silent, his fist trembling slightly. “Can there be academic progress if we don’t strive to participate in this world’s humanism? Do you think morality can even exist?” “But even in our Orient, humanism exists—it certainly exists. Yet it’s somewhat different from this Western humanism. I won’t say which is better now, but if they differ, then to bring them closer, we must reflect on ourselves… on ourselves and Japan.”

Kuji formed a smile as bitter as laughter sinking into his mouth, then suddenly adopted a mocking tone in a low voice. "Is there truly any distinction between Orient and Occident in humanism?" "Isn't the very absence of such distinction why we embrace that ideal?" "Do you mean to eternally repeat this drill of denying even existing Orient-Occident divisions through your intellectual class vanity?" "In short—that's your drill." "If this drill stems from analytical power, wouldn't that be humanity's protective path?" "There exists but one immutable path none can shift." "That's what analytical power pursues—does analysis itself recognize East or West?" "If defeated by universal standards, the loser is simply weaker." "That much admits no dispute."

Kuji declared as if delivering a final blow, pulling down one shoulder and staring fixedly at Yashiro. “You can’t see beyond just where you’ve lost.” “Analytical power turns even victories into defeats.” “Look! Can you truly call this state fully alive?” Beside Kuji and Yashiro’s ongoing debate, Higashino—already seeming irritated by their quarrel—kept his eyes unwaveringly fixed on the one-eyed man’s unsettlingly fervent expression, like a beast courting its prey. Whether the woman’s husband, aiming to make his mark in Paris, was letting his wife consort freely with the one-eyed publisher, or whether the wife herself—single-mindedly wishing for her husband’s advancement—was yielding to the man’s advances, Higashino’s gaze remained taut with curiosity about their secret from beginning to end. Yet for reasons unclear, the writer husband showed not the slightest disturbance over his wife’s infidelity. He insisted that the idealist Trotskyists would inevitably clash with the Stalinist faction’s maneuvers in the near future, and that Parisian strikes would be exploited by capitalist interests.

Higashino observed with calm composure whether the husband’s argument—even as it satirized the bestiality of the one-eyed man exploiting vulnerabilities in his wife’s heart—was being articulated in such a way.

“Are you done here? If so, let’s leave and change venues.” Higashino said this to the two after watching the woman sharply turn her face away the instant the one-eyed man attempted to steal a kiss from her lips.

Even after Kuji had ordered the waiter to bring the bill, the two remained silent for a while.

When they stepped out onto the street, the lined café terraces spreading across the pavement were packed with people.

A car passed by with its open roof packed with people. From that roof, those who had clenched their fists and raised them shouted in unison, "Front Populaire (People’s Front)!" Then even those walking along both sides of the road raised their clenched fists in solidarity. "When did things become like this?" "It’s changing moment by moment." Yashiro said as he watched the receding car. "This happens every day now."

Kuji wore an expression that seemed to say what was coming had simply arrived. “Japan will be quick to imitate this too,” Yashiro said with a laugh. “It’s already happening,” said Higashino. “Things like film, cameras, and electricity—since no country has traditions in them, they can be easily competed over. But ideologies of this sort without tradition are mere forms—they’ll trend briefly before the next one emerges.” “Like how car designs change every year.” “Yet now that you mention it, even tradition has become formalized—a kind of traditional framework. Temples stay temples, scientists stay scientists.” “You’re no different, Kuji.” “You’re a technician who mistakes ideological forms for ideology itself.”

To such Yashiro, Kuji turned back from a step ahead,

“Let’s go to Montmartre.” “Then comes the real battle.”

Having said that, he walked toward the subway. In front of the subway, a young man clutching a stack of pamphlets to his chest shouted, “Buy this! Here are listed the addresses and families of all 250 bourgeois households in Paris.” “When the time comes, crush these bastards right away!” he shouted while selling them. “When it comes to Japan’s bourgeois, there are two hundred fifty of them here.” “Compared to that, Japan has only two.” “If there are only two, then Japan is far too poor to even be called capitalist.”

“In that case, are you still going to increase them?” Kuji turned back to look at Yashiro again.

“That’s right. If we don’t increase it to at least a hundred, we can’t compete with the culture here. The Japanese government’s annual budget equals the City of Paris’s annual budget, doesn’t it? Even if they rant about capitalism—where exactly is there any capitalism here to destroy? Japan has been purely spiritual collectivism since the Nara period. In a country without capitalism, waving around left-wing logic would only make younger brothers beat their parents and elder brothers to death. Japanese people could never do such things.”

“Japan has been spiritual collectivism—where did that opinion come from?” As Kuji descended into the metro entrance assaulted by stifling carbon dioxide fumes, he asked Yashiro. “Isn’t that written in history? When emperors venerated temples, temples amassed vast temple lands. Then the Fujiwara clan compelled them to reduce these holdings. Next, when the Fujiwara supplanted the temples and expanded their manors, Emperor Go-Suzaku consulted Regent Yorimichi to plan manor liberation. Then came the samurai—when they grew despotic and posed as champions of the people, they were suppressed in turn. When pawnbrokers and liquor stores began squeezing the people’s blood instead of samurai, they ordered samurai to crush them immediately. Japanese politics has been an unbroken chain of spiritual collectivism.” “When logic failed to take precedence and reason prevailed into Meiji—that’s when your beloved European intellect crept in. This analytical force dissected everything—reason and emotion alike—defining Taisho and Showa eras.” “Analyze parents or masters and they lose their worth—only oneself remains worthy of gratitude.” “But start analyzing even yourself and you realize how utterly banal you are.” “Those who’ve lost all sense of what deserves gratitude—that’s what we call the intellectual class.” “We weren’t meant to become this—yet here we are—and when we looked up, there stood this country.” “I came here heartsick with longing for true freedom’s spirit—yet all I find are Left Wing and Right Wing squabbles.” “Ah—if only that existed—”

Yashiro said and abruptly stopped in the middle of the subway stairs, "This—it's nothing but carbon dioxide!" he suddenly exclaimed. Higashino looked up at the ceiling and tugged at Yashiro’s sleeve as he stood blocking the way, “Well, fine then. Let’s go, let’s go. People should at least see what there is to see,” Higashino said as he boarded the metro. “Let’s go see a place in Montmartre where they exchange fire with light machine guns.” As Kuji led the two and searched for seats ahead of them, the train began to move.

The area of Montmartre after exiting the metro appeared as a sea of light gently sloping and flowing beneath a thin haze. The amusement districts here too, unlike those in Montparnasse, were imbued with an old-world charm. The three left behind the bustling streets and climbed the ascending slope toward the summit. The road paved with pottery-like cobblestones remained uneven yet allowed smooth passage. The winding slope extending from beneath the eaves of blue gas lamps was now devoid of any passersby. Each time they passed black silhouettes of people standing motionless like trees—still locked in embrace—the three fell abruptly silent.

“There’s a poet named Saijō Yaso,” Higashino said. “Apparently, one night when he was walking alone here, someone suddenly choked him from behind. When he came to his senses about thirty minutes later, he found himself collapsed right in the middle of this slope.”

Higashino said and looked around the area. Higashino’s voice resonated clearly within the thickly wooded slope. The buildings, their color like aged blood, had all their windows closed, and the loosened gaps between the cobblestones of the road wriggled upward in black, squirming like scales of intense texture.

“I don’t know what’s come over me tonight—I can’t help wanting to argue. Maybe it’s from being in the mountains?” Yashiro muttered under his breath. “You’ll find no shortage of opponents here.” The gaslight filtering through young leaves cast sharp shadows across Kuji’s stern forehead as he turned without smiling. “Every corner reeks of politics these days. The Right Wing and Left Wing clashes at the Paris Festival should make fine theater. But if you two don’t settle your debates soon, there’ll be blood spilled by July fourteenth.” Higashino laughed dryly, pausing on the suffocating slope.

“They say they already finished composing the People’s Front’s song yesterday.” “The national anthem isn’t La Marseillaise anymore—they say it’s become the People’s Front’s song now.” To this Kuji, Yashiro— “But isn’t the Right Wing’s Marseillaise itself a revolutionary song?” “And now another revolutionary song?” he laughed with apparent amusement. “No matter how many revolutions come and go, only temples will endure forever.” Higashino gazed up at Sacré-Cœur Basilica’s spire rising sharply above them and spoke. As they neared the summit, crumbling buildings took on hues stained by maroon and greenish oils. Preserved as a historic district where renovations were forbidden, this antique hat crowning Paris made it impossible to guess what dwelled within. Each time he spotted light leaking through a window—likely near where nightly machine-gun exchanges occurred—Kuji tried peering inside.

On the doorway of a small establishment with only "Café" written on it, there was a small window within sight. When Kuji peered inside from there, he found it was a café in Paris filled almost exclusively with female staff rarely seen here.

“There are waitresses here.” “This is unusual, isn’t it?” “Let’s go in for a bit.” “My throat’s dry.”

Without consulting anyone, Kuji pushed open the door with his shoulder and went in alone. Yashiro and Higashino followed through the narrow entrance that forced them to turn sideways, then leaned against the creaking chairs. The air in the dim, narrow room assaulted their nostrils with the stale stench of sweat. “This place is filthy. Let’s get out of here.” Just as Yashiro said this and started to rise, three young waitresses from the group of about ten who resembled flower girls suddenly clung to him.

“Oh? Leaving already?” “Fine then.” “Give us cigarettes.”

Twisting their bodies unnecessarily and swaying their hips as they pressed closer, the bones of their protruding wrists stood prominent and large. On top of their terrible body odor, from beneath the mottled white powder on both sides of their noses, bumpy fat deposits were rising. The women who were also pestering Kuji and Higashino for cigarettes each hunched their shoulders and pleaded in honeyed voices for cigarettes. Kuji and the other two, their faces similarly contorted in frowns, silently handed over cigarettes, and once released, the women began to smoke while each started singing nasal-voiced, somber songs.

“These are men indeed.” Kuji whispered in a low voice to Yashiro.

“Hmm.”

Yashiro nodded in a way that suggested he too had actually been suspicious from the start. The more one looked, the more they seemed entirely women from every angle, yet there remained an undeniable point at their core that was unmistakably male. And as they looked over the women one by one, even the woman at the counter and the woman playing the violin—all of them were men. Kuji felt a bad feeling run through his chest each time, as if he were discovering a blue lizard wriggling out from beneath a rotten mat he had just pulled away. The women who had been exposed as men no longer approached them, but another set came and cheerfully asked in feminine voices, "What will you have?"

The three ordered beer, but even when the glasses were set out, each of them only took a perfunctory sip, and due to the unpleasantness, they neither drank further nor spoke. The women who had first approached Kuji and the others remained huddled in the corner of the room, as if ashamed of being disliked, sullenly keeping their heads bowed and staying silent under the blue light indefinitely. As Kuji thought how devastating this would surely be if they were real women, he found it strange that their sorrowful appearance now began to look like real women once more,

“Oh?” Kuji doubted himself for an instant. Though he knew they were undeniably men, the gradual deepening of his uneasy pity made him feel as though he were stepping into some strange new world. Even if this was their artifice, perhaps each had already become an ideal woman surpassing even those who had transcended manhood. “I can’t stand this anymore,” Yashiro said. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s get out,” said Yashiro. No sooner had he begun to move than the women, who until now had been sullen, suddenly pressed themselves against Yashiro with startling swiftness. “I can’t breathe anymore.”

“What for?” “Huh?” “Huh?”

The woman smiled coquettishly while throwing an arm around Yashiro’s neck and peering into his face, but finding nothing to say, she pestered him again for a cigarette. The woman at the counter darted her eyes sharply over the waitresses from afar as if assessing their performance, her gaze glinting over them. Only the woman playing the violin swayed her body loosely in time with the music. As he watched, each woman remained fixed in her position like a cryptogam, her gaze engrossed in some sodden pleasure. Even the pervasive squalor surrounding them possessed an artistry approaching exquisite realism—the culmination of painstaking refinements.

Kuji felt as though he had become a living audience member who had climbed onto the stage. When he glanced at Higashino and Yashiro, both of whom remained unaware they had become actors, they now appeared to him as two bitterly swollen radishes resembling talentless monkeys.

"Ah—this had already abstracted reality." While absentmindedly stroking his knee with this thought, Kuji—now wanting to peer into the women's very consciousness—scrutinized how they bent their wrists when walking, the width between their feet as they stepped, and the precise way their wigs adhered.

“Alright, the check.” When Yashiro said this, a woman approached Kuji.

“Oh, are you leaving already?”

As the woman said this, she placed a hand on Kuji’s knee. The broad man’s stifling body heat and rough exhaled breath struck his cheek. Even Kuji—that devoted Paris enthusiast—felt a chill and could no longer endure it.

Following Yashiro, Kuji and Higashino also stepped outside, but the moment they exited, all three burst out laughing together. As three or four customers who looked like travelers entered in their place, everyone turned back and wiped their faces. "Ah, I feel sick. Isn't there somewhere to clear my head?" "I'm going to be sick," said Yashiro as he led the way up toward the mountain summit, "What kind of ideology was that anyway?" he asked Kuji. "Well, truth be told, I was completely defeated by that myself."

With Kuji’s voice like that, the momentum of everyone’s debate until evening seemed to blow away in an instant. “I didn’t know about that place either.” “Next up is the machine gun, I tell you.” “Visiting the upper temple’s also a pain.” Higashino said and chuckled quietly to himself.

At the plaza beside the temple at the summit, beach parasols with about twenty hanging tassels each stood open, beneath which round tables draped with Benkei-striped cloths were spread across the area. The terrace there was fashioned in an old-fashioned open-air style unlike any other. On each table, lamps emitted faint trails of oil smoke from beneath cornflower shadows. In the center of that spacious terrace devoid of any other customers, the three settled down and ordered lemonade; but as they leaned their elbows on the table and sighed, they burst into laughter again without knowing who started it. Their faces were like those of prisoners who had just fled from a shared eerie cave. Amidst their smiling faces avoiding each other’s gazes, the lamp chimney creaked quietly, like a cicada.

“This area’s like a jack-in-the-box.” As Kuji, while drinking his lemonade and glancing around the dim surroundings, said this, Yashiro— “When they say they exchange machine gun fire, where exactly is that? Is that also the mouth of a jack-in-the-box?” “Is that also the mouth of a jack-in-the-box?” he asked. “At night, the Apache gangs around here apparently clash over turf wars.” “However, Mr. Higashino, they’re not actually doing it for real—isn’t this just some passenger优待 promotion they’re putting on?” “This area certainly feels a bit suspicious.”

“That’s them unwittingly giving you the special treatment, I tell you.”

Higashino answered with a composed face. At first, the two appeared unable to grasp the meaning, but they suddenly burst into laughter again. "Well, they might actually be receiving a monthly salary from the city office for this—not unlike that café earlier—and putting on some kind of live performance art."

And this time, Kuji pondered earnestly. "But even as art—if it kills—it ceases to be art." "Only what lives can be art." "That business back there—it was too alive and went wrong." "Art must murder one precise point to become truth," said Higashino. "Anyway—shall we go witness those machine guns tonight?" "Or perhaps seek real women?" "I find myself craving nature's return this evening." Kuji looked at Yashiro and grinned wolfishly.

“You’ve finally come out with it, huh? But if that café had real women, would we be here in front of this temple now?”

Yashiro said and looked up at the white Sacré-Cœur tower towering before his eyes. “Well then, shall we call it a night and go peacefully? “But honestly, a world without arguments is downright dull.” “Feels like our work here’s finished.” “God must’ve messed up somewhere, making us get along this well!” Kuji said and tilted his head back toward the temple tower. “Just think how much idiotic effort Parisians wasted building this temple on a mountain.” “Machine guns going off nightly’s only natural.” “Like the gunfire’s preaching: ‘Forget your ancestors’ struggles and get punished!’”

Higashino seemed to recall his original purpose of visiting the mountain to worship and gave a slight bow toward Sacré-Cœur. Yashiro's eyes momentarily gleamed. "Mr. Higashino, do you too sometimes find human toil appears foolish? I often feel that way myself." "Well, that's primarily because I myself have diligently pursued foolish endeavors. Yet when even one person acts foolishly, those doing good deeds become equally guilty. That's precisely what makes humans interesting, don't you agree? Anyway, let's descend now. Then tonight I'd like to witness this 'return to nature' you all keep mentioning."

“Alright, humans are equally guilty. Let’s go.”

Kuji said and, after ordering the bill, stood up. “Now it’s time for a real showdown!”

Yashiro also said. Before long, the three descended from the mountain toward the entertainment district below, each casting their shadow behind them. In Paris, at Montmartre’s foot lay many of the highest-class dance halls. Choosing one vying for top rank among them, they entered inside. Maison Rouge was red throughout. From brass instrument pipes entwined with the not-too-wide front musicians came a tightly modulated sound already assailing Kuji’s heart. He suddenly recalled his appointment to meet Makiko then, but upon sitting in the chair forgot it at once. After dancers gathered around them, champagne arrived promptly in an ice-filled bucket. Those who danced danced at the room’s center; those who rested rested in chairs.

“Haha, this is a 1926 vintage, isn’t it?”

Higashino read the champagne label and nodded appreciatively. According to his explanation, that year had yielded the finest grapes in half a century, making its vintage indisputably superior. The mixed-race dancer from the West Indies—her teeth gleaming white—possessed a taut, agile body; even at rest, she laughed in sync with the music, turned her head, chattered away, and tapped rhythm with her knees. None could escape the ceaseless pulse of the band. The ever-ascending rhythm swayed the room's atmosphere endlessly, like a ship ferrying its passengers. The Italian woman with Carmen-esque spiral curls at her temples laughed incessantly while pouring champagne. Smiles that begged the question "What's so amusing?" adorned not just the dancers but every patron. With the band's relentless playing, one ceased to perceive music filling the space at all. Hearts simply kept advancing toward some indefinable center.

“The women here are genuine. There’s no way this has all been lies up till now.”

Kuji said and patted the Italian’s shoulder. “But this doesn’t seem natural either.” Yashiro raised his glass and laughed again for no reason. “That’s right—this is it. No matter where we go, it seems we can no longer return to nature.” “We’re just being swept along.” “So, Mr. Higashino, are you still thinking about composing haiku?”

Kuji peered eagerly into Higashino’s face. Higashino grasped the Italian woman’s arm and, “This woman keeps asking why I look so lonely—do I really still seem that way?” he countered. “Delicious, this champagne,” Yashiro remarked, lifting his glass in solitary toast.

“However, when told by such a woman that I look lonely, I can’t help but feel rather strange.” “It’s like listening to a telephone call from a line that’s been attached to my rear end since a thousand years ago, with the words coming out from there,” said Higashino. “Hey—they say you’ve got a telephone call.” “Hahaha, let’s dance with the telephone!” With a body thoroughly intoxicated, Kuji lifted the Italian’s arm. Yashiro also danced with the West Indies dancer. When a flower seller brought roses, the French dancer who was nearby asked Higashino if she could buy them. Without even looking at the roses, Higashino moved his head once. Then, a small rose that would cost twenty sen in Japan was priced at thirty yen. Even if thirty yen were fifty yen, the band had already lifted Higashino’s head before he knew it. From a corner of the room, a manager who appeared to be Jewish and had been intently staring at the customers’ champagne emerged, timing his rotation of the bottles to ensure the champagne made even contact with the ice. As champagne was poured into glasses, plates were stacked on the table, and in this dance hall where the number of plates determined the entertainment expenses, the columns of plates were designed to grow taller as heads grew dizzier. Every time Kuji danced and returned to his chair, the Italian woman did not press Higashino to dance.

“Nah—can’t dance with a telephone.”

Higashino said in Japanese. Despite not understanding a word of Japanese, the woman nodded along and laughed. By now, the three of them wouldn’t even try to listen to anyone’s words. While offering champagne to the dancers and each talking about whatever they pleased, “Well, what do we have here?” Yashiro laughed as he looked at the plates stacked high like pillars. “Haha, you’re full of energy! You’re alive and kicking, you bastard!”

Kuji also laughed amusedly while looking at the plates on the table. Initially a single column, the pillar of plates split into two and grew taller. Before they knew it, guests filled the room completely, but the three could no longer see any other faces. The Italian woman spoke exclusively to Higashino—who was being most avoided by her fellow women—out of pity. Even as Higashino occupied himself with offering Japanese-style palm readings by making Carmen open her hand and inquiring about ideal times to visit Italy, Kuji and Yashiro kept dancing vigorously. Soon what had been two columns began multiplying into three, their beautifully segmented joints aligning like bamboo shoots after rain as each competed to tower highest on the table.

“This is interesting—a deadly serious contest going on here.” As Kuji said this, he gazed at the columns of plates with delighted eyes—like someone measuring the height of a child he had raised. “Have they finally returned to nature?” Higashino had remarked, but Yashiro seemed to be developing defiance against this exploitative tactic—flaunting customer consumption without concealment while stealing their time through relentless plate-stacking.

“Alright, keep it coming!” As he said this, he poured champagne for himself and sprinkled it over the dancers too. Faced with this Yashiro who had barged in like a swordsman making his strike, Kuji refused to be outdone. The champagne in the cup he brought to his mouth spilled halfway onto his knuckles, yet still he rose to dance and spilled more down his front. All the while, the nearly tireless band kept extending the columns of plates like farmers fertilizing their crops.

Having finished a dance and returned, Kuji heavily leaned back against his chair when suddenly the pillars of plates caught his eye. Then, suddenly reminded by the form of those pillars, he recalled those columns supporting the roof at the four corners of Notre-Dame’s inner sanctum—countless small, vertebrae-like segments stacked one upon another.

“Ah—this place is a temple!”

Kuji involuntarily raised his voice.

“A temple?” “That might be it—I do hear something like sutras being chanted.” “Alright—let’s keep at it!” Yashiro said and danced again with the Italian. It remained unclear when, who, or why anyone drank—only the plates kept climbing upward at a mysteriously rapid pace on their own. “This thing—it’s acting like it’s got a mind of its own.” Every time the plates caught his eye, Kuji chuckled to himself and drank champagne. Even amidst the uproarious laughter, the manager showed not a trace of smile—silently appearing, rotating champagne bottles in the ice with meticulous care, stacking plates, then vanishing again. Higashino—perhaps sensing Kuji and Yashiro’s rivalry might never end—raised his hand like a referee signaling victory,

“Come on—let’s head back now.”

After telling the two, he instructed the Italian to settle the bill. When they looked at the bill that arrived promptly, it amounted to over two thousand francs. After pooling their wallets and going outside, the three decided to spend the night at Higashino’s hotel and once again climbed the slope of Montmartre.

The clock was already nearing three in the morning. There were no pedestrians at all. Between the tall dark buildings，the piercing gas lamps cast a bluish light like moonlight. Having emerged abruptly from a world of crimson hues and clamor into midnight’s silent depths，the three walked wordlessly for a time，each keeping their distance. Then Kuji suddenly approached Yashiro’s side and grabbed him by the head.

“Hey—how was Tyrol?” To Kuji, who had only now first asked about the trip, Yashiro seemed unable to find a response; he merely said “Hmm,” then fell silent.

“Hmm.” “So that’s all you’ve got to say?” “The glacier was good.” “I’m not talking about glaciers.” “Then what?” “You’re an idiot.” “Didn’t I warn you enough?” “Get married. Get married.” “Your Japanese nationalism may be childish, but you’re irreplaceable to me.” “Just marry Ms. Chizuko already.” “Otherwise, once you go back to Japan, you and her will never meet again.”

“Why is my Japanese nationalism immature?” “Isn’t it perfectly natural for Japanese people to become Japanese nationalists?”

Yashiro grabbed Kuji’s gesturing arm and stared at his face. “Childish—that thing of yours. Even if you swagger about with that nonsense here, who in all of Paris would ever imitate it?” “Who in this world could even manage to imitate it?”

“You fool,” Kuji said, shaking Yashiro by the neck. “Has there ever been success in selling something that can’t be imitated? True greatness lies in making others imitate you.” “Then what are you imitating?” Yashiro pressed again. “I’m simply demonstrating how to imitate the world. If you boast without being able to imitate even one thing, that only proves your inability.”

“How long do you plan to keep up this monkey mimicry?” As Yashiro spoke, he tried to wrench himself away from Kuji. “If you can’t imitate something, then try until you can.” “That’s what real training means.” “Why do you think we’re sweating up this slope right now?” “You think you can climb this steep hill without imitating anything?” “Hmph—this is a chest-piercing slope.” “The world’s own chest-piercing slope.” “Get your ribs battered harder—train! Train!” “What in hell were you doing in Tyrol?”

As Kuji spoke, he shoved Yashiro forcefully. Yashiro pushed himself off the stone wall with one hand while retorting, "You don't understand the suffering inherent to human history! Can Japanese people escape the anguish of being Japanese? If you want to flee, then flee!" When Yashiro lunged at Kuji again—who was trying to break free like a drawn sword—Higashino, having approached from behind, pulled them apart.

“Hey, hold on—you’re really going at it.”

Kuji and Yashiro turned around and looked at Higashino’s face. In the meantime, the staccato bursts of what sounded like machine guns—reminiscent of beating tatami mats during year-end cleaning—reached them from afar, slightly muffled yet distinct. Kuji, who had been straining his ears in a daze while doubting the reality of it all, suddenly recalled from that sound the machine guns of military drills he had often heard late at night in his study on Tokyo’s outskirts. Then, for an instant, his room and desk floated before his eyes with a raw vividness.

“They’re at it, huh,” said Yashiro, staring toward the sound piercing through the gaslight’s glow.

The three of them climbed up the slope side by side again, but no one spoke a word. The clear single notes that pierced through the air continued for a while before stopping abruptly. The shadows of the three people, mingled on the now-quiet slope, overlapped at length while shifting back and forth with sword-sharp edges. When they came around to the gaslight below that lane where water flowed down over the stone pavement, a woman in jet-black clothing stood motionless alone, seemingly waiting for someone. Shortly after passing by her side, Kuji turned to look back. The man in the hunting black jacket kicked the woman’s waist with his knee and received a retaliatory blow to the forehead; then the two wordlessly made their way down the slope, looking exhausted.

Having finished applying the razor, Kuji replaced his collar with the refreshed feeling of one who had just woken from sleep. Across the street, on the stone roof of the architecture school covered in a blanket of grass, iris flowers stood vertically in a row at their peak bloom. As Kuji gazed at the pale blue sky above the iris flowers with the feeling of one observing a marsh’s edge, students who had evaded their teacher’s gaze crawled up through the weeds like skirmishers—one by one—each choosing a sunny spot before flopping down. Given that it was a school renowned for its strictness, leaving no room for leisure, the sight of students sneaking about like skirmishers on the roof struck him as comical. Some would stay at school from early morning until two or three in the morning, clamped onto their desks as they worked on blueprints and calculations—a sight Kuji would watch every night.

At that moment came a knock. When Kuji opened the door, there stood Chizuko wearing an uncharacteristically troubled expression. While fastening his tie, Kuji offered her a chair. “How unusual.” “Your return from the trip seems unexpectedly swift.” Kuji recalled having sent Yashiro a letter urging him to return promptly, but precisely because he’d never imagined they might actually comply so readily on account of mere correspondence, even he had found himself perplexed these past days by Chizuko and Yashiro’s premature homecoming.

“But it was interesting.” “I can’t forget Tyrol.” “It’s truly a wonderful place.”

As Chizuko gazed at the architecture school’s roof ahead with enraptured eyes, “Oh my—they’re sunbathing in a spot like that.”

She suddenly laughed with amusement.

“In France, there’s no such thing as weeds anywhere you go in the countryside.” “They plant weeds on rooftops trying to turn them into wild fields—that’s their idea of style.” “With Japan being this different, I guess we’ll never catch up.”

After changing into his Western clothes, Kuji sat down on the bed and began to think about where he should go today.

“What a peculiar country France is.”

“There’s nothing strange about it.” “In the end, everywhere ends up like this—so if you consider this what the pinnacle of surrealism looks like, then everything becomes interesting.” “Yashiro—he simply refuses to grasp what makes things interesting.” “How on earth did he become such a dreary man?”

“Is that so?”

Chizuko said discontentedly in a low voice and continued gazing absently at the iris flowers on the roof. "But I don't think so." "If it's harsh—well, forgive me—but why won't you make Yashiro act?" "You followed him all the way to Tyrol without making a single preparation for marriage—how utterly trivial." Despite Kuji's blunt words, Chizuko remained unmoved; she merely narrowed her eyes and stayed silent.

“I’d go to any lengths if you don’t mind,” said Kuji, “but since neither of you says anything, there’s no way to push things forward. Just sitting here alone wondering ‘maybe this, maybe that’—I can’t help feeling *I’m* the one who ends up looking like the biggest fool here. Well? What on earth is going on?” “I don’t know either,” Chizuko replied in a small, lifeless voice. “Such a thing.” She faintly laughed. Kuji thought that smile of hers—as if some love lying dormant in her heart’s depths had faintly spilled over—was rather beautiful.

“But you—even though you both harbor such strong feelings for each other—I find it utterly meaningless that you both keep hiding them. Or if you still find more enjoyment in keeping things so quietly reserved like that, well, that’s another matter—but I don’t see you two as such refined souls.”

Chizuko wrapped her arm around the back of the chair and turned around, “My, you’re making such a fuss all by yourself. You’re quite the interesting one,” she said, looking up at Kuji through half-closed eyes and laughing. “Anyway, you two have tastes that are frightfully opposite to mine—what would you call that, classicists? Oh, you’re so well-behaved.” Grabbing the iron vines of the railing as if leaning out the window, Kuji peered down at the street below. A white horse with thick hair growing at the base of its hooves pulled a carriage and passed by. A woman carrying several long, rod-like loaves of bread under her arm walked along, weaving her way through the fresh green leaves of the street trees lined up in two rows on each side. The clear, sunny sky and the city alike held a serenity without even a breeze.

“I’m thinking of going back to London for a little while.” “I could come back again soon, or I’m also considering going straight back to Japan instead.”

“Stay a little longer.” “It’d be a shame if you weren’t here for the Paris Festival.” “Even if you did come back again, it’d be such a hassle—and besides, there’s no place as good as this for you.” “It really is wonderful here.” “When I think that I’m in Paris—just that alone makes me happy.” “After all, iris flowers are blooming on these stone roofs.” “You should enjoy it while you can.” “You’ll be punished.” While smiling and gazing at the irises—watching the drifting clouds above the buildings—Kuji suddenly recalled the intimate days spent with Chizuko aboard the ship crossing the Red Sea. It was not what one would call love, but rather a free association born of mutual ease; at that time, Chizuko and Yashiro had still barely exchanged words. While the two had unwittingly become engrossed in Paris, Kuji found himself shifting into a position where he took pleasure in mediating their marriage. Kuji thought that one reason Yashiro refused to move his relationship with Chizuko beyond a certain point was also due to his own lingering restraint—a politeness born of knowing the closeness he himself had shared with Chizuko aboard the ship—which he still could not fully discard.

“Is Ms. Makiko still staying around here?” Chizuko approached Kuji and peered down from the railing in the same way while asking. During Yashiro’s absence while he had been traveling through Germany, Makiko had suddenly arrived from Vienna; having been put up in Yashiro’s hotel room, they left it as it was even after his return, merely relocating Yashiro to a room below hers instead. Kuji imagined that Chizuko might be growing concerned about the movements of these two sharing the same hotel.

“Ms. Makiko had also been speaking as if she would return to Japan.” “We could’ve changed hotels—but with Yashiro returning so soon after that, it’d have been impolite to move her then.” “But there’s no need to be so worried about that.” “Oh, how unpleasant you are.” Kuji watched Chizuko’s reddening face with a heart tinged with jealousy. To him, no matter who ended up with whom—even when he felt that the deepening of Parisian life was colored by resignation at how things had turned out—his concern over Chizuko’s comings and goings, like watching petals drawn into a whirlpool, remained one of his secret pleasures. Yet today, for reasons he couldn’t grasp, Chizuko struck him as more beautiful than ever before.

“Mr. Kuji, you’ve truly changed.” “Somehow, I think you’ve undergone an unbecoming change.” “Yashiro’s the same way, you know.” “The fact that he’s changed so much is also largely your responsibility.” “The fact that he’s deliberately turning fascist even after coming to Paris—it’s because I’ve started noticing only you, a Japanese.” “The world has started looking like nothing but you, Ms. Chizuko.” “Just hurry up and take Yashiro and go back home already.” “That man has fallen.”

Kuji’s strained attacks—forcing his way into some point that might please Chizuko—now seemed to her like mere play.

“Calling it ‘fascist’ or such—you can’t just dispose of what someone as esteemed as him is earnestly pondering with such an irresponsible word.” “Even if it were an error, he must surely be agonizing over it.” “You’re the one who appears far more fascist to me.” “What’s this? Have you already fallen so deeply?” As Kuji said this, he abruptly threw his head back and laughed.

“You always choose to interpret things through that lens.” “How utterly spiteful of you.” Yet Kuji found he couldn’t simply dismiss Chizuko as ignorant for labeling him—rather than Yashiro—a fascist. Even if his own remark had been meant in jest, her rebuke carried a sting that lingered when he reflected on it.

“Am I the fascist one? Well, I’ll give that some proper thought for now.”

Kuji lay on his back on the pull-down bed by the window, using his hand as a pillow, and gazed at the ceiling. “But that’s exactly how it is, isn’t it? If someone as knowledgeable as Mr. Yashiro were to become a fascist, it’s certain no one back in Japan would associate with him anymore. Even when fully aware it’s disadvantageous, if one remains convinced it’s right regardless—I find that beautiful. It’s not something just anyone could imitate.”

As Kuji lay there looking toward the window, a stream of light flowed across Chizuko’s still-tense forehead—as though she were still defending Yashiro—and her hair, translucent against the blue sky, made her appear increasingly beautiful. Though Kuji had been thoroughly criticized by Yashiro and Higashino the night before last, there was something in how Chizuko’s gentle words now struck him most profoundly that he couldn’t dismiss as merely owing to her being a woman. “Say a bit more.” “Ms. Chizuko, you have quite a way with words indeed.” “I’ll listen today.”

As Kuji was saying this, they could hear the Romanian girl from the neighboring room—who attended embroidery school—singing softly. Though they had never spoken beyond passing each other on the stairs, her recent acquisition of a lover had become evident through her bustling, cheerful demeanor on Sundays. Kuji listened silently to the girl’s bright song for a while before speaking. “What a pleasant feeling. In movie versions of Paris under the rooftops, you’d hear an accordion drifting from somewhere at times like this—but today’s version comes with a fascist sermon.”

“Then let’s go outside.” “I have an appointment with Mr. Shiono tonight.” “Another soirée.” “There was even a soirée for underhanded arrangements to import Japanese canned salmon here.” “That salmon still hasn’t arrived.” “Soirées truly are exhausting—I can’t bear them.” “A salmon’s errand.” “Like something from a fairy tale—how charming.” Having said this, Kuji rose, closed the shutters, and followed Chizuko out of the room. In the letterbox downstairs where they descended, there were two letters for Kuji—one from his sister in Japan and another from Henriette, the conversation teacher who had gone traveling. Henriette had grown close to Kuji while Chizuko was away in London; to put it logically, she had effectively severed the intimacy that had developed between Kuji and Chizuko aboard the ship. Yet for Kuji, these romantic stirrings with Parisian women were mere ornamentation—he himself could be said to love Paris more than any person. Thus, in stark contrast to Kuji, the deepening bond between Yashiro and Chizuko—who cherished their Japanese homeland—appeared natural to him, and he felt no loneliness. A drifting heart—such things shift swiftly when separated from one’s homeland during travels, resisting all efforts to anchor them.

Kuji left the hotel and walked toward where Café Lila stood. The shoes of passersby sparkled with unbearable brilliance. The road too struck his face with intermittent strong rays of reflected sunlight, and Kuji closed his eyes. Approaching Chizuko as she gazed fixedly at nothing - at the intricate floral arrangement of combined blades resting quietly within a small window at nose level - Kuji suddenly wondered: What had become of his young heart that could no longer feel any emotion?

“Even if you return to Japan, your ideas won’t be accepted.” Suddenly, Kuji recalled again what Higashino had told him the night before last. That’s right—this won’t work anymore, Kuji thought with a sudden chill as if doused in icy water, gazing at the town around him. The stationary truck’s body tilted into the dented part of its tire seized his gaze with meaningful intensity from within the balanced scenery and refused to release it. “Even in such a quiet town, storms rage inside people’s minds—how strange.”

Muttering this, Kuji resumed walking toward Lila.

“The hotel’s old lady told me that as long as war doesn’t break out, she’d agree to anything.” “That old lady is quite amusing, you know.” “Even though I haven’t asked anything, you’re mistaken in thinking this is Paris.” “There is no such Paris.” “She says Paris has disappeared.” “It seems it was much better in the old days.” “She says that ever since the American troops were stationed here during the European War, Paris has completely gone to ruin.” “Why is that?”

“That’s because old people live solely on memories.” “In its own way, I think this has ample significance.”

Gazing at a sudden swirl of sparrows rising from a chimney, Kuji said. When they arrived at the square in front of Lila, he crumpled the two newspapers he had bought there and pointed to a building. "Last year or so, when Gorky came to give a lecture at the hall of that building over there, the crowd filled this entire square, but then suddenly a police squad charged in on horseback and scattered them, not letting a single person hear the lecture." "They say people were terrified at the time." "They claim this year's Paris Festival will be even more intense—you should stay until then." "With things as they are now, there's no telling what might happen." "Yesterday alone, three hundred companies had gone on strike." "If three hundred major companies have shut down, that's practically revolution territory—the right-wing Cross of Fire is already prepared to die fighting." "And now they say they're shaking hands with Germany's right wing—we can't make heads or tails of anything anymore."

“So, there won’t be any wars between countries here anymore, right?” Under Chizuko’s gaze that seemed to ask why things had come to this, Kuji silently sat down in a chair on Lila’s terrace and opened the newspaper he had bought. Then, with a soft “Ah...,” he buried his head in the page and began reading the newspaper’s top article intently. There, emblazoned across the entire front page under the large headline “Sino-Japanese War Breaks Out,” it was written. “A Sino-Japanese war has broken out in Mongolia and Guangdong—even if they’re exaggerating it, having this dominate the entire front page like nothing before.”

Kuji looked at another newspaper and found that this one too was dominated by a large headline titled "Sino-Japanese War." The two of them silently read the spread-out newspapers. Even though there had been headlines reporting crises between Japan and China nearly every day up until now, they had always been treated as minor incidents relegated to a corner. Though accustomed to articles rife with false reports and speculation, this incident on the page—which had risen from the margins to dominate the main focus of both newspapers—must surely have contained something warranting exaggeration, even if it were merely an exaggeration of facts.

“But whether this is a means to quell the strikes here or if it’s actually true still seems suspicious.” “We’ll likely know by tomorrow.”

said Kuji. If war broke out, they would have to return immediately. Though uncertain what they would do upon returning, the one certainty was that they must return. The row of marronnier trees extending from Luxembourg Park displayed fresh green leaves in natural hues among the buildings to the square's left. As if contemplating water pooled at a rocky gorge's depths, Kuji watched the trees' flow when he suddenly recalled the scene of a truck's body tilting under its weight toward a single dented tire. If the principle that wars erupt at points of weakest tension held true, then perhaps a war would soon break out in China.

“I’ll ask Mr. Shiono tonight.” “Since he works at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I think he would know such things best.” “Last year, wasn’t there an incident where the Emperor of Yugoslavia was assassinated in Marseille?” “At that time too, they say a secretary at the embassy had been looking into something when a phone call came in, so he suddenly slammed those large documents onto the floor and declared, ‘It’s finally the European War!’” “‘I don’t need this stuff anymore!’ he bellowed, they say.” “And then somehow there was this time when everyone burst out laughing over it.”

“Today, there must be quite a few people who’ve slammed their documents down over this.”

"...", Kuji said, secretly letting out a wry smile as he acknowledged that he too was undoubtedly one of those flustered individuals. Then, as if the outbreak of war were a complete lie, he composed himself once again.

As the waiter came to the terrace, Chizuko ordered a hot chocolate. Twenty years ago, because Fujimura was said to have come here every day, Chizuko had liked this Lila. The service at this café was more sluggish than anywhere else, but this very quality became a means to reminisce about its former glory, imparting a tranquil mood to travelers. The sofa upholstered in maroon leather encircling the room had already lost its resilience, but even so, the quality of its leather and springs remained incomparable to the dented and sagging ones found in Japanese cafés. Many of the customers were elderly, and one could even hear the sound of sugar dissolving in their coffee. However you looked at it, there was now nothing left but decline.

“There’s a theory that civilization moves ever westward, but perhaps it’s already crossed the Atlantic.” “Or maybe by now it’s passed through America and is drifting aimlessly in the middle of the Pacific.” “The ghosts lie beneath the waves.”

Ever since the strikes had persisted, Kuji made this remark recalling the French government’s panicked countenance at capital’s rapid outflow to foreign banks; but Chizuko too had just seen at the Champs-Élysées a satirical play titled *Ghosts Go West*, where Europe’s spirit turned spectral to cross the Atlantic alongside its material civilization.

“So, have the strikes broken out because the ghosts have emptied out and vanished?” “Anyway, they say we won’t be able to buy sugar starting tomorrow either.” “Because the military is guarding the waterworks and power plants, apparently only those are safe, they say.” When the waiter brought the chocolate over, Kuji asked if sugar could still be bought, and he replied that his household had stockpiled some, so they would be fine for the time being.

Kuji thought his primary study here was to scrutinize—as if tasting acid dripping into a flask—how left-wing ideology acting upon this city of perfect traditional beauty would produce effects and results so different from Japan’s. Then even the waiter’s sullen sluggishness began to resemble a face declaring they too would soon extinguish the fires here. Since France had developed unions, all workers had joined one union or another. This was a strike where every layer of these unions gradually linked up and mobilized, pressing demands for three things: wage increases, more holidays, and shorter working hours. With this comprehensive activity across all production sectors except agriculture manifesting as citywide shutdowns, numerous companies that had been scraping by on meager interest now collapsed in rapid succession. The workers belonging to those companies were losing their jobs. As products dwindled, prices kept rising. Even when workers obtained wage increases, prices soared beyond them, while foreign tourists who spent vast sums all fled. As domestic capitalists shifted deposits to foreign banks upon sensing danger, the franc lost its equilibrium and continued to decline.

However, Kuji thought, all such dire consequences had been known from the start. What compelled them to act on what they already knew—what exactly was its true nature? In this real shogi match of existence—where a single miscalculation in anticipating one’s actions’ consequences could trigger an endless chain of disasters—Kuji now sensed an inclination akin to willpower: the pieces representing French civilization on this board, fully aware of their ruinous path yet rushing headlong toward self-destruction, taking the very game board itself with them.

But what on earth was even the purpose of all that?

After parting with Chizuko, Kuji went to his usual café. Yashiro and Makiko were supposed to be there, but the two had not yet appeared. The familiar foreigners all informed Kuji about the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War and asked worriedly, "How about it? It seems Japan is losing a bit, but is everything all right?" "No, all of that is a lie."

Kuji answered. Yet when he considered how profoundly this day's news had resonated even with foreigners ignorant of Japan-China's usual relations, he sensed the falsehood of that moment - where beyond mere factual accuracy, the resonance itself turned into fact, stirring people's hearts for whatever next act would follow. And that, in essence, was how it became history, surging forth to flood the surface of the world as it advanced.

――

Li Chengrong, a Chinese painter who usually mingled among the foreigners on the terrace, on this day occupied a larger space than anyone else within Kuji’s field of vision. Each time Li met Kuji’s gaze, he would avert his eyes with an expression suggesting an obstruction in his view and converse with the German youth who had been reading Yanagita Kunio’s *Collection of Japanese Legends* the night before. Though neither Kuji nor Li had any reason for malice, an undeniable subtle fact—that a resistance akin to malice arose in their minds merely from exchanging glances—had manifested between them without contest. Then, from two open-top cars speeding in tandem, likely strike committee members with fervent faces raised clenched fists skyward and shouted “Front Populaire” (People’s Front) as they passed before the terrace. Even such daily recurring events now awakened a dizzying vortex in Kuji’s breast, as though they had conspired together.

“Tonight I’ll storm into a Shina restaurant and see what’s what.” “I’ll get a proper look at what’s really going through their heads.”

As Kuji thought this, he wanted to talk with Li too if possible and hear their opinions. Yet even so—what an era this had become, so overburdened with things demanding thought. Despite it all, I still knew nothing. Paris alone had unfathomable depths of tradition lying interconnected across every surface that met the eye. It was as though the convolutions of human brains that had desperately struggled were layered like shale built through accumulated laws, present wherever one looked. If knowing the past meant knowing the present, then fundamentally I didn't even know the present. In that case—how could one ever know the future here?—

However, as he found himself retreating step by step into humility, Kuji came to fully understand each instance of Yashiro’s fervor that seemed to rebel against Europe. As this continued, he found himself assailed by the anxiety that his own thoughts were gradually drifting down—just as Higashino had taught him—into the realization that ultimately, this was not land where the Japanese could take root.

The problem was the soil. It wasn't about rural issues or political issues. It lay in depths beyond those depths— And so Kuji, belatedly savoring his solitary freedom, found his mind returning to the soil of his homeland, racing endlessly across Japan. As he looked, every foreigner's face on the terrace bore a shared loneliness. Each face now seemed to show them thinking of their own homelands. "But why," he wondered, "don't I want to return to Japan yet? Why does this place still appear so fascinating?"

Even though I have entered a treasure trove of things to study, researching the soil of my homeland would be pointless. No—or rather, I cannot even say I truly know the quality of the soil of my homeland, Japan. A mind that knows neither the West nor the Orient—what on earth is this thing called?

That’s right. This was now me—resolutely pursuing worldwide common treasures to the very end. This was precisely about seeking that one thing which remains unshaken in any country. And when Kuji thought this way, he would regain his vigor; yet even that, as Higashino had said, left him uncertain upon consideration—whether such a common thing truly existed or not. The reason he thought it existed might indeed be because, as Higashino had said, he had been taught of the presence of others.

“Damn it.” As his mind kept fracturing further ahead，Higashino’s had already raced forward and stood waiting. I wouldn’t sleep tonight. Even when Yashiro and Makiko came side by side to the terrace，Kuji remained silent and did not greet them.

“Higashino, that old man.” “Is he coming?” “I’ll take him down.” “What’s this? Is that your idea of a greeting?”

Makiko said and sat down next to Kuji. “I’m just so furious and agitated.” “Why are you so angry?” Suddenly, when Kuji looked at Makiko, her unassuming familiarity—unchafed by foreign ways, perhaps from having stayed mostly in Vienna—began to evoke a nostalgic oldness reminiscent of Japanese intellectual wives. A dangerously melting warmth—something one wouldn’t feel even looking at Chizuko—clung about this woman who had left her husband, her single eyelids casting a uniquely composed naturalness that made her stand out on the terrace.

“It’s been a while.”

As Kuji muttered something incomprehensible to anyone, he felt his eyelids closing naturally for the first time since arriving in Paris—as if returning to their original state. When the ordered coffee arrived, Kuji picked up two lumps of sugar with his fingers and dropped them into Makiko’s cup. “Your husband is a terrible man.” Makiko looked at Kuji—who had spoken so abruptly—with a slightly apprehensive expression before stirring her coffee. “Mr. Kuji, you’re acting strange today. What’s wrong?”

“What kind of man abandons his own wife alone in a foreign country like this? Even if he’s taken up with another woman, he could at least make the effort to come fetch you—isn’t that reasonable?”

“But there’s nothing to be done.” “Because if I were there, it would only cause trouble.” “It’s not just the other side who’s troubled.”

Even if Kuji did not harbor any special affection for Makiko, his expression—unable to contain the pity—seemed to have been sensed by her.

The coffee she had started to drink was set back down after just a sip touching her lips, and she suddenly bowed her head, not raising it for some time. “It’s okay.” Kuji struck Makiko’s shoulder firmly as she verged on tears. Makiko lifted her face, wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, then immediately burst into cheerful laughter.

“Vienna is that kind of place, you know. Because I had a husband back home, when I was in Japan, I often read Shunitsura’s works. I thought Vienna was just a place with the Jewish problem and romance, but when I went there, I realized that if you stay there, you’re bound to become completely absorbed in romance. The loneliness of a landlocked country seeps into you, you know.” “Now that you mention it, I remembered—there was this Czech young man who saw the sea in Marseille for the first time in his life. He tilted his head and said, ‘Is the sea really this vast?’ with a look on his face like he couldn’t contain his emotions.”

Yashiro scanned the faces of the foreigners around him as though trying to identify those from landlocked countries, “All these foreigners here come to Paris to gather honey, and in gathering honey, they all turn into honey themselves before returning to their home countries, you see.” “What a pity.” A flush spread across Kuji’s silent face as a venomously sarcastic smile quivered across his lips for an instant; but it too quickly subsided, and he continued to remain silent. Kuji considered the feeling that he still had something within himself that was angry at Yashiro. Indeed, I had unwittingly become quite entangled in Paris’s honey. However, what was Yashiro? But wasn’t Yashiro turning into Japan’s honey?—

Kuji felt something smoke-like, invisible to the eye, rising up from beneath his feet. All the knowledge he had believed supported him until now remained as formless, uneasy hues, while only a disconcerting lightness in his hips—an unsettling discomfort—continued to grow.

Then, the German youth who had been talking with Li stood up, came over to Yashiro, and held out a scrap of paper, “How do you read this in Japanese?” asked the German youth. It appeared to be something Li had written—mentioning Tang dynasty people and sparrows, with the author’s last name seemingly unclear—on which a beautiful poem of the sort a painter might favor was jotted down.

去年今日此門中 人面桃花相映紅 人面不知何所処 桃花依旧笑春風 From beside Yashiro, who was reading Tang poetry in Japanese transliteration, Kuji casually peered over. In the gate where even the scent of humans had vanished, a nihilistic scene welled up—only peach blossoms faintly smiling in the spring breeze. In the midst of the Sino-Japanese War breaking out, Kuji compared the distance between his own current thoughts and what Li might have been contemplating.

“When Chinese people look at Paris like this, all they see is the emptiness left behind after humanity has died out,” said Kuji. “They probably just think some random nobody will come crawling in after them.” After the German youth returned to Li’s side, Kuji spoke to Yashiro. “I doubt they think that way either.” “They’re simply amusing themselves with such thoughts.” “If places where humans have turned hollow are the only ones you find beautiful, try imagining Japan from here.” “Doesn’t it look completely devoid of people?” “What truly baffles me is that whenever I picture Japan from this distance, there’s never a single soul visible—only Ise Shrine stands out clearly.” “What do you make of that?”

Yashiro seemed to think Japan lay in the direction of Brueghel; gazing at the sloped road for a while in silence, he spoke again. “Lately, to be honest, I can’t help but feel there are people within Japan’s intellectual class who couldn’t care less even if the world were to perish or whatever.” “Somehow, I can’t help but feel that way.” “However, no matter how twisted the world becomes, I don’t mind—but there’s this one heart I simply cannot bear to lose.” “That which would be fine as long as it exists—right? You agree—it must not be lost, must it?” “A spirit like a peaceful treasure that exists but is forgotten.” “Every nation’s people possess at least one such beautiful thing, yet it’s a spirit they’ve forgotten.” “Even in our country, that exists—it’s just that searching for it is troublesome.” “However, I found it.” “If you told me to show it, I’d be at a loss—how should I put it? It’s an ineffable, supremely humble and pure love.”

“What the hell is that?” Kuji said irritably at Yashiro’s unclear explanation. “There exists such a song in Japan’s Showa era—one that speaks of parents conversing by the hearth on a long night, with the cattle feed simmering well beside them.” "This simple beauty—or perhaps harmony—this peaceful love, at any rate, lies hidden and silent among the people without a single complaint." "There’s quite a difference between those who are content as long as the peach blossoms smile and those whose hearts rejoice even in the simmering of cattle feed." “However, the intellectual classes of Japan and China have completely lost touch with this heart that lies at the core of both nations.” “That includes both you and me.” “Especially someone like you—you’re far too extreme.” “If we continue down this path, we’ll become what you might call beggars of the Orient or beggars of the Occident—well, someone like you is more of the Occident type.”

“Even if you call me a beggar now, will that douse the flames in three days?” Had either initiated their customary sarcasm, their practice of needling each other to mutual collapse would have reignited; but Kuji no longer felt the sting of such barbs—the afternoon’s oppressive boredom now pressed down upon him like stonework settling into bedrock. It sat immovable at his core, impervious to pokes or prods. Rust streaks cascading from iron nails in the rented house’s stone wall stained his vision like congealed blood. Each time he looked up, these stains confronted him relentlessly until he pivoted his entire chair toward Makiko. The crimson muffler peeking from her black collar offered soft reprieve.

“Let’s go to the Seine now.” “If you have business to attend to, let’s set dinner for eight o’clock and wait at the Saint-Michel Chinese restaurant.” “Surely they wouldn’t go so far as to poison us.” After parting with Yashiro under such an arrangement, Kuji boarded a bus heading toward the Seine River with Makiko.

When eight o'clock arrived, Kuji went with Yashiro to the appointed Shina restaurant with his weary body. The second floor was divided into two rooms separated by a large window, both of which offered a clear view. In the small eight-tatami-mat-sized room, Japanese patrons were predominant, but in the larger twenty-tatami-mat-sized room, Chinese customers were more numerous. As it was the day when news of the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War had been splashed across the headlines, the gazes of the Chinese guests uniformly repelled with a pale blue glare, and frowns between their brows rippled through the hall like waves. Since the waiters were also Chinese, they seemed hesitant to intrude upon the large room; even when summoned by rapping on the tables, they were slow to enter the Japanese patrons’ room. On a day when their homeland was at war, the arrival of people from the enemy country must have felt like an invasion of their own castle, provoking the same revulsion. From afar, a few voices resembling angry shouts could be heard.

“Are you all right?”

Makiko asked Kuji in a small, fearful voice. “It’s okay. You won’t be killed. If we were to get killed over something like this, then China wouldn’t even be human. Animals.” “But I don’t know about that.” “However, since it’s a country that creates such delicious cuisine as Shina cooking, there must certainly be quite a number of outstanding people among them. The fight will sort itself out in ways no one can fathom—don’t dwell on it.”

None of the Japanese tables had received their food yet, but everyone waited in silence. Then Mr. Oki, the old man who had been a fellow passenger on the ship, appeared there suddenly with Mishima. Mr. Oki had resigned as president of a shipping company and come to Europe merely to wander, so he should no longer have been in Paris; similarly, Mishima had only gone to Berlin to inspect machinery. Thus this second meeting felt more like a serendipitous encounter with an old classmate than anything else.

“It’s been a while,” said Kuji. “I heard you had gone to Italy.” He stood and greeted Mr. Oki—whose white hair gleamed—and Mishima. “I returned from Italy last evening,” replied Mr. Oki. “Tomorrow I sail home to Japan via America on the Normandie.” Mr. Oki had coincidentally met Mishima—back from Berlin—at their hotel; they would share tomorrow’s voyage. In their brief separation, Mishima’s face had grown more melancholic than before. By contrast, though aged, Mr. Oki now burned with rekindled vigor—a youth-like restlessness glistening at his temples.

“Ah, I was swindled left and right in Italy! They said you’d die regretting it if you didn’t see Naples, so I climbed all the way to Vesuvius—but can you believe they charged me two hundred fifty yen for just two and a half hours’ car ride? And Naples is filthy! How could anyone die content after seeing such a place? When I get back to Japan, I’ll start up my company again. Damn it all!” No sooner had he spoken than his voice grew unmanageably loud. “What’s with the West, eh? They treat a man walking alone like dirt! I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Next time, I’ll bring along some stunning beauty when I travel—won’t settle for anything less!”

All the Japanese in the room burst into stifled laughter. Mr. Oki looked around at the group, thrust out his belly as if giving a speech, and forced a social laugh. “Haha,” he said. “I haven’t spoken a word of Japanese until yesterday, so now that I see all of you today, I can’t help but chatter away.” Was it that the thoughts gushing forth like a deaf person suddenly gaining hearing had become unmanageable? In what Oki was saying, there was no coherence at all.

“Mr. Mishima, did you find any souvenirs?” Kuji asked Mishima, who sat silent and withdrawn. “No, there’s nothing.” “I’m just thinking about how I’ll likely be scolded when I return.”

Kuji thought that the distress of the mechanical engineer—who had been granted a substantial sum for an inspection assignment yet was about to return without making a single new discovery—must weigh more heavily than he had imagined. “If there’s nothing at all, does that mean Japan has already advanced that far?” “Well,” said Mishima, his expression devoid of even a hint of smile as he pondered whether Japan had truly progressed that much or if it was merely his own insensitivity at play, “once in a certain country something like this happened.” “When I was inspecting a factory, I found a machine with an interesting shape. As I stood gazing at it curiously, someone from their side said, ‘If you want to take photos, go ahead.’” “Since inspections are usually permitted but photography prohibited anywhere, I was moved by this unexpected kindness. I thanked them repeatedly and took the photos, but when I returned to my lodgings and developed them, not a single one had come out.”

“What happened? Was that your failure?” Kuji pressed further. “No, before entering the factory, I was made to wait in the garden for two or three minutes—so I think they probably exposed the film to some light ray during that time.” The expressions of those listening changed abruptly as they fell silent. Kuji too was momentarily gripped by an eerie chill. Yet upon reflection, he thought such a thing was only natural—nothing particularly suspicious about it. It was not just the photographic film that had been exposed to invisible rays. The photographic plates within the minds of all Easterners gathered in this room had likewise been uniformly irradiated by a certain light, transforming their heads into something already altered. Though their surface faces remained unchanged, the moment they spoke a single word, they would instantly reveal heads bearing countless wounds. Moreover, these cranial transformations followed either the Kuji-type or Yashiro-type pattern, while the more extreme cases—much like the Chinese in the adjacent room—were perfect replicas of Western imitation.

The gathering of Chinese in the adjacent room exhibited this transformation to an especially extreme degree. The filthiness of the place was so overwhelming it made one want to cover their face, but in the hall, whenever a Chinese woman came to join the men seated around a table, everyone would rise simultaneously and stand motionless, waiting until she had taken her seat. The woman, with rude indolence as she draped her bare arms over the back of the chair and puffed on her cigarette while chattering away nonstop, had the men listening to her words with solemn expressions all the while. Among several tables were other Chinese people distinct from these, each accompanied by a French beauty. These individuals bore expressions that declared they had moved beyond being Easterners, their demeanor calm and reminiscent of a special group akin to mullahs.

Kuji thought it was only natural that the rising anti-Japanese sentiment would lead to war when he considered how these united imitators, through their cohesive power of mimicry, were stirring up turmoil in their respective Eastern homelands. This would likely not cease unless it ran its course. Here in this shared spiritual nexus between Japan and China, was there truly no approach other than both sides clinging solely to Western imitation? Could there not be some boundary akin to a uniquely Eastern spiritual union?

As he gazed at the large room where the Chinese guests were gathered, Kuji found himself unwittingly immersed in Yashiro's habitual patterns of thought. No—his own purpose was different from Yashiro's, he insisted inwardly; it was to discover a shared foundation.

Shortly after the appointed time had passed, Yashiro came up to the second floor. When he found Oki and Mishima unexpectedly beside Kuji, he exclaimed with immense delight, as if he had glimpsed his hometown.

“Oh my! I’m so relieved to see you all safe and sound.” “As I was just saying earlier, old folks like us have no business coming to a place like the West.” “I’ve been made a fool of, over and over.” “Once I return home, I intend to really go all out.” “What’s all this?” “Even if I try to buy a single souvenir, if I carelessly think it’s rare and reach for it, it’s Japanese-made!” “Good grief, this just won’t do.” And once again, Mr. Oki declared in a booming voice, without restraint. Other customers, angry about the food that never came no matter how long they waited, called the boy, but he brought only a single beer, which he carried under a cloth to avoid being seen by those in the adjacent room. Some of the Japanese customers left in anger. When the boy finally began carrying plates out little by little, there came a shout from among the Chinese in the adjacent room.

“The world these days is being stirred up by women everywhere. “Ha ha ha!” Even Mr. Oki, who until now had appeared to pay scant attention to the adjacent room, seemed provoked by this remark as he laughed along before suddenly fixing the waiter with a glare and—in his customary company president’s demeanor—bellowed at the retreating figure: “Hey! Boy! Get over here!” Yet the boy did not so much as turn. “Boy. “Boy.” “Hey!”

Oki bellowed. Then, the Chinese patrons in the opposite room all turned to look this way and showered Oki with a torrent of abusive shouts. Oki had no sooner stood up than he flung down the napkin. And then, in truly splendid English—as he often lectured foreigners during tea parties aboard the ship—he addressed the adjacent room: “Eating at a restaurant is the foundation of goodwill between nations.” “I believe it is the teaching of a great Chinese philosopher that all peace originates from dining.” “Moreover, would you oppose our hunger even in a foreign land?” “This is France!” “Is what you study daily in the foreign country you revere a lesson to deny even your own compatriots food when they are hungry?” “This is something we Easterners find deeply regrettable.” “In our Orient, there were heroes of bygone days who, even in battle, extended salt to their enemy before engaging in decisive combat—heroes who held courtesy and benevolence as their motto.”

Oki, his severely nearsighted face perpetually wreathed in smiles, maintained that grin even while delivering these remarks, which softened the edge of his otherwise sharp speech. But unfortunately, since he wasn’t using English this time, his words failed to resonate with the listeners as effectively as they had aboard the ship. The adjacent room only grew louder in response, several stubborn faces thrusting through the window—teeth bared—as if ready to lunge at Oki. “Ain’t no use,” he said. “Nothin’ left but surrender to empty plates. “Let’s scram. This farce has played out.”

With that, Mr. Oki stood up impatiently and put on his hat. Not only Kuji and Yashiro but everyone followed Oki down the stairs, but the shouts from behind only grew louder, and the waiter did not offer a single greeting.

The street they emerged onto was the slope of Saint-Michel descending from the direction of the Panthéon. Through the bustling crowd on the slope passed a left-wing newspaper seller shouting his wares. Following that strident voice came a right-wing seller pressing forward, bellowing as if to drown it out. Left and right continued alternating through the restless night of the Latin Quarter—left-wing, right-wing, one after another in ceaseless procession. Being a student quarter where Royalist ideals held greatest sway among academic youth, neither leftist nor rightist papers sold well here. Their true purpose seemed rather to seek ways for both extremes to infiltrate Royalist ranks.

“If you’re leaving on tomorrow’s ship, let’s have some fun tonight.” “Once I’ve seen the Paris Festival, I’ll return home via Russia.” Under Yashiro’s guidance, the four of them descended the slope to eat Alsatian cuisine nearby. Near the Seine River, this area was one Kuji had already visited twice that day. On the terrace beside the rose hedge from which Notre-Dame’s spire was visible, after ordering lamb and trout, the five of them eased their hunger and reminisced about meals aboard ships in the Indian Ocean and Red Sea from when they had not yet seen the West; their conversation remained so lively it seemed it would never end.

“But really, what is this? Here we are, blown into this great storm by bad luck—tossed about here until we finally catch our breath and return home, only to find Japan’s no calm harbor either. Isn’t another tempest raging there too? We didn’t see the February 26th Incident ourselves, but from what we’ve heard, that was no ordinary squall. Foreigners are all pretty shocked, you know. They say dragons steer Japan’s politics—well now they’re claiming one’s leapt clear out of its cave!”

In response to Oki's remarks, Mishima said he had heard about it in Germany and proceeded to describe how all of Tokyo was filled with an atmosphere akin to a battlefield.

The group found it difficult to discern truth from fabrication, but even taking these accounts of citizens' panic with a grain of salt, to Kuji it seemed the political fronts assailing Japan bore no resemblance to Europe's ideological winds. "We may not understand because we're still young, but what do you think, Mr. Oki—has there ever been an era that forced young people to think this much?" "No—this is unprecedented since Meiji." "There were many major events before, but people acted with passion when their scope of thought was limited." "But these days—I can't make sense of what's happening." "I can't grasp what should be done." "We've been sprinting since Meiji until our hearts burst through our chests."

The group burst into laughter at Oki’s manner of speaking, but as if seized by the collar, they suddenly fell silent and set about cutting their lamb. "So then, for those of us abroad, this must be what they call an abandoned skiff."

And Kuji once again recalled what Higashino had told him the previous night. “No—the world has already come to understand every nation’s ideologies.” “Even if they try to hide their intentions, they can no longer do so—they’ve become completely exposed from without.” “Since left-wing factions have emerged from every country and laid bare their own nations’ secrets, all the world’s countries have started running amok in desperate gambits, as if declaring, ‘Fine—if that’s how it must be!’”

“Exactly! Precisely!” Yashiro said. “Every country’s heart—once hidden within—has burst forth entirely, with no way to push it back in,” Oki continued. “In that case, there’s no choice but to push through with the sheer force of will. If they had just kept it quietly hidden—but since they’ve gone and exposed it—there’s no longer any need for discreet concealment. Now they’ve started doing it all the more openly and thoroughly.” He tapped his chest with a grin. “Since I’ve become a capitalist myself now, I understand that point all too well. I may be a delinquent, but once you know I’m a delinquent through and through—well, it’s rather liberating, isn’t it?”

Even aboard the ship on the way here, Oki had frequently explained with false modesty, “I’m a delinquent.” Though the notion of using delinquency as a shield in his work was distasteful, Kuji found Oki’s unabashed attitude preferable to concealed pretenses, and it did nothing to spoil the meal’s flavor. Those who had sailed together indeed appeared like brothers—whether scoundrels or otherwise—and all were gripped by a homesickness that no critiques from the homeland could remedy. No—rather, one might say people had begun nurturing some misguided thing within their hearts—something that made villains seem all the grander.

Kuji still felt this change within his own heart, yet he could not regard it as someone else’s affair—for if he were to come to such a place past sixty like Oki, he too might learn to act so nonchalantly and without shame—and so he grew increasingly aware of the peril to Makiko’s person beside him. “Delinquency’s contagious, huh?” Kuji looked at Yashiro’s face as though he had made an unexpected discovery. And he wondered by what means he controlled himself—momentarily recalling those Tyrolean nights with Yashiro and Chizuko—and even began to suspect that this very Yashiro might be lying.

“Mr. Oki, Yashiro here—this fellow just won’t turn delinquent, you see.” “Why don’t you give him your opinion?” “This guy’s a liar.”

Kuji pointed a knife at Yashiro’s chest and said. “You’ve come all the way to a foreign country and still won’t turn delinquent?” “That’s just plain unhygienic.”

Oki wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked quizzically at Yashiro as he laughed. As was his habit when spoken to about matters of men and women, Yashiro said not a word, merely remaining silent with his face flushed. “But really—what’s all this? “Coming here turns out less interesting than I’d imagined. “Dreary and utterly dull. “Ah yes—last evening I met a most peculiar young man. “When he asked me to take him dancing, I dragged him to one of those ticket-system halls. As we danced, he suddenly cried out in surprise, returned to our seat, and said— “‘That dancer I was just with—claims she’s the woman I lived with two years ago.’ “But though he’d danced with her three times that very night, he hadn’t recognized his former lover! “The second time she smiled sweetly, he thought her laughter peculiar—then on the third dance she says, ‘Have you forgotten me?’ “Everyone’s minds have gone quite strange these days. “Even being called a delinquent—why, that’s still preferable! “This lad’s twenty-five or twenty-six yet has lived through what a Japanese man of fifty or sixty would. “If folk keep going on like this till fifty or sixty—why, that’ll be a terrifying thing indeed.”

As Oki spoke, his words gleaming from behind thick-lensed glasses, the listeners alternated between laughter and silence until they gradually sank their heads into an immovable world and said nothing for a time. “In that case, we’re in a strong position. We’re still young!” Kuji exclaimed as though kicking through the depths of his thoughts. “Exactly. You are still young. I’m already envious of that more than anything.” When Kuji considered how Oki’s tales of youth—stories that had nightly tormented young people mid-Indian Ocean—now reached such a lonely conclusion here in Paris, he felt the vibrant youth resonating within him reassuringly, with an urge to stroke his own arm in Oki’s stead.

“Well then, Mr. Oki. Please return to Normandy tomorrow without hesitation. We young people will take care of the rest.” “If you’ll succeed us, then—a toast! To health!” When they raised their glasses, everyone laughed cheerfully at Oki. However, from around this time onward, Mishima’s face—which had been silent until now—somehow grew animated, and his laughter rose a notch higher. Even aboard the ship, Mishima had been as quiet as a cat, more reserved and humble than anyone else; yet once he came into contact with alcohol, he would become the most courageous and spirited person on board, patting the shoulders of every foreign woman he encountered and even delighting them by making them take off their shoes.

“A man who spent his youth in Paris has reached paradise.” “I came to Paris too late.” “How infuriating.”

To this Oki, Mishima—a widower who had lost his wife while leaving a child behind— “That’s right, that’s right,” he chimed in agreement, his body fidgeting restlessly the entire time.

“With this, you can see just how much Japan’s youths must yearn for Paris!” “You’ve all come this far—what are you fretting about now?” “When I look at you all, it’s as if I’m looking at monks.” “If I were you, I’d spend every last bit of money I had right here.” “A man who’s stingy here—that man’s the greatest fool alive.” Like a stone wedged into a nearly split pomegranate, Oki’s words thudded heavily into Kuji’s heart, bearing their weighty fruit. Then suddenly Yashiro cut in—

“That’s just Mr. Oki’s sentimentality.” “This place is nothing but a prison.” “We’re all Shunkan, getting money sent from home.” “If we indulge in fantasies here, it’ll be our end.”

he said. “Because even on the ship, you were a monk, you know.” “Well, a monk’s a monk no matter where in the world he goes.”

Oki alone nodded, moving his head. “No—never mind. I’ll play the monk in Paris.”

Yashiro leaned back and pressed a napkin to his lips. Mishima kept tapping Yashiro’s shoulder while, “Don’t you go becoming some monk.” “Huh?” “What’s so great about being a monk?” When they saw Mishima speaking with a grin that animated the good-natured wrinkles cascading from the corners of his eyes, everyone seemed to recall his shipboard habits—completely forgotten until now. With startled faces, in the midst of having simultaneously fallen silent, “Well, you’ve recovered your spirits, Mr. Mishima. Aren’t you going to tell me to take off my shoes again?” Makiko alone teased, leaning back away from Mishima as if recoiling.

“Hahaha, shoes, huh? Take off your shoes.” “I’d be so ashamed if people remembered that,” said Mishima as he kept leaning in to gaze at Makiko’s shoes. Mr. Oki, who had been rousing the youths to dispel their gloom, now seemed to think “This is it—tonight will not end peacefully,” and had grown somewhat displeased. After leaving the Alsatian restaurant, the group walked along the Seine River on the slightly descending Quai d’Orsay to catch the river breeze. There was no one passing by there, and only the gas lamps shone through the dense trees. Makiko, constantly worried about Mishima as he tried to leap onto the parapet from between the closed green boxes of old bookstores lining the riverbank, said, “That’s dangerous.” “Calm down,” she said, grabbing his arm as if tugging at his sleeve and walking on. Mishima, acting as if chasing birds, shouted “Hoh, hoh!” while gazing up at the great plane tree that stretched blackly into the night sky—no sooner had he done so than he tried to wrench himself free from Makiko’s grip, only to be pulled firmly back. Even so, Mishima continued to stride ahead alone, raising one leg high, and before long, Makiko too had broken away from the group and gone ahead. As the three of them, their drunkenness somewhat worn off, were watching the retreating figures of Mishima and the others,

“Hoh, hoh!” Mishima shouted again from afar, turning back toward the three of them. Then he opened the door of the parked car and disappeared inside, whereupon Makiko also waved to the others from behind and climbed in. At that very moment, the car slid out effortlessly without waiting and crossed the bridge, disappearing into the distance.

“Ah, this won’t do!”

With that, Kuji hurriedly jumped into another parked car. And without waiting for the others, he set off in pursuit of Mishima’s car—but Mishima’s vehicle was already plunging through Place de la Concorde’s mirror-like expanse stretched taut under pale blue gaslight. Even though he thought there was nothing particularly alarming about it, Kuji still felt uneasy. While keeping his eyes fixed on their car ahead—assuming Yashiro and Mr. Oki would naturally follow—the vehicle disappeared toward the Opera. If he left those two as they were tonight, something was bound to happen—Kuji felt his anxiety gradually intensifying. Yet even if something occurred, they were now two single people. In that case—he thought—perhaps this incident might even become some source of happiness for them. He abruptly halted the car. There he waited facing backward in a daze—but no sign emerged of Yashiro and the others giving chase. In a brilliantly blue square that had materialized unnoticed around him, only an ancient goddess statue stood bathed in fountain spray.

Kuji gently turned the car back the way he had come, circling the goddess. With eyes heavy with listless fatigue as if unshackled, he gazed at her face and felt his chest grow strangely agitated by the beauty of her slightly sunken profile. Then suddenly, he thought: That was his mother’s worried face. Recalling how she would look at him with those same anxious eyes whenever he threw tantrums as a child, he drove back to Quai d’Orsay.

However, Yashiro and the others were no longer there either. After searching the area once more, Kuji drove straight toward Montparnasse and alighted from the car in front of his usual cabaret. In the bar chairs separated from the dance hall, sparse figures sat scattered. Kuji naturally sought a face resembling his mother as much as possible from among the dancers chattering like sparrows around the counter and drew near her side. “What’s your name?”

“Lulu,” the woman answered. “Lulu, huh… Lulu… Lulu.”

Kuji muttered while taking the dice beside him and shaking them listlessly. Lulu put one hand around Kuji’s shoulder and looked at the dice she had rolled herself. “Oh, tomorrow will be rainy.”

With that, she sang in a desolate whisper. All the while, Kuji kept shaking the dice while mentally calculating when Makiko would return. Lulu—who seemed to have already sniffed out that this customer loved another woman—rested her hand on Kuji’s shoulder and gazed at the face of the newly entering customer.

Driving rain lashed the road, sending up sprays that mingled into a foot-high white mist hovering above the ground. Through it, a car plowed forward, cleaving through the water. Thinking the sudden evening shower would soon abate, Yashiro waited at the café entrance. For two or three days now, he had tried repeatedly to call Kuji—whose whereabouts remained unknown—to no avail; even when he asked Makiko, she answered only that she had parted from him at Quai d’Orsay and not seen him since. Of course, neither Chizuko nor anyone else knew anything. Watching the raindrops leap upward from the pavement, Yashiro regretted how he had pushed himself too hard against Kuji these past days. He pondered how Kuji’s good-natured brightness—which clashed when they were together yet became a worry when apart—might gradually grow dampened on his account, and found himself wanting to draw back Kuji’s being, now adrift in unfathomable currents, closer once more.

In a sparsely occupied room where foreigners quietly read newspapers from their own countries, only two Japanese men were vigorously debating Berlin and Paris. One appeared to belong to the Berlin faction, arguing that Germany’s cohesive and synthesizing power far surpassed Paris’s freedom and analytical strength in advancing the next era, while the Paris faction—

“This freedom of Paris! This Parisians’ love for peace!” Yashiro thought that even such resistance through impassioned words was a scene rarely witnessed in Japan. Yet, reflecting on how these two ideological factions in Japan had perpetually wrestled and clashed down to the present day, the sight of two young men now at that very table where he and Kuji had always debated—spewing froth as though burning toward something inexhaustible—appeared to him as a manifestation of their respective boundless agonies and joys.

“We’re at it!” As Yashiro listened with a smile, he took out a hidden match he carried deep in his pocket and found himself wanting to ignite the two men’s debate.

"What on earth does everyone want to set ablaze? Truth be told, I want to set something ablaze too." When this thought suddenly struck him and he looked up, there came into view an old stone building—soaked like a drenched rat—streaming sweat-like raindrops from its entire body. In that instant, it felt as though the stony heart of Paris was cheering and leaping like a sparrow at this abrupt shift in weather. Until now, Yashiro had occasionally been gripped by impulses to unleash a great earthquake that might uproot Paris from its very foundations; even now, the left-wing tidal wave sweeping through this city seemed to him a violence compelled to assail that mental order—transformed as it was into something like a sedimented, solidified mass. Yet sensing how this force still merely streamed across the stone surface like an evening shower—how that immovable order lay hidden within ancient immobility, offering no resistance—he promptly put away the match he'd taken out and found himself wanting instead to analyze and study the prototypal elements supporting that formidable structure.

However, what various fragments of the mind I had collected into my sack. Once I returned to Japan, I would slowly examine each one by one.— Thinking this, Yashiro placed his hand against the bottom of the sack within his chest and gently tried to gauge its weight. There had been a time when he was like a man plunging headfirst into a whirlpool, but after crossing the glacier's fault in Tyrol's mountains, he should have discarded sack and all—those fragments gathered across Europe. Yet upon returning to Paris, the sack had begun filling again with some ghostly something.

Then, at that moment, through rain sending up white spray like a smoke screen across the ground, Chizuko came walking with her shoulders hunched.

“Here, here.” Yashiro raised his hand and called out to Chizuko. Chizuko let out a breathy laugh in the driving rain, trotted over to Yashiro, and spoke.

“Oh, this dreadful rain!” “Um, there’s a small favor I’d like to ask.” “Let’s go further inside.”

Facing the table by the windowpane clouded with rain-humid air, Chizuko shook the water from her raincoat and removed her gloves. "But perhaps I shouldn't say it." Yashiro smoked his cigarette while gazing at Chizuko's shy-looking eyes as she laughed softly with rain-dampened eyelids. Though his affection belonged uniquely to Chizuko, Yashiro found himself less inclined to question the wholesomeness of her spirit—unchanged since departing Japan—than to gently enfold it exactly as it was. This determination to protect, if nothing else, this vital essence from the recent poison of being swayed by empty husks of thought had remained his unwavering endeavor since their landing in Marseille.

“Go on.” “What is it?” Yashiro asked. “I’d be in trouble if I got scolded.” “Have I ever scolded you?” “That’s why it’s hard to say.”

From the kitchen where viscous coffee was being poured into a boiling aluminum pot, Chizuko watched the steam rise, releasing a pungent odor. "You know, I did mention this to you once before, didn’t I?" "That secretary Pierre who kissed my hand at the Minister of Finance’s evening reception here." "He has invited me to the opera tonight." "I don’t particularly wish to go, but Shiono-san and the others insist—since Mr. Pierre has worked so diligently to help Japan export salmon here—that I simply must attend." "So I agreed as seemed proper, but Mr. Yashiro—won’t you come to the opera tonight too? Hmm?"

“Well, that’s a problem.”

Yashiro said, putting his hand to the back of his head. Even though his feelings for Chizuko remained unchanged—he had never particularly voiced them explicitly, and as they were not lovers—Yashiro still felt no urge to monitor her freedom. "But we won’t get tickets in time unless we act now." "It’s *La Traviata*, you know." "If you’re coming, I’ll go ahead to the opera now, you know."

Chizuko took out her watch and, "We still have an hour or two—let's go. Hmm?" "But it's not like I can just tag along, and if your intention is to show me you're enjoying yourself, I get it." "Yes, I want to show you." Chizuko chuckled softly, hunched her neck, and brushed away the raindrops on her cheek. "Alright, if you insist that much, I guess I'll take a look." As Yashiro laughed while stroking his chin, he began to feel somewhat elated. As friends toward each other, they were overly affectionate; yet as lovers would be between them—their feelings remained far too unbound. Though Chizuko's plan was a diversion born of sheer boredom, her bold proposal imparted to Yashiro an unknown pleasure akin to crossing a glacier's fault. He thought that if he felt jealousy now, it would make for a flawless performance, but for Chizuko, trust took precedence—Yashiro had yet to receive from her that overflowing fluidity which exceeded his grasp. Once he thought he wanted to experience that at least once, he also began to want to take the opportunity to dress up tonight.

“If you’re going with Pierre, I might bring someone along too. The only one who’d keep me company would be Mrs. Makiko, I suppose. Yes, I’ll ask Mrs. Makiko,” Yashiro said, striking his knee. Chizuko paused her laughter momentarily to look at him, then quickly regained her usual serene composure. “Please do—that way you won’t grow bored.” As she laughed, she suddenly turned in surprise toward the Japanese men across the room who had begun arguing loudly.

“What on earth are they saying? I wonder.” “Oh?” “It’s a debate—quite fascinating, really.”

Yashiro tilted his head back and watched Chizuko's startled expression—she who detested debates—with evident amusement while pondering how to approach asking Makiko, who maintained only formal relations with Chizuko. Droplets from entering patrons' raincoats expanded the floor's dark stains. Beads of condensation covering the windowpane slid downward like serpents, unable to bear their own weight. The Paris and Berlin factions showed no fatigue, their dispute escalating from comparing chestnut trees' beauty in Paris to lindens in Berlin, then shifting endlessly between wine under marroniers versus beer beneath lime trees—arguments without resolution. To Yashiro, their eyes blazing with obsessive longing seemed a distilled embodiment of Japan's intellectual class. He deemed it natural nationalists would rage at this spectacle, yet began perceiving the national essence within the masses' silent endurance—their duty-bound compassion now appearing as spiritual discipline surpassing nationalism itself. Moreover, this mute spirit alone drove intellectuals to argue with self-indulgent fervor while listening with maternal pride—a gentle figure smiling as she let children quarrel.

Before they knew it, the rain lightened, and the sky brightened into clear weather. Then, from between the vibrant street trees, Higashino walked over alone. He entered the back without seeming to notice Chizuko and the others, then sat down beside the two Japanese men who were engaged in debate, “Oh,” he said. However, the heated debate between the Berlin faction and Paris faction continued without even acknowledging Higashino. Before long, Higashino noticed Yashiro and the others, came over, and sat down beside Chizuko.

“Last night was rather amusing.”

Having said that, he continued watching the two arguing men from there.

“What do you mean by ‘interesting’?” “You see—that debate has been going on since last evening. I thought they’d quit when I came to check, but they’re still at it.” The three laughed together. According to Higashino, one from the Paris faction was a painter studying biology at the Sorbonne, while the other was a Berlin correspondent about to return to Japan. Higashino, the painter, and the correspondent had gone to watch women dancing nude last night when those two began arguing at the entrance—and even amidst waves of naked dancers undulating around them, they’d kept debating until dawn broke, gone home to sleep, then met again that morning by arrangement to resume.

“Debating among naked people—now that’s a sight to behold.” Yashiro laughed even more heartily. “It was indeed a rather rare spectacle.” “This marks my first encounter with such debates.” “The surroundings were all rhythmic surges of rose-hued waves, utterly unclothed.” “Amidst that, only those two in suits stayed rigid as islands.” “And it was all political theories and ideological issues.” “So you never wearied of it, even past dawn?”

“Far from tiring,” he said. “Thinking ‘Has there ever been such a debate in the world since history began?’ I spent the night in rapture. Fortunately one leaves tomorrow—that’s some relief—but let them continue another week and they’d both drop dead.” “That’s our Japanese spirit for you.” When the three looked over laughing, the Paris partisan was pounding the table with his clenched right fist, expounding at length about France’s immeasurable hoard of gold bullion buried underground since antiquity. For both men, it was less about logic’s validity than sheer refusal to lose driving their arguments—so that debate ceased being debate, becoming pure yearning. Yashiro thought his own regular clashes with Kuji were much the same. “Still not good enough,” he reproached himself in that instant, shifting his gaze to a chestnut tree unfurling leaves in the sunlit street.

“By the way, Mr. Higashino—we’ve been worried because Kuji has gone missing for two or three days. He hasn’t shown up at your place, has he? He said something about Higashino’s old man maybe coming so he’d take him down—that’s why I thought there might be a chance.” “He won’t come.” “I wonder where he went.”

Higashino appeared deep in thought yet showed no concern, smirking as he propped his chin and spoke. "Even if he rages at me, that’s rather commendable of the man." "Somehow it seems he keeps recalling our recent debate." "He’ll likely reappear soon—but when he does, shouldn’t we thrash him thoroughly again?" "That ought to make him more engaging." "Leaving things as they are would render our stay here pointless indefinitely."

“Are you still going to do that? It seems rather pitiful.” Yashiro, realizing that at this rate he too would soon be beaten down, steeled himself inwardly and let slip a faint smile while keeping his attention fixed on Higashino’s eerie expression—unpredictable in which direction it might turn. “In that case, it seems I too am still far from graduating from Higashino University.” “You’re still not there yet.” “You’re always fixated on humanity’s past.” “That won’t do.” “No, I do think about the future as well.”

Yashiro, unexpectedly challenged in earnest, let his surprise show on his face as he retorted. “That kind of future isn’t a future.”

“But such a future—the future I’m thinking of—isn’t something you can understand, is it?” “I do understand. All you ever talk about is relying on the beauty of humanity’s past to consider things. That’s just tedious. No matter how beautiful the past was, no matter how splendid—what does it amount to? Even that debate over there—they just keep insisting on the good points of France and Germany, and since they’re not thinking beyond the past, that disgraceful spectacle will go on forever. Even if you splash water on them from the side, they’d still be arguing in the water. Ha ha ha ha!”

Higashino stood up smoothly while laughing and drifted out of the room as if weightless before one could register it. Yashiro felt as though he had been struck without reason and had no desire to give chase, yet found himself wanting to carefully consider others' criticisms once more and wrap his limbs in the armor of preparation again. I don't get it. What does it mean that I don't think about the future? And with that, another potential argument had been averted.

“But even Mr. Higashino writes haiku, doesn’t he? I wonder if something like that could also count as future beauty.” “Well then, let’s make sure to ask him properly next time.”

Yashiro gazed at Higashino’s retreating figure and said. Behind them, the debate between the two was still raging fiercely.

The Grand Opera began at twenty-one hundred hours. Chizuko called Makiko and requested her to take over guiding them to the opera, reasoning that the socially awkward Yashiro would cause problems if left to his own devices. Since it was Verdi’s *La Traviata*, Makiko gladly accepted Chizuko’s request. With Pierre naturally coming to pick up Chizuko, she couldn’t very well go with Yashiro and the others; the two parted ways then and there, leaving Yashiro to venture out alone to purchase tickets.

After skimming through La Traviata bought from the bookstore, Yashiro tried on a tuxedo for the first time after dinner. Having changed into white gloves and enamel shoes, when he stood before the mirror, a wry smile rose at his own appearance resembling a somewhat bashful movie bellboy. Tonight especially—since he had to compete with Pierre as a real-life Armand—the mental strain was no ordinary matter; with each step he took, he felt the oppressive weight of treading a stage he'd never rehearsed. Just then Makiko came downstairs. Makiko wore a white chirimen soirée dress patterned with hydrangeas whose leaves split here and there—a vision of supple beauty so transformed it defied recognition.

“Oh, you’re all ready.” With a smile, Makiko looked Yashiro—tall and somehow tinged with bitterness—up and down from head to toe.

“How do I look? This Armand?” Yashiro blushed and asked. “You look quite dignified now. I can’t believe it’s you. Ah. Excuse me.” “If I walk around like this I’ll end up looking like a monkey, so tonight I’ll just stand still and bluff my way through. I’ll rely on gut acting.” Makiko abruptly stifled her laughter, then stood beside Yashiro and looked into the mirror. “I forgot to buy good perfume. There’s nothing better than Chanel.”

As she said this, she drew closer to Yashiro and lightly touched his arm with one hand.

“We’ll be walking like this all night, you know.” “Please don’t resist so much.” “Ah, how delightful—it’s been ages since I felt this wonderful.” “Oh, you...”

Makiko bent over, laughing uproariously as if it were too amusing to bear, then sat down on the chair and looked at the mirror again.

“So now I’m an actor? What a terrible thing to be put through. What a mess.” Yashiro sat on the edge of the bed gazing at Makiko’s soirée dress and thought how in life one occasionally encounters situations so play-like; he wondered what sort of play this resembled. Yet his own entrance was still to come—not only lacking a program, but realizing that if one watched an opera like *La Traviata*, every viewer would surely imagine themselves as Armand in some sense or Marguerite in another, making tonight’s performance not solely his own solitary act.

“The real Camille lived in 1842—that would be around the thirteenth year of Tenpō. After all, it was at the box seats of the Opéra-Comique there that Armand first took a liking to Camille and was mocked—that’s how it all began—so tonight is something like fieldwork.” “I read it once before, but I’ve already forgotten.”

Makiko said, glancing at her wristwatch, and then—

“But Ms. Chizuko has peculiar tastes, doesn’t she? Why on earth would she want to show you her being with someone else? Does she want to taste Marguerite’s feelings, I wonder?”

“That’s not it. She initially refused, but I think it was out of politeness that she couldn’t quite bring herself to do so. Also, since he’s a Frenchman, there’s no telling how he might try to seduce her, so she wanted someone she knew to keep an eye on things and feel reassured.” “Do you think so? But that’s strange, isn’t it.” With a faint smile, Makiko took the copy of *La Traviata* on the desk and flipped through its pages with a rustle. “She does love you after all, doesn’t she? Yes, she does.”

She said in a small voice and fixed her gaze on a certain part of the page. Yashiro could not bring himself to say, "No, that's not true." He wondered where on the page Makiko's gaze had settled and recalled the words of a passage he had looked up before her arrival. This was the scene where Marguerite, having coughed up blood, descended alone to her bedroom and was overcome by a fit of coughing—only for Armand, who had followed from the adjoining room—to confess his love for the first time; it was here that Marguerite spoke gentle words to restrain Armand's fervent advances.

“You mustn’t say such things. If you do speak that way, there can only be two outcomes.” “What do you mean?”

When Armand asked, “If I do not yield to your heart’s desire, you will surely resent me.” “And if I were to do exactly as you say, then you would find yourself burdened with a troublesome, wretched lover.” That was the gist of it. Yashiro realized he had always directed these same Marguerite-like words toward Chizuko, secretly uttering them in his heart. If this were Tokyo rather than Paris, he might have conveyed his innermost feelings to her without reservation. Yet Yashiro thought love in such distant lands beyond Japan differed little from sickness. Since he considered himself at least somewhat more rational than Chizuko, he always concluded they must not rely on their travel-weary judgment—the fragile discernment of two people adrift. This had held true even when they spent that night in the Tyrolean mountain hay. Indeed, Marguerite—the ailing woman who accepted Armand’s love unreservedly—met her end torn from his family’s embrace, dying in desolate abandonment. Do not both patients require quiet rest to regain health? With this thought, Yashiro gripped his white gloves, stood abruptly, and began pacing before Makiko.

Makiko climbed the front staircase of the opera house—resembling a royal palace—supported by Yashiro's arm. As they ascended, guided by the elegant curves of vine-like brass railings that spread across both wings, they crossed several walkways and were led to the second-floor box seats. The deep room—where candles would have been fitting—had walls lined with crimson velvet, creating the atmosphere of a secluded chamber. When they sat down and looked toward the already-begun stage, the arrangement made it seem as though life existed nowhere else—everything beyond the stage remained invisible. Yashiro wanted to search for Chizuko—who should have arrived—rather than follow the play's movements, but unless he leaned far out the window, the thick window frames blocked his view of the audience's faces. If all rooms were indeed arranged this way, he could only imagine Pierre's whispered words and demeanor toward Chizuko that night through his and Makiko's presence in this secluded chamber.

“What a beautiful actress. Her voice is lovely too.” Makiko whispered. Only when she spoke did Yashiro realize he had been staring at the stage. There unfolded a soirée in Violetta’s opulent parlor—Marguerite from the opera’s title. “Ah, joyous! To die for pleasure—that is my true wish... For me...to die for pleasure would fulfill my destiny...” Not long after the performance began, nineteenth-century Parisian society—centered on Marguerite in her black velvet gown—continued its chorus of resplendent melody.

Yashiro thought that in *The Lady of the Camellias*—the original novel described as a novelization of real events—the depiction of Marguerite when Armand first spoke to her, the Lady of the Camellias, paralleled his own current search for Chizuko: even while attending the opera, his eyes kept darting from box to box without ever truly looking at the stage. Moreover, when he considered that the Lady of the Camellias had lived on Rue d’Antin—not far from here—and had often come to this very opera house from there, juxtaposing it with his own presence here now, he felt a dizzying turmoil that made him want to scream inwardly in that instant.

However, immediately afterward appeared the figure in a tailcoat—gazing intently at Marguerite with Armand’s eyes brimming with passion, so guileless they verged on uncouthness. When Yashiro caught a glimpse of that figure, he thought that such an overt, hawk-like predatory gaze was something he as a Japanese man could never possibly affect, and imagined that Pierre, being a foreigner, might perhaps achieve it effortlessly. As time wore on, he found himself growing increasingly uneasy about the precarious circumstances surrounding Chizuko. And then there was this exquisitely translucent melody. Even Pierre couldn’t remain indifferent. Yashiro even began to regret how the encroaching murky dread had taken an unexpectedly dramatic turn.

Onstage, the scene continued—centered around Armand—with an artful playboy count and baron making a show of their drinking. At that moment, Marguerite suddenly collapsed. People came rushing after her. Waving them away with a handkerchief in one hand, Armand came to stand beside Marguerite, now left alone in her anguish. Then he began to confess the heartfelt feelings he had long harbored. Yashiro suddenly thought—at that precise moment—that perhaps Chizuko had summoned him here tonight precisely because she wanted him to witness this scene. With that thought alone, the stage abruptly began to appear brighter, as if aligning itself with his perspective. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that if Pierre were now adopting Armand’s current demeanor, it wasn’t impossible he might have already taken such an attitude by this point.

“Cast away that love—ah, forget it, I pray thee…” Marguerite sang plaintively. Yashiro thought Makiko beside him must be sensing his emptiness—how even as he watched the stage, nothing registered before his eyes. And as this unexpected hardship kept intensifying tonight, he realized there was truly no way to avoid it except by coming here himself—just as Chizuko too must have found no means to evade Pierre’s advances other than making him witness this play.

“Verdi’s music really is the best, isn’t it.” “I saw Nazimov’s *La Traviata* long ago, and that was wonderful too.”

When the curtain fell, Makiko said this and left the box seats with Yashiro. The scent of Makiko, who had just freshened her makeup, wafted strongly through the light of the colonnade.

Yashiro stood by the terrace railing and looked down at the swaying crowd in the vast hall below. Wiping the thin sweat seeping around his neck, he looked for Chizuko but could not find her. “I still don’t see La Traviata.” Makiko also said this and looked down. Yashiro felt grateful for Makiko’s willingness to come assist him, and though he laughed, he straightened his back thinking that if this continued, he too might become a genuine Armand by now.

"I'm really not suited for that sort of opera. This is better." "But it's fine." "It would have been nice if Mr. Kuji were here too. I wonder what he's doing now." Yashiro nodded at Makiko, who had suddenly grown wistful, and realized she too might have been one of those Marguerites—watching the stage while thoughts drifted toward Kuji—before saying:

“Next time, let’s come again with Kuji.” “Kuji’s modern—he likes this sort of thing.” “What’s he up to, I wonder.”

Perhaps because the sweat had dried, the chill of the colonnade’s marble seeped coldly from both flanks. Groups in tuxedos and soirée dresses, gradually gathering from the promenade down to the hall below, continued their languid circling beneath umbrella lamps as they exchanged whispers. As Yashiro beheld this resplendent spectacle, the fluttering of foamy white fans and glinting earrings suddenly brought back Higashino’s words from that day—words that had struck like a blow before fading. “You dwell too much on the past.”

However, Yashiro—rooted to the crimson carpet of the terrace—felt himself arguing alone against Higashino.

No—it’s universal flux. If universal flux is history’s archetypal form, then what lay below was its concrete manifestation—ceaselessly becoming the past with each passing moment. “How could one see the future without looking at the past?” Amidst the drifting damp haze of faint jealousy—catching himself suddenly entertaining such thoughts—*Well now*, he mused, *what a peculiar Armand I make*—he swept his gaze around the surroundings. At that moment, amidst the crowd descending the opposite staircase from the second-floor promenade toward the hall, a figure resembling Chizuko flickered into view.

“There she is.” “That’s her.” Yashiro nearly let the words escape his lips but held back—now simply confirming her presence sufficed. Realizing he could leave having fulfilled his duty by this mere confirmation, he stayed silent and sharpened his gaze further toward Chizuko. In her pale blue soirée dress and silver shoes, Chizuko descended arm-in-arm with Pierre through curling balustrades adorned with arabesques, her quiet smile lingering as they went. Still wordless toward Makiko and unhurried, Yashiro took her arm and turned toward the staircase opposite Chizuko’s path. An indescribably opulent moment seemed to breathe with sudden richness—with each descending step, gem-like lights sparking like fire splashed upward against their faces from beneath their shoes.

“The hall here seems larger than the audience seats.” “I wonder when it was built.”

When Makiko descended the stairs, she looked around and asked.

“Seventeenth century,” Yashiro answered, then walked through the stream of circulating people with tense resolve toward Chizuko. Chizuko still did not seem to notice him, but even as she occasionally spoke with Pierre, she would glance toward the second-floor corridor. Pierre, his broad forehead accentuated by the well-tailored tuxedo, approached with gleaming eyes and minimal smiles. He had a broad-shouldered, medium-height, sturdy build, and the way he looked at people with his chin tucked in somehow resembled the figure of a young Napoleon in photographs. Yashiro felt a slight antipathy toward this theater with its rotating patterns of combined forms and grew somewhat embarrassed, but since both had already emerged to where they needed to be, he thought that now was the moment, and courage welled up within him.

“They’re here.” “Wait.”

Then Makiko pulled Yashiro’s arm. At that moment, Chizuko too seemed to notice Yashiro and the others; she gave a light smile and a silent bow. Yashiro was in a melancholic mood. All the while, the flow of people intermittently cut through the narrowing space between their gazes, but each time Chizuko’s face reappeared, her smile had changed. As they passed each other, “This has been like a ritual.” “Please wait silently for a while.” And in this manner, while Chizuko’s gaze spoke volumes, she offered only a slight bow to Makiko and passed by. Pierre’s eyes suddenly lit up as he stared intently at the two of them, but then, nodding at something Chizuko whispered, he turned and headed toward the promenade outside the hall.

“Shall we follow them?” Makiko suddenly pressed her chest tightly against Yashiro and asked. “No, let’s not.” “Strange.” “Why?” Yashiro had felt relieved from the moment he saw Chizuko; his steps slowed as he walked, silently guiding Makiko—who was about to turn around—by his side. The aria from the first act—“Ah, was that person alone amidst the revelry?”—rippled through Yashiro’s heart with a peculiar allure, its rivulets spreading wider still. From the people passing by, various scents drifted and shifted; as earrings, trailing silver fox furs, dangling pearls, and multicolored soirée dresses in white, yellow, and pale blue appeared one after another, Yashiro thought that a resplendent and unparalleled time was now swirling into being around him. It seemed to him a flow of time profoundly ill-suited to his being, yet there could be no mistake that he was indeed present at the Grand Opera.

"Was this what had tempted generation after generation of Japanese youths, never to be quenched? Was this one of the things that set life’s waters roiling?" As Yashiro thought this, he felt certain that had there been even the slightest signal of crisis in Chizuko’s gaze when they had met moments earlier, this resplendent opera would have become a source of torment for him.

Having reached the silver-mouse-colored marble wall, the two turned back once more. To meet Chizuko again during intermission required crossing a promenade too expansive—they would have needed to run. Though Yashiro had once restrained Makiko from chasing after Chizuko, now finding himself pursuing her again beside this woman he kept marginalizing in his heart, he suddenly felt disgust at his own behavior. When they arrived beneath a beautiful statue that seemed poised to step into water, Yashiro once more halted his pursuit of Chizuko and, feigning concern for Makiko, spoke:

“Verdi came from Italy to Paris and, after seeing a performance of *La Dame aux Camélias* here, promptly composed this *La Traviata*, I hear. I don’t know much about opera, but they say when he first tried performing it in Venice, it was a complete failure.” “In Venice... I went there, you know. I thought it was just my husband and me, but no—a Hungarian woman had come along too, and not just to Venice. Wherever we went, she’d come on the train before or after us like some guard. Even I would get upset, don’t you think?”

The stream of people began moving toward their respective box seats. The two climbed the stairs again. Yashiro had to support Makiko as if hoisting her up, and from the tactile sensation of their brushing torsos he suddenly perceived an implicit crisis coming awake. If Chizuko were indeed being assailed by this same crisis moment by moment, then Pierre’s sharp eyes must naturally be transforming into raw lust—this thought pursued him relentlessly, compounding his distress. Moreover, their ignition points chafing against each other, they entered once more into box seats like a secret chamber. In these seats, not only would the elderly attendant lock the door with a key if asked— Heavy curtains stood ready at the windows.

When they entered the box seats, the crimson hues and mirrors in their uncanny tones caressed Yashiro’s skin. Though he averted his gaze from Makiko, the silence in their secret chamber—with just the two of them alone—only intensified the oppressive weight. The long sofa in the room—as if declaring it unnatural should nothing occur here—was equally red. Makiko continued silently watching the stage curtain from the window, but their shared breaths sensing the passage of a demonic moment now held between them an instant as perilous as a plant poised to sever their heads at the slightest touch—a burden that grew heavier still. It was that terrifying instant when the momentum of something abruptly altered the course of human destiny. At that moment, the curtain rose, suffused with the beautiful scenery of Bougival in Paris’s suburbs.

Yashiro gazed at the stage with a carefree feeling, as if he had sat up with a sigh of relief. "That's Bougival over there." "I've been there." "It takes about an hour by car from here."

“Oh, really? I’d love to go.” “Won’t you take me there once?”

“Let’s go.” “Dumas wrote in *La Dame aux Camélias* that there’s no village as beautiful as this in Paris’s suburbs.” “When I went there, the entire area was covered with nothing but apple blossoms.” Armand, seemingly returned from the forest in hunting attire, entered alone. In his life of perfect love with Marguerite, he appeared delighted and sang a joyful song with light steps. There, the maid appeared, dealt the first blow that shattered Armand’s joy, then exited in agitation; following his departure, Marguerite made her entrance. Even as the two—burning without respite—devotedly sustained their beautiful love with all their might, the past marched forward, ruthlessly overturning their present happiness. Armand’s aged father appeared and urged them to part; when this turned into desperate pleas, their future at last shifted irrevocably toward tragedy.

To the old father pleading for their separation, Marguerite too initially uttered words of firm refusal: "I can't do it because I love you." But if they truly loved each other, why didn't they push through with "Because I love you, I can't" and forge a future together? Yashiro imagined Chizuko's figure—who must still be watching this scene from the depths of some box seat.

“Because I love you—I can’t.” The beautiful heart of the Camellia Lady, which had struck down countless vices across the world, must surely still be alive within everyone’s hearts. If even now my heart insists on tarnishing itself by watching, then let it be tainted quickly.—Yashiro grew irritated with himself for having been tormented by jealousy for so long and even considered leaving without a backward glance.

“That’s settled, then.”

When the curtain fell, Makiko stood up, checked her face in the mirror, and hurried out of the box seats alone. Yashiro followed her out, but for some reason Makiko stood at the edge of the terrace looking downward, remaining silent with a resentful air as though his presence were an obstruction. Yashiro glanced fleetingly at the faintly visible veins pulsing near Makiko’s slightly pallid temples and thought that reining in these emotions of hers—which had so abruptly erupted from beneath her feet—would be no simple matter. Yet even if he tried to console her, inviting Makiko on such a night had been a blunder from the start; her displeasure was inevitable at least once. Judging it wiser to leave her be than risk further missteps, Yashiro stayed silent without a word.

“I’ve grown rather weary.”

In truth, Yashiro had indeed felt fatigued and ventured to say so, but Makiko merely replied softly, “I see.” He leaned one hand against a thick, polished pale-red marble pillar, searching for any sign of Chizuko’s presence, yet now even the hall’s beauty seemed clouded by Makiko’s displeasure beside him.

“Oh! That’s Mr. Ko!”

Suddenly at that moment, Makiko peered to the left of the lower promenade and said. At the entrance leading to the bar area stood Li Chengrong, a painter they often encountered at cafés, and Ko Yumei, with whom Makiko had frequently danced on deck during the shipboard dance party. Ko was the son of the president of a renowned Shina Bank in Shanghai—a refined young man fluent in Japanese who had graduated in economics from Tokyo Imperial University—but for some reason, he had traveled second class rather than first on the ship.

“I’ll just step away for a moment.”

Makiko left Yashiro alone on the terrace and descended the stairs. Li and Mr. Ko—likely because they had no female companions—remained standing before the entrance wall rather than entering the hall; when Makiko tapped Mr. Ko’s shoulder from the side, he started, then instantly smiled and shook her hand with nostalgic warmth. From the terrace above, Yashiro watched Mr. Ko’s refined mannerism—blushing, widening his eyes to make them sparkle whenever he laughed—and now felt a creeping dread at Makiko’s audacious metamorphosis. After a moment, Mr. Ko—evidently informed by Makiko—looked up toward Yashiro on the terrace and raised his hand slightly in greeting. Yashiro returned the smile in their first exchange since parting ways, then glanced sideways to find Chizuko’s face suddenly emerging from beyond the pillar’s surface—now misted at its center by the sweat from his own palm pressed there until now.

“Are you alone?” “Well, Mrs. Makiko is over there, but she’s been rather out of sorts, you see.” “This is troublesome.” “Oh?” “I was rude, wasn’t I?”

Chizuko looked down at Makiko, then, without showing a smile, fixed her gaze on Yashiro’s face with more intensity than usual. Yashiro took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead amid the sudden vertical commotion,

“Are you staying until the end?” she asked. Chizuko tilted her head, appearing unable to answer immediately. “When you return to the hotel, won’t you call me right away?” “If I could leave first, that would be best.” “Then you should go ahead too.”

Yashiro said. Chizuko looked back behind her, “I’ll go ask Mr. Pierre what time we’re leaving. Next time, I’ll come by your box seat for a moment, all right? Would that be acceptable?” “Please do.” “Which one might it be?” “That one.” Yashiro pointed to the box seat immediately behind. Chizuko carefully scrutinized the door of the box seat Yashiro had indicated, “There, then. Well, until later.” With that she bowed, yet remained standing for a moment as if hesitating before bowing once more and withdrawing behind the pillar.

It seemed the time for the curtain to rise was approaching, and people began flowing toward their respective box seats. When Yashiro recalled Chizuko's appearance—her large eyes paler than usual, her restless demeanor—his heartbeat grew intense without cause, leaving him unwilling to return directly to the seats. Though the hall carried an air that the curtain had risen, Makiko still had not returned. Having met Ko after so long, she must have gone to his box seat with him—but Yashiro was in no state to dwell on that now. The image of Chizuko's wide, strained eyes flooded his mind like a portent of calamity and would not fade. He too had been utterly overturned.—As Yashiro walked along the hushed crimson carpet of the deserted colonnade, his expression shifted into melancholy, as though steeling himself within some deepening resolve. An old woman in black holding box seat keys emerged quietly from a pillar's shadow. Then this woman who had approached him produced a key and,

“Here. Do you need this?” she asked. “No,” Yashiro said.

Yashiro said this, but it suddenly occurred to him that the old woman might have gone to lock Chizuko and Pierre’s room. As he walked down the corridor, regretting his carelessness in having forgotten to ask for their box seat number, he stopped after guessing it was likely around this area. However, of course, even if he had identified it, he couldn’t very well intrude inside. Yashiro turned back once more. Through the hushed marble expanse of the hall, the golden handrail frolicked freely with a coquettish grace, as though twisting its form in solitary play. He suddenly recalled Chizuko’s unrestrained beauty when she had turned to look back from atop the jagged teeth of the Tyrolean glacier. After some time, Yashiro entered his own box seat, but Makiko had still not returned. Even as he leaned against the sofa and glared at the stage, he could muster no further interest. The stark whiteness of his tuxedo front seemed unnervingly vivid and voluminous in the spacious room, and as he wished for the final act to end all at once, each yawn that escaped him was immediately followed by another.

The stage became slightly more engaging around the time Armand, defeated in love, appeared and began gambling. The anticipation that he would soon hurl his gambling winnings at Marguerite eased Yashiro's irritation. At that moment Marguerite entered. Suppressing her visible shock at seeing Armand from whom she had parted, she stood beside the Baron who had accompanied her while intermittently observing Armand's reckless demeanor. Suddenly Yashiro felt a vividly warm touch against his occiput. When he casually glanced upward, Chizuko stood wordlessly behind the sofa.

“Mrs. Makiko still hasn’t come back?”

Chizuko, who had moved forward, lightly pinched the sofa’s edge and sat down beside Yashiro. A perfume different from Makiko’s poured into Yashiro’s head like a vivid current. “Is it all right to leave Mr. Pierre behind?” “Yes—he said that. ‘Because there are friends there.’” Chizuko let out a sigh as she gazed about the room, “What has become of Mrs. Makiko?” she asked again. “There was that Chinese man named Mr. Ko on the ship, yes? The one who danced well. —She met him downstairs and hasn’t returned.”

“Right. Are you angry with me?” “No—at me.” “I also thought I might be scolded, but…”

“Well, I made a slight mistake.” Yashiro said this and pulled Chizuko’s arm—something he had thought would rarely be possible—into his own as though they were walking. Chizuko turned toward the door behind them and leaned her face against Yashiro’s shoulder, but then sat up again, crossed her legs, and reclined more heavily against him, causing the blue stones of her necklace to faintly chime. For a while, the two of them remained as they were and watched the stage. As Marguerite’s agonized dress undulated, countless jewels across her body kept shifting their sparkle without cease.

Yashiro, cradling Chizuko’s curled hair against his neck, felt a pleasure resonating from depths unknown even to himself. Though he understood the progression unfolding onstage, Yashiro thought their own progression consisted solely of pleasures yet to come—ones he could not yet comprehend at all—and feeling a responsibility from which he could no longer retreat, he continued supporting Chizuko’s weight. The music persisted in pouring forth Armand’s lament over his lost “precious love.”

“Oh—it’s smudged.” Chizuko suddenly raised her head and brushed the powder from Yashiro’s shoulder. Laughing, “Forgive me.”

Having said that, she placed Yashiro’s hand on her own knee and stroked it with both hands as though kneading. Yashiro felt something akin to intensifying intoxication whenever Chizuko moved. One reason lay in the music—steeped in the poignant sorrow of unfolding tragedy—intruding between them like jealousy. Yet even so, if someone were to tear apart this love now, Yashiro thought, he too would surely be thrown into turmoil and grief like Armand. And as he supported Chizuko, even the cold touch of her earring against his neck sent a piercing ache through him.

“I really must go now.” “The curtain’s about to fall.”

Chizuko stood up, approached the mirror to adjust her appearance, and said to Yashiro, “Please do call me when you return to the hotel.” And then, coming to sit beside Yashiro once more, she placed his hand on her knee again, “Is it all right if I go and come back?” she asked. “Well, it’s a bother, but there’s no helping it.” Yashiro suddenly found himself wondering which hand it had been—the one Pierre had kissed—and sharply slapped the back of his own hand.

“Well, goodbye.”

When Chizuko stood up and was about to leave, Yashiro suddenly called out to stop her.

“Please don’t let this become a tragedy. Are you alright?”

Chizuko twisted her half-entered body through the doorway and, silently laughing, nodded. After Chizuko was gone, Yashiro stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Indeed, his shoulders seemed slightly slouched, he thought, and as he adjusted his crooked tie and straightened his white shirtfront, he finally admitted that even he had succumbed to the traveler's melancholy he'd always scorned. In truth, while Chizuko had undoubtedly been the one to press herself upon him, there was no denying that both of them had been besieged by Paris in full force. If this were to shed layer after layer each time they drew nearer to Japan, then in reality—he thought—the two of them now existed no differently than within a dream. To dwell on it would yield truly dreadful consequences. Yet there was no profit in such musings now. Things had unfolded as they would, and he could no longer trace who had set them all in motion. Resolving simply to savor this joy while it lasted, he settled back onto the sofa—his tuxedo now properly arranged—and resumed watching the stage's tragedy alone.

By the intermission before the final act, the audience in the hall was already completely excited. Pairs of men and women walking along the promenade pressed their bodies tightly together, no longer paying any heed to passersby, moving about with poignant gazes as though pledging their love to one another. As Yashiro looked down at this scene from the balcony, he too began to feel the urge to walk amidst the crowd’s excitement and descended the stairs. The mingled scent of the splendid soirée of gentlemen and ladies felt like his own. Whenever traces of white powder scattered on the men’s shoulders and chests caught his eye, instinctively Yashiro’s hand would move to his own shoulder.

However, among the crowd filling this hall, there was likely no one who had obtained as much joy as he—so Yashiro thought. When he thought this, even the swirling intoxication of the packed hall seemed to rain down upon his head like festive fireworks launched in unison—bright and collective. The fiery sparkle of jewels peeking from every fold of the soirée—if he considered all of this a celebration for himself, then indeed it was exactly that.

“What splendor! A once-in-a-lifetime moment.” Despite walking silently alone, Yashiro’s arms trembled with an emotion like flowers bursting into bloom—so intense that he occasionally stopped to collect himself. But what had become of Makiko?—Yashiro continued walking while scanning his surroundings. Chizuko’s smile, which had apparently been watching him for some time, glimmered faintly from beside a distant statue as she showed her teeth. In a flash of light that momentarily widened his vision, Pierre stood supporting Chizuko’s arm where he himself should have been. Yashiro now found himself wanting to feel gratitude toward Pierre. Had he not been there, he thought, even this night’s joy would have been just another uneventful evening.

Some time after Yashiro had returned to the box seats, Makiko came back just as the curtain seemed about to rise.

“Forgive me.” “Leaving you all alone.” “I heard so many interesting stories from Mr. Ko.” Makiko, now in high spirits quite unlike before, settled into her chair with a smile—but the moment she did so, a sudden shift in the air made her turn her head. “I smell Walt. Has Ms. Chizuko arrived?” she asked.

“She has come,” Yashiro said.

“I see.” “That’s good.”

Makiko fell silent and gazed politely at the stage for a moment before suddenly turning back toward Yashiro. "You know, do I really have to stay until the end? But it should be alright now. I’ve fulfilled the duty after all." "Well then, shall we leave? I can go anytime."

“You can stay.” “Well, I’ve made plans to go dancing with Mr. Ko tonight.” “The timing is just right now, you know.”

Yashiro thought he had no right to restrain Makiko’s actions, yet parting ways after having come together felt disagreeable. The peril of letting Makiko—a capricious adopted daughter who had left her husband—venture off to the dance hall with Ko was incomparable to the risks involving Chizuko and Pierre. Nine times out of ten, he had to acknowledge the danger of her first succumbing to the Chinese man’s cunning schemes. “You can’t go.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Why? It’s just...somehow you can’t.” “But I already made the promise.”

“Then I’ll go too,” Yashiro said, glancing at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Just then, the curtain rose onstage, and Marguerite—afflicted with stomach illness—lay asleep on her bed in the whitish room at dawn. Makiko was silently watching the stage, but— “I already know all this.” “Well then, I’m going.” With that, she stood up. To knowingly push Makiko into pleasures he recognized as dangerous for his own sake was unbearable for Yashiro. He grabbed Makiko’s wrist and pulled her down to sit in the chair,

“Stop it,” he said again, putting strength into his voice.

“You’re so worried about me?” “Because I’m free, you know.” “That may be your freedom, but it’s not a woman’s freedom.” “Then what about Ms. Chizuko?” “Is her personality different?” Makiko flared her nostrils like an actor delivering a parting shot, stood up again, and shook off Yashiro’s hand with a forceful jerk.

“Well then, I guess I’ll come along too.”

As Yashiro tried to follow Makiko out and had nearly reached the door, she suddenly turned around. “No, you can’t,” she said and shoved his shoulder.

The entrance sloped slightly toward the box seats, so Yashiro staggered backward, yet he stubbornly pressed on into the corridor. Even as he pursued her, he could sense from Gao and Li’s radiantly dignified appearances that they possessed upstanding character—enough to believe that even if Makiko were in danger... Rather, it must have been Makiko who had invited him to dance in the first place, and if that were the case, then his own worries might have merely been restricting her enjoyment—Yashiro even began to feel regret. He clung to the balcony railing and watched Makiko hurry down the stairs, yet he could not stop wishing that she too would spend the night happily and safely, just as he would.

When Makiko’s figure had disappeared from view, Yashiro returned to the box seats. In the deserted private box, from the shoulder of his tuxedo, Walt alone wafted like a living creature. The Traviata onstage had now reached its climax. Yet Yashiro was so consumed by the joy surging from his chest that even the beauty of the orchestral performance had grown dim. Above all, as he dwelled on how even this memory of the scent at his shoulder—a precious joy bought at Makiko’s solitary sacrifice—he wished to contrive scheme after scheme to prolong this joy, growing as elated as a child.

Finally, onstage, Marguerite exclaimed, “Look, my pulse has begun to race. I’m going to come back to life once more!” she declared joyously as she died. And so, amidst the sorrowful orchestral music of those who remained, the beautiful long curtain fell.

Yashiro thought he would likely never return to this commemorative box again, gazed intently at the seats, and then went outside. The crowd from the Opéra Garnier’s exit swarmed in disorderly fashion toward Café de la Paix at the right corner for supper. Each of them, still possessed by La Traviata’s raw vitality, sank coquettishly within their splendid attire like nectar-filled petals, then lined up at white tablecloths in unrestrained postures as they shifted into their own respective dramas.

Yashiro thought Pierre would soon appear there with Chizuko as well, but upon remembering the promised phone call, he immediately returned to his hotel. As if declaring he would make his own drama—now beginning—more beautiful than anyone else’s, he sat in the waiting car, straightened the chest of his tuxedo with a snap, and adjusted the crooked bowtie.

The streets lay quiet in slumber without lamps as Yashiro returned, feeling as though he were traversing the depths of a rocky ravine. Light spilled onto the street from only one café. Prostitutes huddled in a circle on the terrace under its softened glow, slurping late-night soup. Though hungry himself, Yashiro turned the corner back to his hotel to await Chizuko's call. The hotel too had fallen silent in sleep, save for the occasional sound of shower water. He removed the tuxedo he still wore and changed into a gown. Yet no call came no matter how long he waited. Seeing this continued absence, his anxiety grew—could Chizuko have gone off somewhere with Pierre at her invitation? The opera's lingering excitement burned still, feeding his worry. Though he trusted completely that Chizuko would never do such a thing, even he could scarcely claim safety when facing Makiko in the box seats earlier. Just as a leaf detaches from its stem, if some point of severance suddenly arose within the body, a moment beyond will's control would split the heart. Then, the telephone rang.

“You were there.” “I’m coming over now with a souvenir, so don’t go to sleep yet.” “Got it?”

The call was unexpectedly from Kuji, who had been worried about Yashiro’s whereabouts. To Kuji, who seemed somewhat under the influence of alcohol, “Where are you? Order some sandwiches if I’m on my way.” And even as Yashiro spoke, the call had already ended. Thinking that if Kuji was coming he wouldn’t be able to talk to Chizuko tonight either, Yashiro filled the bathtub with hot water. Even though it was Kuji—whom he hadn’t seen in some time—Yashiro wondered if he himself had changed enough to now find the man’s presence somehow intrusive. As he stirred the bathwater, he still found himself anxiously awaiting Chizuko’s call. However, as he soaked in the bath, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes, a resignation-like feeling arose in his mind. He had never thought that his reason had weakened to the point of resenting a friend’s visit before, yet this was the transformation tonight. If this was what love was like, it could not possibly last long. Yashiro splashed noisily in the bathwater, cooled his head under the shower, and slowly regained a mindset of waiting for what was to come.

Before long, Kuji entered, tucking a bundle under his arm. The eyes beneath his thick eyebrows sharpened as if in anger, transforming his face into one that looked slightly haggard. He entered the room and immediately flopped down heavily onto the bed, lying on his back and spreading both arms wide.

“After all, this place is best,” “I can relax.” “Where were you?” Even when questioned by Yashiro, Kuji did not attempt to answer, his eyes glinting as he kept staring at the ceiling. To Kuji—who appeared utterly exhausted—Yashiro

“Why don’t you take a bath?” he suggested. “Hmm… Too much trouble.” “Get in.” Yashiro briefly rinsed and refilled the bathwater before returning to Kuji’s side and loosening his belt. Kuji seemed pleased to let Yashiro tend to him, “Hey—shoes.”

Having said that, he thrust his foot toward Yashiro as well.

“You’re acting awfully high and mighty.” “So the souvenir doesn’t matter anymore?”

“Ha ha ha ha!” Laughing loudly, Kuji sat up and suddenly became energetic; he threw off his jacket, stripped off his trousers as if kicking them away, and stood naked. Just then, the telephone rang, so Kuji, still undressed, reached for the nearby receiver. Yashiro tried to take over the call, but Kuji had already responded, “Yes, that’s right. I’m Yashiro.” “Who is it from?”

Even when Yashiro asked, Kuji remained silent, responding to Chizuko while stubbornly insisting, “I’m Yashiro,” and refused to relinquish the receiver. Yashiro gazed at the fine beads of sweat trickling along the twisted line of Kuji’s spine and, reassured by Chizuko’s safe return to the hotel, found Kuji’s teasing suddenly gentler—leaving him to hold the receiver a while longer. “Your lover’s making all sorts of excuses about something.” “Alright, your turn now.”

Yashiro took Kuji’s place. “I’m Yashiro.” “Earlier—well, you see, Mr. Pierre treated me to a late-night meal, so I ended up being late. Mr. Kuji, you’re impossible—he was in such a hurry that I thought it was you.” “Kuji just came back now—he still hasn’t confessed where he’s been—but we’re about to give him a hard time.” “What about Mrs. Makiko?”

“She ended up going to dance with Mr. Ko.” “I came back alone.”

“So she’s still out?” “She’s still not back.” “She’ll surely be late.” “That’s worrying.” “I think I need to go express my thanks, but I wonder what I should do.” “Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that.” “What’s there to worry about?” Kuji said to Yashiro from the bath. Yashiro had now regained enough composure to talk on the phone while merely being mindful of Kuji behind him. “Since Kuji is making a racket, please rest well tonight.”

“Well then, go to sleep.” “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye.”

Even after the call had ended, Yashiro somehow felt that Chizuko was still there as she had been, so he said, “Alright then, I’ll hang up,” but the call had already ended.

Yashiro leaned back in the chair with a sense of deflation while Kuji made splashing sounds in the bath. Due to the chair's positioning that reflected his upper body in the mirror, his face remained clearly visible even without moving. He considered telling Kuji about that night's events at the opera, but he thought of himself as someone who had never been able to place much value on love from the beginning. He concluded it would be better to refrain from reporting the results of having immersed himself in such emotions without shame for the foreseeable future.

Yashiro gazed at his face reflected in the mirror, unable to comprehend where any value lay in that countenance of his—so smugly self-assured as though utterly at peace. Yet despite it all, the triumphant aspect of that effeminate visage—having surrendered to matters reason could hardly commend—now bore upon its cheeks even the beauty of some valiant beast. To himself, he grew calm without a trace of remorse, as if having perished gloriously in battle, while simultaneously sensing a creeping revulsion emanating from his own features.

Even so, how had things come to this? Wasn’t the so-called incident merely that I had briefly wrapped Chizuko’s arm within my own? Yashiro suddenly began to doubt what all the science, history, and philosophy he had acquired up to this point had even been for. Truly, that a mere physiological change—one that hadn’t existed until yesterday—occurring somewhere in his head could render all academic pursuits so utterly powerless was no ordinary matter. And if this were to turn into heartbreak, it would be all the more so. Moreover, when he thought that this was the human world—where everyone ceaselessly carried their own precarious, fragile hearts—and that there lay a terrifying crater spewing fire, Yashiro gazed once more at his face in the mirror with the feeling of beholding a looming plume of smoke that now pressed urgently upon him. He thought he wanted to spend the entire night thinking things through slowly. However, Kuji would soon emerge from the bath. Then there would be another debate. The human past, present, future. Even if he thought he’d had enough, others would keep things in motion.

Kuji emerged from the bath, opened Yashiro’s wardrobe, hung his sleepwear as he pleased, sat down on the bed, and took out a bottle of Johnnie Walker, sandwiches, and lots of bread from a gift-wrapped package. “You can drink as much whiskey as you like, but don’t eat too much of the bread. Starting tomorrow, all the eateries in Paris are going on strike simultaneously, so I stocked up.”

Kuji first drank a glass of whiskey himself, then poured some for Yashiro. They sat facing each other on the bed, using blotting paper as a makeshift tea stand, so whenever either moved, the cup would shake—making it impossible to let go from their hands. Even so, they enjoyed sitting face-to-face like this for the first time in ages. “Will we not even get to eat starting tomorrow?” “So Paris of blossoms becomes Paris of starvelings at last.” Yashiro thought that even as he spoke these words, he was sinking deeper into love’s world—unclear whether hell or heaven. And this too had become unavoidable now—if Chizuko were to tell him to kill Kuji without reason, he realized with extremity’s clarity, it would mean dwelling in an intoxicated madness where even this dear friend might fall by his hand.

“Today I saw something interesting.” “At Clignancourt, an old newspaper vendor was selling right-wing newspapers.” “Then three or four left-wing committee members came running over and said it was outrageous for a laborer to sell right-wing papers—so they snatched them all up and tore them apart.” “Then the old man spread his hands and said, ‘I make my living selling these every day. If you destroy my goods, I can’t eat today.’” “‘What are you going to do about it?’ he wailed, trembling and crying.” “The left-wing members were flustered.” “‘Oh—right. That was wrong of us.’” “So they told him to sell these instead—bought up a stack of new left-wing papers and made him carry them. Since he didn’t care what he sold as long as he had goods, he went back out to the streets looking pleased as punch.” “But watching them spend their own money to buy back the very papers they’d torn up—that’s when I thought, this is France.” “Because even behind ideologies, there are decent human beings.”

In response to Kuji’s words, Yashiro said, “Hmm. Hmm,” and sank into thought once more. He nodded with particular attention to Kuji’s matured interpretation that behind ideologies there were people. Now I too have fallen into a love that kills people, just like rigid, faithless ideologies. But if both ideologies and love kill people, then what in the world doesn’t kill them?

“So the scientific rationalist has crawled back to the humanist fold after his vanishing act.” “Well—let’s drink to your safe return.” Yashiro poured whiskey for Kuji while still trying to bury his own metamorphosis deep within his chest. “Four hundred factories shuttered just today—once this contagion spreads globally, strikes will be the least of it.” “The entire intellectual class will split clean down the middle.” “Then it’s war everywhere,” Kuji declared.

“Because they did nothing but chant ‘truth, truth’ like a mantra, in the end everything has become truth.”

Kuji got down from the bed, took out a newspaper called La Flèche from his coat pocket, and spread it out to show. On its front page was a large map of France, with red and white color-coding marking the reddened departments from those that remained unchanged. In the map of France—shaped exactly like a leopard skin rug—the white areas remained only as small spots around where the hands would be and slightly above the tail; the rest, from head to torso, was dyed vermilion and ablaze. Underneath it, there was also a diagram of parliamentary seats: against the left-wing Popular Front’s fifty-six seats, the combined total of the right wing and centrists numbered no more than forty-four.

“With this, nearly twenty million yen a day has started fleeing to foreign banks with just a phone call, you see.” “The countries profiting must be smugly raking it in like manna from heaven.” “Even if they go on about exchange controls, it seems there’s nothing to be done about it.”

Since it was Kuji—knowledgeable in economics—speaking, Yashiro didn’t raise many questions, but he thought that an outflow of nearly twenty million yen a day would bring economic suffering surpassing that of war. In contrast to Japan, if money from one’s own country could be transferred so easily to foreign banks once such a situation arose, it felt as though the momentum of domestic reddening would only further solidify the banks, ultimately resulting in the fear that flames spewing from those very banks would consume the populace. Since coming abroad, Yashiro had grown far more sensitive to the movement of money than before, yet he realized he remained far more oblivious to daily financial discrepancies than the ignorant old woman selling cigarettes on these streets. And it wasn’t just him. Many people in mainland Japan were almost more indifferent than he was on that point. Particularly when reflecting on the Orient, Yashiro thought that one reason so many intellectuals behaved as if believing ignorance to be a noble attitude—ignorance even of how Britain’s financial power, which controlled global currencies, invested its resources across the earth’s surface and how its surplus strength had once manipulated us—undoubtedly lay in the traditional posture of declaring, “I have nothing to do with money.”

“The rumors of war with China died out abruptly in just two or three days. So was that all a lie after all?”

Yashiro asked. “Apparently people jumped to the conclusion that the war between Chen Jitang and Li Zongren in Guangdong was between Japan and China. But on the night that war news broke, a Japanese man had a terrible time at a Shina restaurant in Saint-Michel.”

“Now that you mention it, Mr. Oki was in danger that night we went too.” “That man loves giving speeches.” “It’s his old presidential habit surfacing unconsciously—he’s convinced he must represent all Japanese people whenever something happens; it’s practically his hobby.” “Even aboard the ship, he kept at it constantly.” While continuing this exchange, Yashiro recalled the expression of Ko Yumei—the Chinese man who had gone dancing with Makiko that night—which retained the same gentle air of trust he’d always shown during their voyage. Precisely because these were such times, he felt some thread of mutual understanding still remained unbroken, and like a man glimpsing unexpected lamplight in darkness, he found himself awaiting Makiko’s return story.

“I forgot to mention—tonight I went to the opera with Mrs. Makiko.” “But then, in the hall downstairs, there was this Mr. Ko—you know, the Chinese man from second class on the ship who was such a good dancer.” “I met him.” “Mrs. Makiko, seemingly having recalled the joy of dancing, went dancing off with Mr. Ko and still hasn’t come back yet.”

Kuji, who seemed poised to erupt in anger, abruptly stifled the massive yawn he'd begun and started laughing. "Then that makes no logical sense." "What sort of logic?" "Haven't they gone dancing with us even once?" "That's right." "I'd forgotten to go dancing with her."

It was difficult for Yashiro to discern whether Kuji had any interest in Makiko or not, but he had remained silent until now, holding back from mentioning it himself even though he had expected that upon entering the room, Kuji would immediately inquire about her. Observing this, despite Kuji’s face appearing to lament Makiko being taken out by Ko with what seemed like profound regret, Yashiro could not help but perceive it as a ploy—Kuji feigning humor in his expression to obscure Yashiro’s scrutiny.

“I did manage to stop Mrs. Makiko, but she shoved aside my shoulder as I was stopping her and left.” “At the opera, she said regretfully, ‘I wish Mr. Kuji had been here too,’ so even you, who’ve gone missing, share some responsibility.” “She was quite the expert at rushing off, after all.” “She’s quite the handful.”

For three days, Kuji had not breathed a word about where he’d been, and Yashiro found himself unable to muster the will to press him for answers. Eventually, Kuji brushed aside the blanket on the bed and lay down; whether from accumulated sleep deprivation or something else, his eyelids drooped heavily shut at once, and he did not rise again. When morning came, Yashiro woke up before Kuji. Without waking Kuji, who was sleeping soundly beside him, Yashiro washed his face and then went to check if Makiko had returned the previous night by going to her room, but the key remained turned in the lock. It seemed certain she had returned. Yashiro left the hotel and walked toward nearby Luxembourg Gardens; after informing Chizuko of his whereabouts via the automatic telephone at the park entrance, he stepped alone through the iron railings.

It seemed there had been rain around midnight; drops fell heavily from trees with rain-drenched trunks. On the paths of the still-deserted garden, white feathers lay scattered like constellations, while water seeped damply from trodden sand.

The air was crisp. Yashiro wiped the dew from the bench's iron frame and sat down. Morning sunlight dappled the lawn as a pigeon walked through, parting the grass blades with its chest. It was a familiar view, but Yashiro liked the ordinariness here. The absence of particularly captivating trees somehow made his cigarette taste better. He occasionally glanced toward the eastern gate where Chizuko would appear, at the thicket of elms. Folded narrow iron chairs were bundled in the shadow of the thicket. From between the brushwood-like clusters of chairs, Chizuko approached in a black dress. Tinted by the leaves spreading across pruned treetops, her lightly powdered face looked slightly pale as she smiled shyly along a path where a single rose bush grew visible - turning her face away even while her steps gradually quickened.

“Did you sleep well last night?” “I woke up a bit too early. Kuji’s still asleep.” Chizuko sat down beside Yashiro and watched a pigeon wobble as it walked. “You saw Mr. Pierre quite clearly last night. He somehow looks rather elderly, don’t you think?”

“Not really.” “He was quite handsome and agreeable.” “He carried it well.” Chizuko made to swat Yashiro’s knee but arrested the motion mid-air, turning back toward him instead. “You looked rather dashing yourself.” “Maddeningly so.” For Yashiro, witnessing Chizuko’s blush proved wholly unprecedented. Before fleeing to Germany, he’d lost count of how many such conversations they’d shared on these very park benches. Though he’d resolved never to see her again—had practically fled France to enforce that resolve—here he now sat deliberately choosing this secluded morning spot. How circumstances shift, Yashiro mused. Merely sitting side by side like this, he felt their bodies had already fused—a mollusk whose every epidermal cell and visceral fold now shared one interconnected system, expanding and contracting in unison.

"What you think and what I think are now the same. What can we do?" Without voicing this aloud, Yashiro gazed at the dappled sunlight on the lawn while puffing on his cigarette with an air of deep contentment. In last night’s *La Traviata*, during the second act’s ball scene, Armand had looked just as happy as he did now—yet tragedy had struck a mere ten minutes later. Yashiro thought of himself as still knowing nothing about Chizuko’s family back in Japan, and it fleetingly occurred to him that if tragedy were to strike, it would stem from there—though even if it had occurred, it would have been something much later than now.

“Are you going back to the hotel again?”

“Oh, right.” Yashiro sat up and said. “Nowhere’s selling bread today, I hear.” “Why don’t we go see if that’s true?” “I’m hungry.”

“Has it really come to that already?” “It seems it’s come to that, but looking around, it’s surprisingly quiet.” The familiar pigeon’s toes that had drawn near were tinged pale red by the dew on the lawn, like spinach stems. A sparrow, still damp, bounced up like a ball at the tips of Chizuko’s shoes. The two stood from the bench and walked through the garden again. When the hawthorn flowers had bloomed, Yashiro had wandered through these woods in single-minded frenzy—now, from the sand still giving way beneath his feet, he suddenly sensed that moment when Chizuko had pulled him so forcefully he grew breathless. How had he ever managed to break free from her and leave Paris alone back then? Yashiro wondered with a weariness akin to fatigue as he parted with his gaze the tree trunks layered in greens deeper than those days, leading Chizuko toward the sunlit flowerbed.

“When traveling, even if you simply go with the flow, a nest naturally forms in your heart—but for me, this Luxembourg Gardens has unwittingly become that nest. It’s almost as if I’ve lived there.” Circling around the hollyhocks, Yashiro thought that in the end he had gained nothing at all, and he was certain that even after returning to Japan, his traveler’s heart would continue unceasingly.

“I learned so many things from you here.” “But soon we’ll have to say goodbye, won’t we?” Chizuko spoke while placing her hand on a hollyhock’s straight stem, her demeanor suggesting she assumed Yashiro too must naturally sense the approaching day of their parting. Yes—he truly had to part with Chizuko. Yashiro shuddered as if a blade had been thrust into his chest and fell silent. Had tragedy come to me as well? He felt his heart grow slack under the whitening morning sunlight. He walked with his face down, as if devouring the violent pain that kept assailing his chest. Yashiro believed Chizuko must be rejecting marriage for reasons beyond his understanding, and he even considered resolving to tell her so himself—yet until yesterday he had endured without ever broaching the subject, and now the thought of breaking this restraint filled him with wretchedness.

“Have you received any letters from your brother in London?” Yashiro asked, finally sensing he had grasped a thread of understanding.

Chizuko answered “Yes” in a low voice, then fell into a heavy silence for a while before speaking again in a halting manner.

“My brother is already returning to Japan.” “He was supposed to return when I first arrived.” “But when he wrote saying it would be slightly delayed, I rushed here instead.” “I wonder if I never mentioned this.” “I’d only heard he was in London...” “If he returns, Ms. Chizuko—you’ll be marrying someone then, won’t you?”

Yashiro asked the one thing he most wanted to ask in a manner indistinguishable from ordinary conversation. “That is also part of it, you know.” “It’s so difficult.” “Truly.” Where the hollyhocks yielded to roses, Chizuko’s slender eyebrows—bowed as if inspecting crimped petal patterns—traced a quiet line of resignation illuminated by floral light. Yashiro felt dread as each prediction proved true, yet found her quiet resignation inadequate, sensing an uncontrollable force akin to violence rising within him.

“Do you absolutely have to marry that person?”

Yashiro suddenly wanted to press her like this, but upon saying so, he realized it would bring them to the precipice of their end. He halted his breath mid-exhalation and walked silently through the flowerbed for a time, then reaffirmed he could not doubt his own love—there was no way this could be a lie.

“Well, let’s go get something to eat.” Yashiro led Chizuko toward the east gate and exited the park, then cast aside his earlier frenzied feelings and walked in the direction of Lila. Yet as they walked, a chill resolve—the certainty that they must part—flooded his entire field of vision, and Yashiro sank into the thought that even the black trunks of the rows of chestnut trees lining the street would become another memory clawed into his heart.

When Yashiro and the others arrived at Lila, Lila had closed its doors and put away all the chairs. From there, the two went to check their usual restaurant, but its entrance was completely shut, terrace chairs lying on tables with legs upturned. At first Yashiro thought it might not have opened yet, but as he watched, the head waiter—who always served his table—stood confronting the manager beyond the entrance visible from the street, speaking in an agitated manner as if challenging him about something. The glass was tightly sealed, muffling their voices, but against the darkened interior’s backdrop, the manager and three or four waiters—faces illuminated by streetlight—loomed imposingly like sharks in an aquarium. Behind the waiter whose face alternately slackened into calmness or tensed in protest, the clothes of three others pressing close resembled unmoving kelp on the seabed. The manager with his receding hairline would often approach Yashiro to gently inquire, “How is this dish?” Though he had frequently asked such questions before, now he spread and clenched his hands repeatedly, wholly absorbed in pacifying the waiters.

“Well, given how things look, holding out just for today won’t do.” Yashiro stood on the street as he said this, surveying the restaurants and cafés lining both sides, but every single one had its glass doors shut tight, not admitting a single customer. Each time they wandered about searching for meals only to be turned away everywhere they went, the travelers were left merely drifting through the streets. When newcomers seeking meals came to know the truth of the matter, they remained clustered on the street, none attempting to slip away with a faint smile. There, government commissioners promoting the strike action would race through the streets in patrol cars to verify whether the strikes were being carried out as ordered, and then vigorously,

“Front Populaire!” (People’s Front)

After shouting this, they raised their clenched fists high before the crowd. It was a voice that seemed to cheer on the strikers behind the glass doors, but many of those wandering in search of food also raised their fists in unison, if only to stave off boredom.

As Yashiro walked through the streets with Chizuko, it became clear that not only eateries but all slightly larger shops had closed their doors, with strike committee members stationed at every entrance to prevent employees from coming to work.

“The tide has finally engulfed us,” Yashiro said, glancing at Chizuko with a laugh. Because the shops along the street had lowered their latticed iron shutters, the city appeared like a prisoner thrown into a cell, and the handbags, cosmetics, and other goods in the darkened show windows resembled a woman shackled in handcuffs, bowing her head. Yashiro, thinking how everything kept transforming, peered through the iron-barred lattice from outside,

“What will become of us?” she said, looking up at him with a timid gaze that seemed to seek his counsel. “Well, if we can’t even get a cup of coffee, we’ll have to think of something.” Exhausted from having long contemplated his imminent parting with Chizuko, Yashiro now also had to consider—if only partially—this metropolis’ upheaval where even money could not satisfy hunger.

“What will happen if this goes on for much longer?” “Will everywhere become like this?” In response to Chizuko’s question, Yashiro said, “Well…” and fell silent. And he thought that both he and you were now being assailed by an incomprehensible loneliness similar to this. Even if they could meet again upon returning to Japan, once back, surely both would lose all desire to see each other, scattering like everyone else.—

Yashiro, wanting at least to sit down somewhere and rest, walked straight along the street as far as he could, but every last café had its shutters down. When he realized they couldn't even get coffee now, he wanted to search until he found a place that would serve them, but then, when he thought that doing so would mean parting from Chizuko and never seeing her again, he resolved to steel himself for that outcome—yet even so, if things continued like this, he no longer knew what he might do. Even as he thought this must be the last of it, he tried to bite through his own bit like a horse struggling forward.

Beyond the Seine River lay the remains of the Tuileries Palace. Yashiro climbed onto the ramparts encircled by plane trees below and, standing beside Chizuko, looked down at the river. When they gazed at both banks of the Seine directly beneath this observation deck, the stone side walls of the river itself already formed a magnificent architectural structure. It was a majestic spectacle, as if white warships—the pinnacle of scientific achievement—had lined up in full view, descending in formation. “How do you find this view? Empress Joséphine, wife of Napoleon, resided in this palace, but the river looks just like a fully armed garrison of a great army. Napoleon apparently came here by carriage from the Palace of Saint-Cloud near Versailles whenever he grew weary of political duties.”

Thinking that even a hero’s love affairs could hardly differ from those of ordinary people, Yashiro had spoken those words—yet despite the sorrow, he now realized he stood at the very precipice of ascending to a pinnacle of pleasure no less intense than theirs. “But Saint-Cloud is quite far from here, isn’t it?” “Why do you suppose he lived apart from his wife?”

“Well, what that was about, I wonder.” “If they both live apart, then meeting must become a form of respite.” Even if it wasn’t entirely about Napoleon, Yashiro reconsidered that if he and Chizuko must soon part, then suppressing his feelings and leaving things as they were might instead become the beauty of a life prolonging this shared joy—and with that thought, he gradually found the composure to look back on their fleeting journey.

“This was Paris’s most beautiful place,” Yashiro said, “but Napoleon and Josephine are long gone. Since it’s just us here now—well—it feels like some peculiar, solitary truth.” As he spoke, Yashiro smiled at the lattice of light flowing across Chizuko’s face, then turned his gaze toward the ring of fountains glimmering through green trees—their quiet spectacle persisting amid the transient scenery.

“Madame Joséphine, did you gaze out from here like this every day?” “But I’m sure it must have been like this back then too.” “That part of the river with its long, elongated midsection looks like a river made of ivory.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Chizuko gazed at Notre Dame, visible close by to the left, then looked down at the bright water surface of the undulating river downstream—its dense volume appearing solid and weighty. Directly below the observation deck lay the Place de la Concorde. When Yashiro realized he had until now forgotten this square he loved, he also became aware of how his usual preoccupation with Chizuko had led to this lapse in memory.

“You saw Marie Antoinette’s bedroom at the Palace of Versailles, didn’t you? Dragged from that room all the way to this square here, she was placed on the guillotine—so even Empress Joséphine who came right after couldn’t have gazed at this river with such careless ease. And on a day like today when we can’t even get coffee? Back then, there’d already be crowds jostling around the guillotine by now.”

In the vast square reflecting sunlight, dozens of fountains possessed a freshness like that of effervescent soda water gently drifting and overflowing.

Yashiro descended from the observation deck and entered the art gallery below to rest. It was an oval-shaped room of about a hundred tatami mats, known as the Monet Room. On the surrounding walls, paintings of water lilies floating in a circular marsh filled every inch without exception. In the center of that serenely quiet room, devoid of any people, stood a single small bench upholstered in brown leather. They sat down side by side there, appearing to themselves like two frogs perched on a sunken log in a marsh, and whichever way they turned their eyes, it was a marsh of water lilies where not a single human figure could be seen.

“This place is nice when you’re tired, isn’t it? How did you come to know about such a place?”

Chizuko remained nestled close to Yashiro as if drawn to him, continuing to gaze at the surrounding marsh and its lush green serenity while she posed her question. "When I tire of walking through the city, I come here and stretch out alone on this bench," he said. "There's never been anyone else here before." "These paintings were done by Monet during Paris's golden age—truly realistic and precise works." "They make you feel as if you're actually within the pond itself." "That's true." "I feel as though I'm in the mountains of Japan." "You know, places like this exist in Nara too, don't they?"

“Exactly. “This is Nara.” Yashiro leaned sideways on his elbow. Even when believing the seamless marsh before his eyes was entirely paintings, he never ceased being astonished here at how these works—through perspectival techniques calibrated to the ceiling’s measured light—could approach natural reality so closely.

“So even Parisians want places like this after all.”

“That’s because they must be dying to have it.” “And the placement of this bench is quite masterful.” “When we’re like this, I don’t even feel human anymore.” “Oh, you’re right—frogs! Well, how amusing.” “We really are frogs, aren’t we?”

Chizuko turned again to face away from Yashiro on the backless bench and crossed her legs. The configuration of ultramarine floating leaves—their whorled patterns adrift among water lilies in dense clusters—created a marshland of exacting realism where, the longer one observed, no two shapes repeated. "When Easterners grow thoroughly weary of nature and desperately crave science, people here have already grown sick of science and desperately crave nature—these paintings declare that even when minds are exhausted by science, they still trust nothing beyond scientific precision." "What ultimately becomes of humanity—this is a hellscape panorama." "Right—I ought to bring Kuji here sometime."

Having said this, Yashiro stood up, his head instinctively tilting back to gaze at the sky. “Then what will become of humans?” As Chizuko whirled around to face him with her question, Yashiro’s face came so close that she instinctively recoiled—but confronted with the expanse of her eyes, he suddenly forgot what she had asked. The night before in the opera box, when he had slipped his arm around hers, they had been sitting side by side on the sofa facing forward, making such recklessness feel natural. Now they shared a single bench with their backs turned to each other. Feeling his body twist and his heart contort as if following suit, Yashiro gazed at the perfectly still point within Chizuko’s motionless eyes—something he now found more beautiful than anything.

“When you’re facing that way, the conversation keeps getting interrupted—it’s no fun. Since we’ve turned into frogs, let’s take down one of those humans who won’t even give us bread today.” “What nonsense.”

Having said this, Yashiro gazed once more at the water lily paintings. "I really want some coffee." "Shall we go?" "If we go to Rompain, there's sure to be some."

As Chizuko stood up, Yashiro also rose and went outside. Though quite hungry by now, they decided to walk to Rompain under the Champs-Élysées and made their way past the square's fountain. Even when they reached Rompain, it too was closed that day. With even these restaurants along the Champs-Élysées—that right-wing stronghold—shuttered, they grew increasingly bewildered about where to go next. Reluctantly, they sat down again on a bench at the crossroads to rest. The sculpted figures on the Arc de Triomphe crowning the slope appeared faintly pale against their square torsos. Within that arch lay the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers from the Great War, making this area—at the foot of a gentle slope comparable to Tokyo's Kudan district beneath Yasukuni Shrine—a place where urban troubles inevitably erupted around this tomb time and again.

“Although Bastille Day is approaching soon, clashes between the Left Wing and Right Wing over the struggle for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier there have already begun even now.” “When that day comes, people say it will erupt there, you know.” “Since there’s no king here, once a fight breaks out, there’s no end to it.”

“Even though they know that now, why can’t they prevent it?”

Chizuko still spoke in a skeptical tone. “That’s because here, the unknown soldiers who died in battle are like kings.” “So the right wing takes advantage of the tomb that doesn’t speak, calling it ‘our traditional warriors’ tomb’ to claim it as their own.” “There, the left wing counters—‘No, this is precisely our people’s tomb of brave warriors.’” “They insist this belongs to us alone.” “But this time, since the government sides with the left wing, things can’t proceed as usual—they must protect their allies.” “When that happens, right-wing traditionalists don’t just unite more fiercely—they start demanding people die for tradition, sparking desperate resistance. That’s why the explosion grows even larger.”

“If both sides’ arguments appear so undeniably true, then it’s only natural everyone’s confused.” “If they’re so confused about such crucial matters, what do the people of this country intend to do?”

“That’s precisely where nothing can be done about it.” “After all, since the origin of human existence lies in tombs, this must be a dead, immovable point.” “In other words, absolute nothingness.” “But in kingdoms with monarchs, that origin becomes a living point of existence—life itself.” “When life’s foundation is nothingness versus existence, human minds evolving around that core become fundamentally different.” “Even if they seem identical at a glance, what exists and what doesn’t remain distinct.”

“So Japan and here are completely different?” Chizuko’s eyes remained fixed on the Arc de Triomphe, never looking away. “That does have its similarities.” “But if you make the center a tomb—that is, nothingness—then it’s as though those who’ve convinced themselves all humans are tombs merely practice geometry within the void of their own minds.” “In other words, that is science—within such science, this would be identical.” “But since we undeniably live, life’s meaning manifests in countless forms: whether through viewing people as tombs to geometrize, or—since being alive demands ceaselessly surging affection—through striving to mutually purify that affection. That is what I think.” “Because this remains unclear, both Left Wing and Right Wing exploit that very ambiguity people can’t grasp, using plausible logic to wage their tug-of-war over society’s living minds.” “Even Japanese intellectuals—indoctrinated by Western methods to see themselves as dead tombs—have gradually been conditioned to trust only what appears splendid in humanless worlds.” “They trust nothing but science.” “Separately, those demanding every beautiful thing from that dead world be forcibly imposed on the living—this movement gains formidable momentum.”

“That’s about Mr. Kuji, isn’t it?” Chizuko preemptively laughed and asked. “Exactly—Kuji fits into that too.” “So I’m constantly fighting with that man.” “If people keep being forced to parrot nothing but those impeccable-sounding words of Kuji’s, they’ll all get worked up and die impeccably.” “If you want to kill each other, just do it—but lately it’s become such a hassle that we don’t fight much anymore. Still, we can’t just leave it at that. The fights go on.”

Chizuko nodded only at the parts she understood while once more raising her gaze to the square shoulders of the Arc de Triomphe,

“That’s a tomb, isn’t it? I had no idea at all,” she said in a small, embarrassed voice. “That is the tomb of life here.” “Nothingness.” “From that tomb of Nothingness, the boulevards radiate out in all eight directions.” “We’re here on one of them, yet here we are living and talking like this.” “But being alive and not even being allowed a cup of coffee since morning—this is absurd.”

Chizuko, who had been listening earnestly, let out a stifled laugh at Yashiro’s sarcasm—but confronted with his unexpectedly grave expression, she naturally fell silent and continued listening. “Since these streets emanate from the tomb of Nothingness, it’s not that tea is entirely absent—but Japan’s streets spring from a point where the tomb’s Nothingness and Existence converge. No matter what turmoil comes, people will never starve.” “Of course being able to eat is preferable to starvation—that much is obvious—yet those who scorn this truth multiply daily.” “Then they’re simply being pulled toward the tomb.” “Worse still, now that men appear shouting ‘Faster! Hurry!’, they end up shedding blood on their pilgrimage to the tomb.”

“Wait—is that about the tomb here, or Japan’s? Which one is it?” “It’s the tomb here.” Yashiro said and laughed. “In Japan, there’s no one who’s ever shed blood while visiting tombs. They go precisely to avoid shedding blood—but here, it seems tomb visits are meant for shedding blood.” Yashiro had abruptly spoken these rough words when, suddenly— “Why do I feel such an urge to boast about my country whenever I come here? Maybe I should rein myself in a little.”

With a wry smile, he gazed at the surrounding forest of beautiful street trees. A giant fountain rising from a thick glass cylinder scattered mist-like spray across the entire square, droplets slid down from between the horse chestnut leaves onto their faces. A cluster of balloons swayed between the tree trunks, and from beyond them, a baby carriage came moving. Chizuko gazed at the cars ceaselessly gliding through the round, abundant rose garden and said. “All these used to be carriages before, didn’t they?” “I once wanted to come see it back then.” “How wonderful it must have been back then.”

“Oh, right.” “It was around here on a bench that Armand waited for Marguerite.” “Since it was written as the bench before the great Ronpan tree, this must indeed be the area.” “Or perhaps it’s this very bench, you know.”

Yashiro looked up at the leaves of the massive horse chestnut tree—its trunk thick enough to require two arm spans—as he spoke in a playful tone. "This would be an interesting spot, wouldn't it?" "But since this is an iron bench, it must be exactly as it was back then." Chizuko too, with a curiosity-filled smile, stroked the bench's backrest and gazed up at the dense horse chestnut foliage intertwined like clusters of Fatsia leaves. "They say Marguerite passed through here daily by carriage on her way to the Bois de Boulogne." "That was her regular routine." "Armand lay in wait here with a friend after hearing about it." "Marguerite wore an Italian straw hat and a black dress trimmed with lace, carrying a handbag with dried grapes inside—or so the story goes."

The mist from the fountain, swaying in the direction of the wind, slowly swirled toward the faces of the two as they envisioned Marguerite’s slender, elegant figure. Amidst the stripes of sunlight falling between the uniformly aligned tree trunks, a rainbow quietly formed. “What a beautiful place this is,” he said. “Even in such beauty, Parisians no longer feel its charm here. The shifting of human sensibilities is truly terrifying.” Suddenly, after uttering those words, Yashiro caught himself—realizing with a start that he had unwittingly planted another kind of dread in Chizuko’s mind—and found himself wanting to curse and stifle the unbidden remark. It was utterly inexcusable, he thought, to impose upon their current state of what might be called happiness this foreboding of how their senses as man and woman would soon grow numb. Yet he believed he ought not desire anything more between them now; though a conceited part of him whispered that such desires might even be attainable—for surely anyone in this moment would harbor that ultimate longing—he at least wished to spare Chizuko alone from witnessing the throbbing shame in his chest. He did not particularly deem such thoughts base, but since any rationale, however clever, undeniably demanded plunging the woman into peril, he clung to a stubborn refusal to acknowledge that impulse within himself—at least until necessity left him no choice.

"Become naked, be naked." Even back in Tokyo, Yashiro's friends had pressed him in this way—scolding, advising, even ridiculing—and now their voices seemed to reach him again, the square's trees all appearing as smirking faces of mockery. But if you truly try becoming naked. Yashiro thought there was no way such a thing could be done.

"Those people are all liars—they're just putting on a show of baring themselves." "Where in that smugly delighted, eagerly committed misconduct is there any nakedness?" "If performing misconduct to blind others' eyes is what it takes—well, even I could do that.—"

He thought again. The fountain that had veered away from their faces shattered over the opposite forest, raising mist. The car wheels swallowed this mist as they sped away. Yashiro watched the vehicle recede through the trees,

Anyway, I—as a man—after all both love and hate myself most. I envy Armand sitting here like this without knowing an ounce of his own foolishness.— Yashiro thought, "Shall we go to Bois? There should be something suitable to eat there." "There should be something suitable to eat there."

Yashiro stood up from the bench and walked toward the Bois de Boulogne beyond the Arc de Triomphe. That forest was a place of memories for the two of them. It had still been spring then when their feelings first connected in that forest at night; until that moment Yashiro had felt constrained by Kuji's presence whenever speaking to Chizuko, but losing their way on a pitch-dark forest path became the beginning of their bond, and holding each other's hands through the impenetrable darkness, they emerged by the boats at the lake. Now it was not particularly a pilgrimage to those memories, but rather a pilgrimage born of their current food predicament.

Within the forest, only Papillon Royal remained unchanged from ordinary days. Yellow and vermilion-striped beach parasols stood ranked between tree trunks, and what had been pale pink hydrangeas forming flower beds on pedestal stands had today all transformed into uniformly large roses. Yashiro and his companions, having satisfied their hunger with the brightness of finally obtaining a meal, found themselves able to enjoy their postprandial coffee more than usual. While gazing at swans glimmering on the lake amidst the roses atop pedestal stands, Yashiro—

“After all, nothing compares to eating bread earned by one’s own sweat.” “It tastes far better than usual.” He said with visible satisfaction. “But coming all this way every time is such trouble.”

Around the backs of bamboo-colored chairs—a shade paler than the leaves—silver fox shawls were draped. Among the guests who appeared pallid from the tree shadows' hue, dozing faces could be seen. While his eyes smarted from compact mirrors glinting among distant trees, Yashiro gazed at the island in the lake and said: "That night when we got lost on that island—we were quite desperate, weren't we?" "That's right! But you frightened me back then—that's why I got so scared. You did say this place was called the Forest of Demons, didn't you? Do you remember?"

“Did I really say that? But in a night forest like this, no matter what’s done to you, the fault doesn’t lie with them. When cars come pouring into this forest from all directions at night under the pretext that any wrongdoing is entirely our own fault—well, I suppose that’s how it goes. If you give people who’ve lost touch with nature a five-ri expanse of forest to be freed from everything, you’re essentially testing what they’ll become. If this forest didn’t exist, Parisians might suffocate.”

“What a frightening place.” “It’s just as well Japan doesn’t have such places.” The dishes carried by the waiter glinted again, stinging their eyes. The orchestra arose from beneath the trees. Each time ripples formed and trembled across the lake’s surface, the light-reflecting grassy area too made its shadows quiver minutely. “When the horse chestnuts bloomed here before, even as we drank coffee like this, flowers would come tumbling down—keeping us busy brushing them off—but now we must bid farewell.” “How swiftly time passes.”

Yashiro thought that being able to mask even sorrowful feelings with laughter, as if they were mere jokes, might owe something to the beauty of this scenery around them.

“But once we return to Japan, let’s meet again, okay? I’m already looking forward to seeing you again once we’re back in Japan. Even going through all this trouble to drink coffee here will surely make for an interesting story. Since you’ll be returning sooner, I’ll have more to look forward to while waiting than you will. Oh, how delightful!” Chizuko was delighted.

Though he had resolved never to meet her again, Yashiro watched Chizuko’s cheerful gesture—her hands rising to her chest in delight—and felt a sudden pang of resentment at her carefree ease. However, he was able to dismiss even that feeling almost immediately. Promises made in foreign lands were nothing more than fleeting pleasures—yet it was precisely such ephemeral dreams, accepted as tokens of contentment, that defined their journey.

Yashiro had wanted to call Kuji and tell him that since he had found a dining spot there was no better place than here if he was coming; but when he tried calling, Kuji was not at the hotel.

Saying that Kuji must surely be walking around with Makiko right now, searching for coffee like this, Chizuko and he laughed together.

After leaving Royal, the two immediately entered the forest behind it. The calls of nightingales and small birds gradually grew more numerous. Leaving the path through dense chestnut and oak trees, bending branches and stepping over creeping vines as they went, they walked as far as possible toward where human voices could no longer be heard. The leaves in this forest were as fine and soft as a newborn’s down, so no matter how far they went, the woods remained bright. The weeds among the overgrown grass were plentiful, all of them trampled and worn by human passage.

“Truly, even this forest is artificial—we can no longer tell how much we’re being fooled by it all.” “Once it comes to this, I’ll be in real trouble—when I return to Japan, everything will look so dreary.” As Yashiro walked along muttering to himself under his breath, bird droppings fell before him. Yet Chizuko remained utterly indifferent to whether the forest was artificial or natural, and even when couples occasionally lay in the grass, she would briskly detour around them. Automobile roads crisscrossed through the woods. Whenever a glimpse of road appeared between the trees, Chizuko promptly veered deeper into areas devoid of engine noises.

“In broad daylight, getting lost on these paths is such fun.” “Let’s go deeper in, shall we?” “The roads are too noisy.” Following Chizuko as she walked ahead while saying this, Yashiro thought with a wry smile that he might as well be following a guide. Before long, they found themselves entering a field where bracken grew so thickly it submerged their stature. Chizuko pressed forward undaunted, parting the leaves with both hands as she tried to push through. “Wait a moment.” “This is all bracken—magnificent bracken.”

“Is this bracken?” “Isn’t this actually fern?” “No, when bracken grows, it ends up like this.” “Weaving baskets—you did mention something like the white-backed fern or whatever, didn’t you?” “Ah, that one.” When she thought the field resembling a cluster of ferns was actually a bracken thicket, Chizuko pressed onward with even greater vigor. This area appeared untouched by humans, and even in the imposing presence of what seemed like a primeval forest preserved in its original form, they could still sense an artificiality lingering somewhere. Yashiro was helping Chizuko part the white-backed ferns over and over, but he thought that their vigor in this futile effort stemmed from the fact that they—having played for so long—had grown too weary to endure their own boredom.

“This is just like rice harvesting.” Yashiro said and laughed. Chizuko laughed too as she continued repeating the same motions beside him, but when she grew slightly tired and relaxed her hands, the resilient rust-colored stems rebounded against them, pressing the two together. The trampled stems rustled as they sprang back behind where they had passed. “You realize—if we can’t go back now, we can’t move forward either.” “We can’t even see what lies ahead.” “We’ve truly gotten ourselves into quite a mess.”

“But I don’t care.” “You’re being reckless.” “Do you really think we can get through here?” Even as he spoke, the mass of sturdy stems had already begun pressing tightly around them, leaving no gaps. They couldn’t move at all—even extracting their feet from the stems rebounding between their legs proved difficult. “Let’s go a bit further.” “We’ve come all this way already.” “We’ll definitely get through.” Chizuko started moving again. Yashiro broke into sweat but, with no alternative, roughly stomped on the tangled urajiro fern stems and said.

“Crossing a glacier would be more grueling than this.” “But at least there’s no mortal danger here.” “This is utterly pointless.” Even during their bickering—like some marital spat—he had to seize Chizuko’s arm to keep her from stumbling. Their clothes kept snagging on serrated stems that snapped back with brittle cracks. Each time they paused to search the sky for treetops through gaps in the foliage, they found only jagged fern-like crowns closing overhead—until even Chizuko’s determined expression began fraying into unease.

“This was truly a mistake. Forgive me for leading you to such a place.” “Apologizing now won’t do any good.” “But I didn’t think it would be this deep.” “What should we do?” Blood began to seep from the thorn-inflicted wound on his wrist. Yashiro licked it like an animal’s fur. “At this point, we’ll have to keep going even after dark. Come on—let’s move.”

Blood began to seep from the thorn-inflicted wound on his wrist. Yashiro said while licking it repeatedly like an animal.

“If it’s come to this, we’ll keep going even after dark.” “Come on, let’s go.” This time, with Yashiro taking the lead, he parted a cluster of urajiro ferns by drawing a circle with one foot while using his other hand to forcefully push aside the next frond’s head—repeating this alternating motion left and right as they advanced. Yet Yashiro thought: primitive humans must have repeated such tasks daily, carving paths while bringing along their wives and children afterward. That alone remained preserved in a single spot there in the heart of Paris, like a fountainhead of human motive force. As they pressed onward, the urajiro fern thicket darkened and grew clammy with moisture, while the smell shifted to the strong alkaline stench of decaying leaves.

“This is no joke.” “It’s completely hopeless.” Yashiro shot a look at Chizuko and said. “I wonder if it’s hopeless. If only we could see the forest.” “Even if we do see it, your clothes will be stained black by the bracken’s noxious sap.” Yashiro thrust one hand into the stems and grimaced. “It’s because the wind isn’t getting through—this heat feels sweltering.” Chizuko began to reach her hand in too, but—

“Oh my, it really is warm,” she said, wiping her sticky fingertips with a leaf. The entire bracken thicket had fermented in their mutual heat into iodine tincture. Because Yashiro was too exhausted to even turn back, as he strained his ears toward the forest where voices could be heard, the faint sound of a tennis ball reached him from somewhere. “That’s the sound of tennis.” “Which direction could it be?” “I can’t tell which way it is.” “You, could you take a quick look to see which way we should go to get out the fastest?” “At this point, we need a scout.”

As Yashiro said this and tried to lift both of Chizuko’s legs, Chizuko, without hesitation, immediately placed her hands on his shoulders. “Are you ready? There!” Yashiro bent his knee sharply, hoisted Chizuko high into the air, and said. “You’re heavy.” At first, Chizuko—her face betraying unease—had clasped one hand behind Yashiro’s head, but now she stretched tautly upward, pressed a palm to her forehead, and surveyed the bracken field around them with evident delight. “My goodness, it’s endless—utterly endless!”

“Which way?”

In Yashiro’s body—his arms trembling under the weight as he asked—the bones creaked. “That way.” “If you go straight right, that’s the shortest path.” “Oh, what a view!” As Chizuko strained to stretch up further, her shoe dug sharply into Yashiro’s side. “I’ll drop you!” “That hurts!”

“Stay like this just a little longer. It’s unbelievably vast!”

Chizuko continued gazing about leisurely while patting Yashiro’s head from above in a teasing manner. Though it was an act he had resorted to out of desperation, he found Chizuko—perched on his shoulders without a moment’s hesitation—both endearing and continued supporting her. When she climbed down, Chizuko straightened her hem, flushed crimson, and said, “Ah, that was fun!” Then she abruptly fell silent and took the lead herself in pushing through the bracken to the right. This bracken field was indeed a far more expansive area than it had appeared at first glance. While continuing their painstaking efforts to avoid damp patches, both became drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted; when they finally emerged onto the forest lawn, Yashiro was first to collapse at the base of a chestnut tree.

“I’m astonished. I never imagined there’d be a lump of iodine tincture in a place like that. No one would ever know about that spot.” Chizuko also stretched out on the grass beside Yashiro. “This forest really is a demon forest. It’s not to be trifled with, you know.”

“Thanks to the strike, today’s been nothing but one unpleasant surprise after another.” “At this rate, we might still get something else before the day’s through.” Yashiro took out a cigarette, offered one to Chizuko, and stared at clouds drifting above the treetops. Sunlight leaking through wind-shaken branches fell upon trampled grass. Warblers still sang relentlessly here, yet not a single flower remained visible. From somewhere deep in the opposing grass came a muffled yawn. Though the area seemed utterly devoid of people, they were in fact likely everywhere. Soon came the low murmur of French recitation from grass in a different direction than the yawn. Yashiro—who’d been speaking loudly—suddenly hushed his voice as if escorted into a formal parlor.

“This is no mere bracken field.” “They’re all over the place.” “It seems so.” Chizuko, who had been smoking a cigarette with clumsy hands, suddenly coughed painfully while keeping her face down. When Yashiro looked up in surprise, the smoke Chizuko had exhaled lingered close to the ground and, responding to the intricate tangle of surrounding grass, began rising slowly from below. “Don’t try to take shortcuts.” “Oh… this hurts.”

On the edge of Chizuko’s ear—still coughing with tears welling up—a small round insect speckled red crawled. Yashiro flicked away the insect and lightly patted her back. When their coughing subsided, Chizuko and Yashiro fell silent. A faint breeze stirred, reviving the forest’s arboreal fragrance. The grass chilled their chests.

Chizuko rested her cheek on her outstretched arm and, while plucking at grass roots, recited in a low voice about beneath Paris’s roofs. *kantiru yūbuantan* *sabī eiyu maman* *ruidittan jūrutandoruman* *dannō tororojuman* As Yashiro watched the smoke rings he had exhaled circling through the bushes, there was a sound of a tree breaking somewhere. After singing a verse, Chizuko fell silent again, but “Mr. Pierre is coming to Japan, you know. He really loves Japan.”

With that, she poked a grass stem straight into Yashiro’s hand. “Are you planning on chasing after him?” “It isn’t like that.” “But that’s suspicious.” Yashiro laughed and spitefully sprinkled soil over Chizuko’s hand. “They say Japanese women are gentle and don’t argue—that’s what’s good about them.” “I’m not being kind or doing anything special, yet you make such lofty claims.” “You never know with Japanese women.” “There are those who put on a gentle front but turn out formidable.”

"Oh, how awful, how awful!" Chizuko exclaimed, half-sitting up and shaking Yashiro’s arm. As Yashiro rolled sideways onto the grass, he suddenly caught a strong whiff of earth. When he unintentionally stopped rolling, he lay perfectly still, as though his chest were being squeezed, and spoke. “This is a nostalgic scent.” “It’s been so long.” “Just try taking a whiff of this earth.”

Yashiro forced Chizuko down, making her press her head against the soil. Chizuko had also ended up lying prone but remained silent, saying nothing. "Ah, I want to return to Japan. I mustn't forget this scent alone." Muttering to himself like this, Yashiro drew his knees together and took another sniff. A scent like oxygen piercing through their very minds kept them both in solemn stillness for a time.

By the time Kuji left the hotel after waiting for Makiko to change clothes, it was already nearing noon. A stiflingly lukewarm carbonic gas from a manhole on the road struck their faces. From air vents in the walls beneath their feet too, cold basement winds would gust up unexpectedly. Having chosen a back alley on their way to the dining hall, Kuji found himself in a passage between slanting stone walls where scant sunlight reached—the clatter of a packhorse’s hooves echoed sharply there. Withered unsold vegetables lay collapsing atop a cart.

Both Kuji and Makiko had unwittingly lost their habit of inquiring where the other had gone the previous night. Like two people acquainted solely through knowing their hearts held entirely separate things, they moved forward with hurried, restless steps. From beyond the peeling wall, a sparrow blackened down to its feathers took flight. Behind them stood an extinguished gas lamp and a pollarded tree stripped of branches. When Kuji leapt over water streaming from a rubber hose onto the paving stones—barely keeping his footing as his shoe slipped—he laughed while looking at Makiko for the first time.

“It’s slippery there.” “I see.” Neither was in a bad mood. The mere idea that whoever spoke first would lose—this unspoken tension between their nerves required no particular reason—made them both resentful today when considering why they must again perform this mutual appeasement. “I hear you met Mr. Ko last night.”

Kuji turned to Makiko and asked. “Yes, at the opera.” “You went dancing, I heard?” “Yes, I went to Montmartre.” To Kuji’s surprise, Makiko answered briskly instead of hiding anything, and he, who had been slightly tense, suddenly began to relax and regain his energy. “I wonder if Mr. Ko would come visit.” “There are various things about China I’d like to ask.” “You should invite him.”

“He’ll come anytime. If it’s all right to invite him, go ahead and call.” “Alright, I’ll ask him.” By now, Kuji found it loathsome to think about what had transpired between Makiko and Ko the previous night. When they turned the corner of a house with ivy tangled around its walls, a cool wind blew in. Then, as if emerging from the wind itself, Shiono, with a camera slung over his shoulder, walked over from the opposite side. Since the places Japanese people frequented were limited, once they began meeting, it wasn’t unusual for them to encounter each other two or three times a day here.

“Long time no see.” Kuji had kept his distance from the Japanese in the 16th arrondissement who tended to put on airs as gentlemen, but this Shiono particularly lacked the stench of the 16th arrondissement and was impeccably polite, so he often enjoyed spending time with him.

"I thought I'd take some photos and wandered about, but no place will give me tea." "Isn't there somewhere around here?" "Right then, let's settle it." "To Dominique." "That spot should hold firm."

Kuji walked toward Dominique, a nearby café operated by White Russians. It was a café that had been run by a count's family since the imperial era, but with its delicious and affordable soup, it became a place Kuji and the others frequented whenever their money ran out.

“The streets are all closed.” “Everything’s shut tight.” “I’m heading to Notre Dame now and plan to spend the entire day photographing there.”

Kuji had long known that Shiono—a photographer by trade—was pouring all his energy into Notre Dame. When they reached Dominique’s café—apparently having had difficulty finding any open eateries—Higashino’s bored figure was already seated at a table. As if confronting a long-absent rival, Kuji slapped Higashino’s shoulder from behind. Higashino glanced up but said nothing beyond a silent smirk. Since Shiono had known Higashino longer than he had known Kuji, when Kuji started introducing only Makiko to Higashino, he suddenly realized this was Shiono and Makiko’s first meeting—and promptly introduced them.

The four of them lined up in a row at the long, narrow dining counter and each ordered what they wanted. Looking around, this restaurant was operating no differently than usual, but the sight of it standing firm in the very midst of a tidal wave of left-wing protests outside the window was no ordinary daily life. The elderly Countess, always silent and dignified, remained seated at the counter, showing her smile to no one and speaking to no one. Beneath a tilting box for collecting donations for the imperial restoration hanging overhead, while watching the waiters work, whenever she noticed even the slightest excess of a servant’s shirt protruding from their sleeve cuff, the Countess would silently point to have it corrected. The servants who had witnessed the Russian Revolution worked faithfully, but the younger ones, now accustomed to Parisian ways, began to change their colors from the bottom up, seeping upward like dye staining a family’s hem.

There had once been a waiter of about twenty-two or twenty-three employed there who rebelled, left the household, and joined another establishment. He suddenly reappeared at this shop as a customer, “Hey, give me some soup.” and issued this command with bold vigor on one occasion. Those who had been ordered initially smirked and did not serve the soup. “Hey, serve the soup,” the youth commanded again. Though he had once been under their command, the café staff reluctantly served him now that he was a customer. The many servants halted their movements and stared fixedly at the youth. Some glared with anger, while others wore expressions of envy—this was what Kuji remembered.

Lined up in a row, Kuji and Shiono—given the establishment’s nature—avoided discussing the left-wing tempest raging outside, yet none of them failed to notice how the quietude of this gradually tilting household manifested in the servants’ inexpressibly vacant expressions. “By the way, regarding Japan and China—what’s the embassy’s assessment?” Kuji asked Shiono. “It seems we mustn’t lower our guard.” “Though being merely an assistant, I don’t know the particulars—but relations appear to be deteriorating steadily.” “In any case, it’s certain to erupt before long.”

“But our side faces considerable danger too.” “Given how things stand.”

“That’s right.” “Since both sides know which would strike first, they might surprisingly show restraint—but if war breaks out, as a photographer, I’d be first to get packed onto a plane and shipped off to the battlefield.” “When that time comes, I’ll be taking my leave one step ahead of you all.” With this, Shiono gave a mock salute and laughed brightly. Kuji was momentarily struck by the austere beauty of Shiono’s resolve, but as he sighed at the realization that the crisis had crept this close even to himself, he silently chewed his red turnip for some time.

“Is there truly no way for us to transcend modernity—like this household here?” At Kuji’s words, Higashino suddenly burst into sudden, derisive laughter from beside him. “That’s serious. Kuji, isn’t the donation box hanging down over there?” “No, that’s empty.” “But it’s lying on its side.” When the four of them laughed again, amidst that laughter, only Kuji was the first whose expression darkened.

“Mr. Higashino, you’ve been singling me out for attacks lately—why do you dislike me so much?”

Kuji turned toward Higashino and adopted a confrontational tone. “That’s because you don’t transcend modernity enough.” “No—this is a far more serious matter.” Despite having spoken with every intention of avoiding conflict, Kuji’s words carried force. “Don’t be ridiculous. Because for any Japanese person, tradition is something that once transcended modernity, what I’m saying must seem like a joke.”

“That’s exactly it.” “The problem after transcending—that’s what we Japanese must confront.” Shiono stopped laughing and drank his soup with an air of having resolved some lingering doubt. “But in reality, we can’t transcend so recklessly. Isn’t that the very nature of suffering?”

Kuji, having turned back toward Shiono, became even stronger in tone and waved his spoon repeatedly,

“Isn’t that right? Even if Japanese tradition has transcended reality, if what has come from the West hasn’t transcended it, can we just play dumb? If we can’t do that—we must cherish the lowest common denominator of both. Without cherishing this, what pride can we modern people possibly have? What meaning would there be?” “But the unit of the lowest common denominator is one. What if the quality of one differs depending on where you look?”

Higashino intercepted Kuji’s pressing question to Shiono. Then Kuji—as if having forgotten everything—leaned forward, his face flushing crimson, and turned back toward Higashino. “The One cannot differ. If the One differed, every abstraction arising from it would differ too. Then the world couldn’t hold together. The One is the self. If we don’t trust the self, what in God’s name can we trust?”

“You trust the one more than the self.” “If you truly trusted the self, you’d necessarily trust yourself as Japanese.” “Yet you’ve never trusted the Japanese.” “You place faith solely in common denominators and call that the self.” “Then what of your actual self?” “What of the Japanese within you?”

“It’s precisely because I’m Japanese that I trust the One.” “A Japanese who doesn’t place trust in the One is no Japanese at all.” “Then why does one plus one make two?” Caught off guard by Higashino’s usual habit of leaping ahead with abrupt questions, Kuji stared at his face for a moment without answering—then gave a wry smile.

“What’s that supposed to be?” he muttered. “It’s nothing.” “Even a first-grader could do this.” “Why does one plus one make two?” “There must be something inside you that makes two.” “That thing—isn’t it the self?” “This isn’t one or two.” “That’s precisely what a child would cling to.” “I don’t need that nonsense.” At the sheer absurdity, Kuji burst into loud laughter and threw himself back against the chair. Higashino watched Kuji’s face—mouth stretched wide in mirth—

“What the— Don’t make that voice like someone kicking a door frame after a night out,” he said with a laugh.

“Hmph, no matter how much a cat scratches at a glass box, it’s no use.”

“Hey, the bill.”

Shiono，seemingly unable to endure the situation any longer，took out his wallet and stood up． And then，as he tried to leave after paying only for himself， “Hey，Shiono—wait a moment！” he was called out to by Kuji． However，Shiono— “Notre Dame．You can come later．”

Having said that, he moved away from the doorway. Kuji paid his own bill and said to Makiko,

“Let’s go to Notre Dame.” “That place beats those White Russians’ district—or whatever,” he said, leaving Higashino behind and following Shiono out.

“Alright, I’ll go too.” Higashino also rose to his feet and took out his wallet. The Russian waiters, in the broken Japanese they had learned, “Sayonara.” “Konnichiwa.”

The Russian waiters called out greetings to the retreating figures of the entire group. At that very moment, a government strike commissioner who had come along the street stopped in front of the shop with two or three subordinates. And flipping through his notebook, he first scrutinized the window of this sole house that had defied orders, then—upon recognizing the union membership seal pasted there—left the front of the shop with a thoroughly sullen face, resigned to the situation.

As they cut through Luxembourg Gardens, tree leaves scattered down incessantly. High above a flock of sparrows fluttering among large roses, a kite traced circles in the sky. A baby released from a row of yellow baby carriages toddled after the sparrows. Kuji had forgotten his argument with Higashino without realizing it and now walked shoulder-to-shoulder with him. On a bench backed by a gentle lawn curve, a youth still bearing boyish traces had his arm around a beautiful female student’s shoulder, earnestly explaining something. The student kept staring sullenly at pigeons near her feet without replying, while the young man tirelessly repeated his efforts to capture her heart. At a glance, Kuji discerned the man’s expression—confessing lies as truths. With an utterly exhausted air, the youth glanced sideways to catch his breath before suddenly adopting a feigned look of ignorance and resuming his pleading. After some time, the girl succumbed to his words and leaned into him, until the two merged into a single form as if drawn by invisible forces.

“Ah, another misfortune added to the world.” Kuji muttered in Japanese as he walked past them. “That one?” Shiono turned around and looked at the bench. “Why can’t she see through that lie?” “Or is that how it should be?” “If she realized, it would ruin everything,” Higashino said. “That’s right.” “Why don’t you take a photo as a memento?”

Kuji poked Shiono’s shoulder and laughed.

“I can’t bear it—you’re too hasty in your judgments. Japanese are supposed to be poor actors, you know.” Shiono laughed as he took the lead through the thicket toward George Sand’s statue. Before Sand—her hair parted into braids cascading over her shoulders—across a narrow path stood a bas-relief profile of Stendhal with his bullish neck. Between these two statues, Higashino declared: “Well now, both were stalwarts of the early nineteenth century—in which case, I shall compose a haiku.”

Having said that, he looked down solemnly and appeared deep in thought. Kuji, who had once learned haiku fundamentals from Higashino, found himself unintentionally drawn in; feeling compelled to compose his own verse, he stopped there.

“A haiku?” Makiko gazed again at the statue of George Sand with apparent interest, then asked: “This lady would be the one who went somewhere with Chopin to create his Farewell Waltz, wouldn’t she?”

Makiko asked Higashino.

“That’s right. At that time, this Stendhal here was serving as a consul in Italy.” Higashino approached the standing statue of Flaubert positioned precisely behind Stendhal’s sculpture and continued gazing up at the large beard that jutted out imposingly like a scientist’s.

Higashino showed no particular emotion even as he gazed at the statues of early nineteenth-century French literary giants lined up in a row; before anyone else, he exited the park and went into the public restroom on the left. Some time after Kuji and Shiono had gone out of the park, Higashino emerged from the restroom. And, “I’ve got one done!” Higashino said to Kuji with a bright smile. “Master, you compose them in the restroom?” “What’s it like?”

Higashino tilted his head slightly, then— “The sunlight of early summer tilts and spreads its radiance,” he murmured.

“What the hell is that? It’s a sutra!”

And Kuji burst into loud laughter. “If we’re going to Notre Dame, you should at least chant a sutra or two.” “I suppose that’s certainly true.” “My camera here is the sutra’s eyeball.” And Shiono—for his part—raised his own Ikon-T camera, now worn and dirtied from use, and gazed at it. “Does the camera look like a sutra to you too?”

And Kuji carelessly asked Shiono. “Isn’t it obvious? Would you just click this shutter so carelessly?” In response to Kuji’s dismissive tone about photography being art, Shiono showed a determination to counter him, but as Notre Dame’s spires came into view, he seemed to promptly forget this and headed toward the Saint-Michel slope. When they emerged onto the street, Makiko entered a stationery store to buy a notebook and pencil. While Shiono photographed Notre Dame, Kuji suggested holding a haiku gathering in the lower garden and bought a notebook too. Then, as if prearranged, piled high on the front display of the bookstore right next door were Kuninosuke Matsuo’s translations of Basho’s haiku collections.

“You know, after two hundred years, even Basho ends up in a place like this.” Higashino, appearing deeply moved by this, took the haiku collection in his hands and gazed at it. “Oh, even the cafés in Saint-Michel are all on strike.” “This astonished me.” Surveying the disarray of the café—chairs stacked upside down on tables—Shiono remarked. Whenever the conversation turned to strikes, the atmosphere between Higashino and Kuji would invariably grow tense, so Kuji, with some reluctance, judged it time to steer the topic toward haiku. However, whenever the conversation turned to haiku, whether they understood it or not, why did everyone’s hearts soften with such smiles? It must be a peculiar Japanese constitution, Kuji found himself tilting his head in puzzlement once again.

Notre Dame was located on an island surrounded by the Seine River, immediately to the right after descending the slope. This place, due to being where the indigenous Parisii people once lived, serves as both the origin of Paris’s name and the city’s birthplace. Notre Dame, when first seen, had a monotonous form resembling two square clocktowers combined. Near its summit, an emblem resembling a chrysanthemum missing a few petals at its crown exuded authority through its monotonous form, sweeping away the dust of the streets. As one drew closer, the square form underwent astonishingly complex and intricate transformations: above the three aligned gates—the Christ statue on the central door, St. Anne’s gate to its right, and Mary’s gate to its left—a row of sculpted statues depicting twenty-eight kings of Israel and Judah emerged in meticulous detail, each bearing their distinctive majesty. Furthermore, the beauty of the stained-glass rose depicted in the circular window above that, and the colonnade yet higher still—transformed into orderly tubular three-dimensional forms resembling the spine in an anatomical diagram of the human body—supported Notre Dame’s gargoyles. Circling around once again to the side, he encountered the exquisitely delicate tension of the wings extending downward from the torso, their elegance—Kuji gazed in rapture at the solemnity of the ridge lines supporting the entire structure, their bold and resolute grandeur making him feel as though every prototype of motion had been assembled here.

The beauty of this Gothic architecture that rebelled against the Renaissance—how should one describe it, for example? Kuji imagined the intensely sharp beauty of a skeleton stripped clean of fish flesh. If one were to make a mistake, he might even conjure those elegant yet fragile bones of birds falling through air—ephemeral as their hollow forms tumbled earthward. "That's it," he murmured to himself. "This area was undoubtedly designed using biological skeletons as its motif." While muttering these observations, Kuji moved away, circling the structure as his gaze traveled from wing to torso, then torso to tower. To imagine Shiono mustering the resolve to confront this edifice—it surely demanded resolution far beyond ordinary determination.

“Well, you—where do you propose we start tackling this? Even if you spent a lifetime on it, the beauty of this composition isn’t something easily achieved.”

And Kuji, sitting on the bench in the outer garden, said to Shiono. “The reason I decided to photograph here was because of that relief of Christ on the main gate—when the setting sun hits it sideways, it looks alive.” “I tested it every day on my way back from lectures at the Sorbonne, but it only looks alive for about twenty minutes each day.” “I became addicted to wanting to capture that—resolved to somehow recreate the beauty of an entirely new camera angle—but… well, it’s been…”

Shiono stood rigidly before Higashino, Kuji, and Makiko seated on the bench, making no move to start taking photos as he smiled up at the cathedral’s interplay of shadows he had tried capturing countless times before. Higashino and Kuji sat side by side, but the moment either voiced even a thought, they feared an immediate clash of opinions would erupt; thus they stayed silent, their gazes averted. A whirlwind of wingbeats swirled from countless pigeons, and Makiko—facing their direction—seemed to be composing a haiku by herself.

"What do you think, Mr. Higashino? Shall we compose some haiku?" said Kuji. "Now now—wait a moment," he said. "The more I look at this building, the more it comes to resemble a haiku." "What a curious thing—."

Higashino recrossed his legs and looked up again. Kuji smirked while,

“Is this the sound of water when a frog jumps in?” he said and laughed.

“It’s the sound of the sky,” said Higashino. “I’ve seen many Gothic cathedrals before, but while they all emphasize verticality to the extreme, this one here lacks that kind of ideological rigidity. The diagonal lines forming the wings each stand independent from their original form, satisfying our awareness of horizontal space. Doesn’t it somehow resemble snowflakes?” “I’ve also thought from the start that it resembles the rikka style of Japanese flower arrangement,” Makiko told Higashino.

“Exactly—the rikka comparison is apt.” “You’re quite accomplished with haiku.” “Have you tried composing them?” “I dabbled before.”

While speaking in a reserved tone, Makiko simultaneously glanced furtively in his direction, wondering whether Kuji would tease her. However, Kuji found Higashino’s observations striking in their freshness, and with modest intent, he felt compelled to draw out and inquire about the parallels between Gothic architecture and haiku spirit from him as thoroughly as possible.

"I wonder when this temple was built—the fourteenth century?" "Thirteenth century." "So that would correspond to the Genpei period in Japan." "This represents the pure form of the West before modernity emerged." "The entire spirit is maintained through an order oriented toward the sky." "But look closely—even as the rationality shaping this order defines its celestial focus, it grants distinctiveness and autonomy to the irrational necessity stretching downward from that sky." "Those numerous wing-like forms demonstrate this." "By respecting what you might call the will of vital force inherent in each purpose, it elevates even irrational order into a splendid unified ideal—truly remarkable."

As he listened, it began to seem to Kuji that Higashino was viewing the temple through his own mental constructs. Shiono—who had apparently often debated this temple with Higashino too—said to Kuji with a dissenting chuckle: “Mr. Higashino’s theory being novel, you’d best commit it to memory. During spring’s balmy days, Mr. Higashino and I would sprawl atop the lead-lined chamber crowning this North Tower here, sunbathing. Ah, those were fine times. The Mass pipe organ from the lower chapel would hum softly beneath us—pillowing ourselves on hymns until drowsiness stole over us in blissful trance—while below our feet, the Seine nurtured leaf buds on its trees. Truly now, this tower’s rooftop offers Paris’ foremost vista.”

“But photography is prohibited here since it’s a nationally designated important cultural property, right?” Kuji was surprised by Shiono’s boldness but, sensing the extent of his efforts, asked.

“Well, if it’s just the areas visitors can access, you can take photos by paying three francs. Even so, most areas were restricted zones, which was a problem. I’ve been telling the old gatekeeper that since this temple is practically Paris’s history itself, it’s outrageous not to introduce this resplendent cultural symbol to other countries—and now I’m in the midst of buttering her up. In fact, that’s exactly how it is. There’s no sense hiding something this magnificent after all. To get closer to the gatekeeper, I had to deliver fruits and chocolates every time I visited—it made me burn through what little money I had. Since her granddaughter’s hospitalized with tuberculosis, I even had to give presents to the girl too. What a nuisance, what a nuisance.”

“So you’ve already taken quite a number of photos, then?”

Makiko asked with admiration, as if it were her first time hearing of it. “Well, I’ve only taken about two hundred shots of the exterior.” “The public areas are too ordinary; they don’t make for good photographs.” “Since all the best spots are in restricted zones, today I’m actually scheming to secretly ask the old woman again to lend me the key for sneaking in through the back door.” “When I went to the office, they refused me outright.” “The old woman won’t yield easily either.”

“That’s tough. But that won’t work,” Kuji said. “I once managed to take three shots by pretending to pray like I didn’t understand the chapel’s interior, but with the darkness and aperture stopped down to f/12 plus forty seconds handheld, they were all useless.” “They say that old woman has guarded the back gate for fifteen years without ever entering it herself.” “She claims probably no one’s ever gone in at all.” “But I’m stalking that spot like a tiger waiting to pounce.”

“Well, if it’s that place, a monster will show up there,” Kuji said with a laugh.

“It might show up.” “There must be at least the ghost of a hunchbacked man who lived among gargoyles.” “Well, I’ll go take a quick look.” When Shiono’s figure disappeared toward the gate, the three laughed once more at his enthusiasm—now wholly consumed by this impossible scheme. “By the way, Mr. Higashino—what became of that connection between haiku and Notre Dame you mentioned earlier?” “That’s precisely the part I want to hear most.”

Kuji pressed in a tone that was half-teasing.

“Ah, that.” “That’s rather difficult.” “This Notre Dame represents the tradition of Paris, and haiku represents the tradition of Japan.” “That’s precisely why I want to earnestly hear your interpretation.” “I won’t offer any resistance.” “Today I’ll remain perfectly obedient.”

“I’ve already explained the spirit of Notre Dame.” “The spirit of haiku is much the same as that.” “In other words, the target of this architecture is the sky.” “However, the subject of haiku is the season.” “When I say ‘season,’ it doesn’t mean spring, summer, autumn, and winter.” “It refers to a certain natural providence that governs its workings—well, this is a unified principle where matter and mind align, so one might call it an order of the spirit seeking God.” “Here, there must inevitably be intellectual abstraction—precisely because it exists does it represent tradition—so even if haiku directs its mind toward natural concrete objects like flowers, birds, wind, and moon, its spirit ultimately stares at those objects and then transcends them, possessing an objective power of analysis and synthesis.” “Then there arises for the first time the lyricism of beauty born of exaltation that transcends science.” “However, even if lyricism arises, it still cannot yet be called a complete haiku; it must further transform, requiring a leap—what one might call the flexibility of spirit—that can blend into any human characteristic.” “It’s the commitment.”

“That’s odd.” “I don’t follow that part.”

Kuji muttered and looked down. Then Higashino stared at Kuji's face for a while and, without saying a word, suddenly stamped hard on his foot.

“That hurts, doesn’t it?” “It hurts.”

“In other words—that’s the sort of thing. This pain—where does it come from? The spirit that returns to such questions—that’s haiku.” “You’re such a Zen monk.” Kuji said, then suddenly looked up at the sky and burst into laughter. Just as everyone was laughing like this, Shiono—his face flushed—thrust one hand beneath his coat and sent pigeons scattering from his feet, “Got it! Got it!”

He came running in a voice that choked back a shout. He looked as though he’d torn off someone’s head and brought it back. “The old woman finally lent them to me! My days of endless longing have reached their fulfillment. This is it.” Shiono glanced around to ensure no one was watching before revealing a large key from beneath his coat. Five rusted keys—each five or six inches long—were tied with cords to a single point on a board shaped like a kamaboko mold. Kuji felt as if he’d glimpsed the bared neck of Paris’s history peeking from Shiono’s side; an eerie chill seized him, and without thinking, he scanned his surroundings and fell silent.

“Today’s the day—I could die. Won’t you all come along as well?” To Shiono, who had grown somewhat pale from excitement,

“Alright, let’s go.”

Kuji said, rising to his feet.

“When it gets to around 3:30, the office staff will be gone—he said we should go carefully then—but it should be fine by now.” “Even if we’re seen, it doesn’t matter. You were invited by Christ himself.” Kuji turned to Makiko, who was hesitating. “You should come along. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance—we’ll compose haiku inside too.” “But I’m scared. A place like that...” Kuji grabbed Makiko’s arm as she shrank back and followed Shiono toward the back gate. When the four entered through the rear entrance, they found two cleaned rooms. Passing through and climbing a flight of stairs to the second floor, they reached a balcony where Shiono took four or five carefully angled photos of the back door. Beyond the balcony stretched a grand hall. Crossing it and ascending another staircase brought them to the third floor for the first time—where the iron door that had blocked them stood. When they turned the key, this door too opened easily. Walking with the expectation of exiting outside, they instead found themselves facing the “Corridor of Kings” before realizing it.

“What the—this won’t make for haiku or photographs.”

Kuji said and turned back. Then they encountered another iron door. It was firmly rusted shut, but when they threw their weight against it, it creaked open with a heavy metallic groan. Beyond lay a passage already steeped in darkness, the cold of its stone walls striking their cheeks like a sudden frost. Shiono—

“This is getting a bit too eerie now.”

With that, he stuck only his head in to check, then quietly slipped inside. There was nothing particularly different about that place either, but at the end of the passage was yet another door. Shiono found the keyhole while running his hands over the surface. This door was the sturdiest; no matter how many times they turned the key, it showed no sign of opening easily. In the end, Kuji and Shiono had no choice but to line up their shoulders and strain with grunts; finally, it began to open somewhat. Then Shiono cried out in a voice like a scream, “It’s a prison cell—here,” and stood frozen.

The upper portion of the increasingly cold stone walls held only three narrow windows—each roughly two feet wide and five inches tall—leaving the space dimly lit. Through the overpowering mold smell that seemed to seep into their pores, the four took two or three steps and crept inside. At first, the darkness made it impossible to see anything, but when Kuji suddenly looked down at the softness beneath his feet, he found dark gray dust uniformly accumulated to a thickness of about three inches. "What do you think? Dust unseen by human eyes," Kuji said. Seeing this room—utterly forgotten by all, left only to gather the dust of lonely years—Kuji suddenly felt as though he were witnessing a spirit pounding forward within his chest. Even his own voice, echoing faintly in the shadows, carried a coldness that seemed to invite spectral entanglement. With each step came an uncanny sensation of breathing in death's stench. Though another door stood visible ahead, having entered this desolate chamber, they found all motivation to proceed further had vanished.

“Mr. Higashino, what do you think? It seems there’s still quite a bit ahead—shall we go all the way?” Kuji asked, looking at Higashino’s face floating in the dim light. “You all should go back now. They say if you use all these keys, you can get up to the top—I’ll just go take a quick look myself.” Shiono said this and rattled the next door, which alone opened immediately without needing a key. That outer room was larger than the stone prison cell, its windows also large. There was less dust here—perhaps because all its windows were tightly shut—but stifled by heat and heavy with mold’s pungent odor, the air pressed oppressively against their chests. Makiko, who had been following from behind while waving her perfume-scented handkerchief, no sooner entered the room than she suddenly clung to Kuji’s shoulder,

“Ah!” she screamed. When they all turned toward Makiko, a bat that had taken flight from a corner struck the wall, flapping noisily. Just as the bat collided with the wall, Kuji spotted a single framed painting high above on that surface. In the dimness, covered in dust, it wasn’t clearly visible, but it somehow seemed to depict a Eucharist ceremony. “Oh, how terrifying,” “I thought something was coming out.” Makiko, still gripping Kuji’s arm, turned pale and said.

“I want to go back already. I’m getting chills for some reason.” “But we’ve already used three keys—only two left to finish this. Let’s just do those two. If you’re scared, just hold onto me.” Kuji approached beneath the painting and placed his hand on the rough stone surface,

“How about taking this framed painting as a memento? Since this was the archbishop’s quarters, this painting must be a master’s work.” “You mustn’t do something so reckless.” While Makiko pulled Kuji’s hand back in an attempt to retreat, Shiono alone—with eyes glaring as if charging into virgin territory—had already inserted a key into the next iron door’s lock and was rattling it noisily by himself. But the door’s sturdiness refused to yield despite their continued kicking and pushing—startled by the sound of bats violently striking Shiono’s shoulders against the door, they darted among the group before crashing their wings into the walls again. When the door still wouldn’t open, Shiono and Higashino joined forces to ram against it. Then, as the door creaked open slightly, the western sun suddenly stabbed their eyes from beyond. They found themselves on the outer wall. Hardened pigeon droppings lay piled thickly across the entire surface.

“Hoh.” “Victor Hugo must’ve come here.” “Seems like just the sort of place that hunchback would love.”

Shiono was poking at the pigeon droppings with the tip of his shoe while,

“Damn it. Forgetting the flashlight was the biggest mistake of all.” While continuing to lament intensely, he once again took the lead and proceeded along the outer wall toward the back entrance. Before long, the path ahead became a spiral stone staircase. The thirteenth-century stone steps—dizzyingly steep in their distinctiveness—were already so severely corroded that fragments crumbled away each time a foot was set upon them. Moreover, since there were only small air vents high above here and there, it was even darker. They had to scramble up the stone wall with their hands and feet.

“Damn it.” “Forgetting the flashlight—what a blunder.”

The sound of Shiono’s voice, still seething with frustration, now came from far above. Having to lead Makiko up through the pitch darkness, Kuji paused intermittently, stifled by the oppressive air. Higashino remained silent from start to finish—perhaps hunting for haiku inspiration—his face fixed in a look of distaste. Where faint light seeped through air vents, their faces became dimly discernible phantoms; but as darkness deepened again, Makiko—

“I’m scared, I’m scared,” she said, refusing to let go of Kuji. As they groped their way up the spiraling staircase, every shift in direction sent them colliding against each other. In the darkness thick with the intense acidic stench emanating from ancient stones, the faintly sweat-damp warmth of Makiko’s squirming body felt like the crimson beauty of some living thing piercing upward through death itself.

“How much further must we climb? How much longer?” Kuji looked up and asked Shiono. Even as he kept asking, Makiko and Kuji’s climbing strength fell out of sync. As the two staggered and collided against the wall, brittle stone fragments crumbled down onto their necks. “This, it’s just like history.”

Kuji muttered and laughed in the darkness.

“But I’m scared.” “Can you see?” “I can’t see a thing.” Above, Shiono—apparently having reached the top—was already battering against the door with violent thuds. The clatter of turning the fifth and final key echoed simultaneously. “Hurry up! “Stiff. So stiff.” “Rusted through.” Shiono kept slamming his body against the door as he spat these words. When everyone finally reached the top, Shiono’s voice bristled with irritation: “None of the keys work. “Tch!”

Saying this, he recklessly clattered the keys, turning them and trying another one each time. “No good, this one?” Biting his lower lip, he stopped his hands and gazed up at the door in frustration for a moment before charging at it like a madman. Then, the door that had long been shut tight by wind and rain opened, imprinting vivid new grooves below. Bracing themselves in the crispness of their first contact with living air currents, when they stepped out onto the outer wall and looked around, here they were—precisely atop the main hall’s roof, beneath the bell tower. Gargoyles were perched all over the parapets. Horses, bears, birds, rabbits, deer, and other grotesques were playing with the appearance of frolicking demons, serenely looking down upon the streets of Paris.

“Probably not a single person from Paris has ever come here.” Flushed with triumph at having his wish fulfilled, Shiono spoke, then urgently began scrutinizing the angles of scenery teeming with photographic potential. Every gargoyle shared the same decaying duskiness as the parapets and stone pillars, moss creeping over their forms. Some surfaces had peeled away entirely; others were rendered shapeless under thick crusts of pigeon droppings.

“I can’t stand thinking about this any longer.” With that, Shiono began snapping the Ikonta’s shutter in rapid clicks. He moved about as if hounded from all directions, so distractedly that he appeared oblivious to the three others behind him.

“Come on—let’s compose haiku too!” With that, Higashino declared and moved around toward the back entrance. Kuji possessed none of the artistic fervor that drove Shiono and Higashino. He found greater interest in idly gazing down at the city below—yet envied their capacity to immerse themselves in something, even as he half-mockingly regarded their behavior. Caught between them, he and Makiko, left behind like clumsy interlopers, began feeling a creeping loneliness. Makiko continued gazing at the Parisian scenery deepening toward dusk, yet seemed incapable of releasing her grip on Kuji.

“Well, how high up are we here, I wonder?”

Her eyes, which had asked so many questions, still retained traces of excitement from the stair climb, shining with lucid clarity. "They say that bell tower over there stands sixty-eight meters high. This cathedral serves as France’s central road marker—like Tokyo’s Nihonbashi bridge. The foundation stone beneath us was first laid by a bishop called Maurice de Sully. Just building the front facade alone took sixty years, they say." Kuji gazed down at the Seine River encircling his footing from both directions and Paris’s undulating cityscape along its banks, smiling wryly at finding himself unconsciously mirroring the gargoyles’ posture—hands braced against the parapet. Peering down at the leftist and rightist factions raging through the streets below while adopting these grotesque forms, a world-weary detachment seemed to possess him, his facial muscles involuntarily twisting into strange contortions.

“Hmm.” “I see… you.” “You.” Kuji felt an urge to murmur this affectionately, but suddenly realized that what was even more uncertain was the tomorrow awaiting him and Makiko beside him. At any rate, the two had already crossed a dangerous line. A flock of pigeons from the North Tower drew an arc as they merged with the gargoyles—then swarmed again so close they nearly grazed Makiko’s neck, flew toward the sunset, wheeled around once more, and scattered back toward the North Tower.

“Oh! Mr. Shiono’s in danger—he’s taking photos from such a spot!” When Makiko spoke to him, Kuji looked and saw Shiono leaning so far out over the fragile stone railing near the service entrance that he seemed about to fall, his camera aimed at the dizzying street directly below. “That man’s truly gone mad today.” “If we don’t grab his legs, he’ll tumble down.” With that, Kuji hurried toward Shiono. “Blast it—I’m nearly out of film.” “What a nuisance.”

Shiono looked at Kuji and gave a brief smile, then leaped back onto the parapet and took aim at the pigeon perched on the gargoyle’s head. Kuji and Makiko moved and halted so as not to let the pigeon escape. “Should I hold your legs? It’s weathered, so it might give way any moment.” “That’s true. When I think I’ll never get to come here again, it makes me so nervous. Even these gargoyles—there isn’t a single photo in the world taken from behind them, so it’s absolutely thrilling!”

Kuji grabbed Shiono’s camera strap and peered through the viewfinder with him to adjust the photographic angle. The aperture was f/12 at 1/50th of a second. Having finished photographing the gargoyles, Shiono next aimed for the summit of the spire that stood towering at the center of the cathedral’s roof. Atop the spear-like tip—bumpy with countless warts—the golden cross glowed brilliantly, bathed in the evening light. At the base where the cross was mounted lay a small spherical object, and Shiono pointed at it while saying:

“In that round part there—they say they’ve sealed away a fragment from the actual cross used during Christ’s crucifixion and a piece of the real crown of thorns.” “I’d like this to be my final shot, but what a waste if no white cloud comes to settle perfectly by that cross.” “Don’t you think?”

“It’s a waste to think about that—if you can get the shot, that’s good enough,” said Kuji. “Right—then let’s take it.”

Shiono offered a brief silent prayer before pressing the shutter with a decisive click. Before long, Kuji saw tears dripping from Shiono’s eyes. Kuji—suddenly moved—turned toward the setting sun and walked aimlessly. He needed to do something; he couldn’t go on like this.—As this thought struck him, Kuji abruptly resolved that he absolutely must have Makiko introduce him to Ko Yumei tonight.

Makiko’s third-floor room had a high ceiling, and no sounds from the surroundings could be heard. The building—like a beehive containing countless inner chambers—held this room among them; looking outside from it revealed no sky at all, only the back windows of the surrounding corner visible. But on this night, even those windows were closed. Knowing there was no bath in Kuji’s hotel room, Makiko had suggested he use hers, so he had just emerged from it as well, his damp hair still slicked back.

While replacing the bathwater after he had used it, Makiko sat facing Kuji across the table, occasionally pricking up her ears to the sound of flowing water. On the wrist, the slightly more prominent initial hairs that had grown longer than most were visible against the white skin illuminated by lamplight, their tips aligned diagonally. The spirited sharpness emerging at her single-lidded eyes, where faint shadows lingered beneath them, was also—when motionless—a coolness that kept others from discerning the flow of her heart.

Even as he leaned back in the chair and blew smoke from his cigarette with relish, Kuji remained troubled by the associations rising from his daytime exchange of words with Higashino.

“I just don’t understand… Ever since seeing Notre Dame, my mind has gone strange.”

Having suddenly said this, Kuji once again raised his eyes to the floral pattern on the wall.

“What don’t you understand? Haiku?” “Everything’s turned into things I can’t grasp.” “I should’ve understood...” “I had understood it all.”

“Have you lost yourself so completely?” “That would be troubling.” Makiko stood as if brushing off the conversation and cracked open the bathroom door to peer inside. Then, circling behind Kuji, she removed her outer garment onto the bed, “Pardon me for a moment.” “I can’t undress in here.” “Please don’t look over here for a bit.”

With these words, she entered the bathroom still in her chemise. Until now he had been unaware, but when told this by Makiko, Kuji’s myriad thoughts blurred and faded away in the scented air now drifting in. From around the roses arranged in the vase—it wasn’t as if he only now caught faint whiffs of fragrance with every movement—but on this night especially, Kuji felt Makiko’s scent intensely, as though bound by some unspoken pact.

“Just when I’d become confused—this?”

And so Kuji muttered and laughed. However, at that very moment, he realized that even if he had become unable to understand anything at all, he himself wasn’t troubled in the slightest. "That’s right—even if I don’t understand, not being troubled at all—what on earth is this? There must be something here, mustn’t there? Then what on earth is that thing?" With a clatter as if a stone had struck inside his head, Kuji’s expression vanished.

“You’ve lost yourself—that’s a problem.” As these dismissive words of Makiko’s—who had entered the bathroom after uttering them—suddenly reverberated back to Kuji with a mysterious hue, “What on earth—” he continued to pull at his hair while smiling. Even as he felt that the flaws and vulnerabilities which Higashino and Yashiro constantly attacked—his lack of originality—were now being thrust at him from a completely different angle by Makiko, he continued to tenaciously cling to an idea he could not surrender and glanced at Makiko’s clothes on the bed.

"What I'm thinking about isn't women or myself. And it's certainly not other people's business either. What I don't understand is that thing. Whether it's good or bad—I don't even know that. But what the hell is this making me dwell on such pointless matters?" Kuji leaned his head against the chair back and narrowed his eyes. As he chased after thoughts he couldn't shake off, his attention was suddenly caught by the sound of running water from the bathroom. Had Makiko gotten out of the bath? Or was she just getting in? He recalled the long downy hairs on Makiko's wrist he'd glimpsed earlier. As his thoughts deepened, there surfaced—transformed instantly into Makiko's figure in the bathtub—the spectacle he'd witnessed one spring day in Hakone: a geisha-like woman's imposing white skin beside him in the bathwater, countless fine bubbles bursting forth from the tips of her upright hairs each time her body submerged.

Kuji thought the reason he could surrender to this profoundly enjoyable happiness—seemingly unaware of his own peril—was that there was nothing here to fear. But why did Makiko’s body exert such a powerful pull on him?—He realized that even his earlier resolve to meet Ko Yumei had now vanished from his mind before he knew it. Still, since Makiko had made the call, he could only think they were bound to meet; though he didn’t know what would come of it, he vaguely felt that merely meeting would inevitably set something in motion.

What was interesting was that. The only thing was not knowing what would happen.

As Kuji pondered these things while exhaling cigarette smoke, the suspicion suddenly arose once more that perhaps Makiko was in love with Ko. If that were indeed the case, where should he place trust amidst turning this way and that?—Yet even within the tension of having spread this entire net to lie in wait, solely to avoid letting slip a fleeting happiness, he somehow felt a supple ease akin to a hand cast aside. At that moment, the bathroom door opened.

“Excuse me, could you pass me that handbag on the table there?” “I forgot.” With a sudden flash of dazzling light at her back, Makiko’s face peered out through billowing steam. He approached the steam that slowly formed swirling patterns. The arm receiving the handbag extended with bathroom-like suppleness and promptly snapped the door shut. With the sensation of observing a delicate world of mollusks flexing and contracting within their shells, Kuji gazed at the bathroom door—until suddenly recalling the tactile memory of Makiko’s sweat-dampened body squirming upward in Notre Dame’s stone chamber. He thought today’s exhaustion too was but a single link in a soft chain inheriting something rightful that ought to be passed on.

“Then what is the one unchanging thing within that which persists through time?” “What, then, was this unchanging, undying thought?” Makiko, standing gracefully in the deserted bathroom, was likely now applying makeup before the mirror. But when compared to things that do not perish, all these may be like dreams.— Kuji once again saw the vacant smiles of Notre Dame’s gargoyles floating before his eyes. He thought he wanted to show Yashiro those faces up high that seemed to laugh with skin crumbling from century to century, and yes, he considered calling Yashiro, but imagining that he too must be immersed in some dreamlike state, he now felt inclined to abandon the idea.

Kuji looked at the clock. It was ten o’clock. If it was already ten here, then in Japan it must be around noon now. Even though I’m about to go to sleep, over there it’s midday? ―My mother would be preparing tea and setting out an absentia meal for me around this time. When this thought struck him, Kuji’s mind came to an abrupt halt. He realized Makiko too was someone who would become a mother someday. Kuji thought he was yet again letting his own mind―which kept colliding with the most banal thoughts and losing its way―remain trapped in its cycles, and it began to seem inevitable that from such a state, he would drift into marrying Makiko without rhyme or reason.

But if Makiko were to have my child—what a cold-hearted father I would be.—

Kuji thought about his own father and considered that there might have been times when his father too had been preoccupied with non-human matters, just as he himself was now. However, what a cold heart that was. Was this really true? No—that too might be a lie.

Whatever.—Alright, then I’ll go meet Ko Yumei. If I must marry Makiko, then I shall do so. It was not long after that Makiko emerged from the bathroom in evening dress—when had she changed?

“The dust from Notre Dame just won’t come off.” “I wonder if it’s because it’s old.” “After all, it’s seven hundred years’ worth of dust.” “It’s not dust anymore—it’s a ghost.”

“But when that bat hit my face, I was frightened.” “I was truly startled.” Fresh from her bath, Makiko stood before the wardrobe mirror fixing her hair, then sat in the chair beside Kuji. Kuji felt a period of heavy footsteps akin to some indefinable oppression pass through him, then suddenly became aware of a bath-induced weariness—a desolate boredom parching his throat. He involuntarily rose and went to search for Makiko’s comb in the bathroom where she’d loosened her hair. The bathroom remained filled with air saturated with lingering fragrance. Repelled by the warm air clinging stickily to his wrists and cheeks, he immediately retreated. Yet this very ability to intrude unceremoniously into every corner of a woman’s room, he reflected, stemmed from the casual rapport they’d maintained since their shared voyage. Even so, that same casualness—now serving as a barrier against deeper intimacy—began to seem like an unnoticed rift between them.

“Somehow whenever I come to this room, it troubles me how much it feels like my own. Guess we still haven’t shaken off our traveler’s mindset yet.” “I feel the same way. Other people’s rooms and my own look exactly alike. But somehow, this feels terribly lonely.”

“Let’s go somewhere on a trip soon.” “I’d like to visit Seville or Toledo once—”

Makiko raised her eyebrows.

“Seville sounds lovely. Let’s go there, shall we? I could leave as soon as tomorrow.” “We should check with Cook first. Italy would do if we go anywhere—but regardless, it must wait until after Bastille Day.”

Kuji stood up after saying this and, without any particular meaning, approached the roses in the vase and bent his head. Once before, he had performed this same action of plucking a rose and, in the French style, placed it on the chest of his language teacher Henriette. Henriette also served as a guide specialized for Japanese people, so due to her profession, she soon began changing students one after another and had now parted ways with Kuji as well, but letters still occasionally came from her travels.

Even now, Kuji thought of plucking a rose as he had done then and placing it on Makiko’s chest, but feeling self-conscious, he stopped himself. Even phrases like “You’re beautiful” or “I like you,” which could be uttered casually to foreigners—when directed at Japanese women—only lies would abruptly leap forth and stand out glaringly. That being said, however, Kuji was not particularly troubled when it came to expressing his heart.

Makiko seemed to have perceived Kuji’s feelings for some time, and even as she watched his restless pacing about the room, she maintained a tranquil demeanor with her head slightly lowered, polishing her nails while feigning ignorance.

“You said earlier that you’d somehow become confused, didn’t you? What was that all about? That?” Makiko’s eyes, having turned just her face slightly without moving her shoulders, held—if only for an instant—a terribly seductive and coquettish gaze. “I did say something. Sometimes when I get tired, that sort of thing happens. Things I understood until now suddenly come to an abrupt stop and become unclear, you know. It’s like the heart in my head suddenly stops, and everything inside goes hollow.”

“So you have neurasthenia too, right?” Kuji plucked a rose and, without thinking, tucked it into Makiko’s collar from behind. “I’ve graduated from neurasthenia.” “But beyond neurasthenia lies something stranger still.” “That’s it.”

Makiko pulled her chin in, looked at the pinned rose, then let out a soft “Hm-hm” and laughed lightly. “Then I’ll put one on you too.” Makiko stood up and went to the small table, plucked a rose, and inserted it into the collar of Kuji’s clothes—discarded on the bed—in the same manner. “You should put this on. It’s not that hot anymore, you know.” With that, she went around behind Kuji. As he was told, Kuji put on the clothes.

“Flowers are nice, aren’t they? Does anyone dislike flowers, I wonder?” “But in tea ceremonies, you shouldn’t use too many flowers.” “Tea, huh?” Kuji recalled his mother, who could have been a tea ceremony instructor, and as he stood facing Makiko, he thought of how his mother had often said such things. Amidst the faint scent of makeup that had brushed past, they both stood silent and motionless for a time, and gradually their faces turned toward each other. “Wait—Mr. Yashiro might have already returned. Maybe I should try calling.”

With a calmness verging on affectation, Makiko looked up at Kuji and asked. While Kuji gave no reply but kept staring at the door instead, Makiko had already dialed Yashiro’s room. From how she responded, it seemed Yashiro had returned. Makiko set down the receiver, “He’s here.” “Come.”

With that, she returned to her chair as if nothing had happened. Kuji also lowered himself into a chair. Makiko narrowed her eyes and tilted her head as if peering up from below, “Let’s go to Seville. I mean it.” “I really mean it.” “Well, but that’s outrageous. Yashiro, that guy.” “Yashiro, that guy.”

Laughing, Kuji took out a cigarette and said. "Oh, right—it's better if only you have the flower." As Makiko tried to extend her arm, Kuji pulled his shoulder back. "It's fine. If I don't even get a flower, then what did I come to Paris for?" "But somehow, it feels strange." "I'll give you another one later, so please keep this for now." Makiko forcibly plucked the rose from Kuji's collar, looked around as if searching for a place to discard it, then tossed it beside the pillow on the bed. As Kuji gazed at the single crimson rose caught between the white pillow and sheets, his chest tightened with a feeling akin to glimpsing some pure, sacred bird.

“Alright, got it.” Kuji involuntarily slapped his knee and looked up at the ceiling with a pleased expression. “To what?”

Unmindful of Makiko, who was looking at him curiously, Kuji

“I’ve taken my vows—it’s all thanks to Notre Dame.”

With that, he looked back at the rose again. At that moment, there was a knock at the door, but Kuji did not even turn toward it. Even as his heart kept pounding incessantly, a cool stream continued flowing unimpeded through the depths of his chest.

When Makiko stood up, went over, and opened the door, unexpectedly, Ko was standing outside.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Ko.” “You.” Makiko looked back at Kuji and then turned to Ko, “Since I’d just heard that Mr. Yashiro was coming, I assumed it must be him—well, please come in.”

Kuji was not particularly surprised even when told it was Ko. When he thought it no longer mattered which country the person entering was from, he felt a cheerful, unclouded heart welling up within him, and while shaking hands, exchanged greetings with Ko as they had done since their time on the ship. Ko, his tall figure clad in a striped double-breasted suit, maintained a slightly stooped posture as he smiled softly from behind his glasses. “Today I went to Notre Dame. “Since I went inside, I ended up covered in dust. “That’s an awful lot of dust.”

Kuji sat facing Ko and, for no apparent reason, suddenly burst into a dry laugh. “How have you been since then?” he asked in an oddly loud voice. “Yes, I’m fine.” Ko, seeming to recall the Japanese greeting customs from his time in Tokyo, responded belatedly with these words; yet his demeanor, still wary of the surroundings, lingered within his smile. When Makiko had called, Ko hadn’t been at home, so he must have come here after receiving a message from the inn staff; but whether Ko had known that he was here when he came out, Kuji couldn’t tell.

“Since Yashiro said he’d met you last night, I thought I should contact you when you came here—that’s why I took the liberty of summoning you.” “Do you have many friends here?” “A few.” Even when giving such brief replies, Ko seemed to have thoughts crowding his mind; from his suddenly flushed face, his eyes gleamed with sharp intensity. “I worried my poor French might’ve garbled the message I left for you.” “But it worked out.” “I must apologize for all the trouble last night—it’s truly been ages.” “You let me enjoy such delightful fun.”

“We’re not good dancers.”

Kuji said without any sarcastic intent.

“That’s right.” “After all, Mr. Kuji still hasn’t taken me dancing or anything.” “But your dancing is so skilled.” “I’ll ask you again next time.” “I might just be getting in your way with how clumsy I am.”

As Makiko was saying this, another knock came at the door. This time, it was Yashiro and Chizuko. Since none of them were meeting for the first time, the greetings were brief. Because there was a shortage of one chair, Makiko brought out the one from the bathroom and took it for herself, then called down to order coffee and whiskey. When the five had gathered around the table and settled into their seats, an oddly strained silence lingered for a while, but Kuji masterfully shattered it.

“Mr. Ko—do you remember? There was an old man named Mr. Oki in our ship’s group.” “He recently returned to Japan from Normandy, and when leaving, he made an interesting remark.” “We may not know what we’ve accomplished in Europe, but since we’ve come here, we’re envoys to Europe in some sense—so he said it couldn’t be entirely useless.” “If even that old man holds such intentions, we too must truly adopt that mindset—that’s what I’ve been pondering. What do you think, Mr. Ko? Surely your Chinese compatriots must share such sentiments?” “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear from you tonight.”

"I believe we feel that sentiment more strongly than you all do." Ko answered with one hand still resting against his cheek and his abdomen pressed into the chairback.

“Well, Mr. Ko, that must be because you’ve been to Japan and understand its circumstances well—but with this, I think both of us have now reached a difficult juncture.” “This is going to get quite complicated.” “It’s not just a matter of politics, you see.” “If it were just politics alone, it wouldn’t be so difficult—but in modernity, scientific theory has infiltrated politics… and science is the real troublemaker.”

“Exactly.” Ko nodded as if to say he agreed with the point.

In contrast, Yashiro, who had been looking bored, suddenly—

“Can’t we be like the Japanese missions to Tang China?” Yashiro laughed and looked at Kuji. “Even those missions went to investigate the logic of Buddhism in their era,” Kuji countered. “That was their science.” “Exactly.” Yashiro nodded. “That age sought rationality within irrationality, but modernity discards everything except rationality—leaving all Eastern moderns floundering. Scholarship now takes pride in pretending not to know that rationality can’t stand once you abandon irrationality.”

At Yashiro’s words, a squirming swarm of thoughts Kuji wanted to express surged up within him. Yet upon remembering Ko’s foreign presence, he forced himself to suppress them. “But you—modernity as advanced as this will never return to loving past irrationalities.” “It absolutely won’t work.” “That’s precisely why politics everywhere fails.” “What you’re spouting amounts to declaring ‘splendid things are splendid.’” “Humanity won’t tolerate such empty proclamations.” “Consider how the Japanese missions to Tang China devoted such painstaking efforts to investigating Eastern irrationality—implanting those findings among our people formed what we call Japanese civilization.” “Even when examining the Chinese spirit, they first acknowledged irrational rationality at its foundation—that essence equals divinity—before developing methods to contemplate matter and mind.” “As for the Japanese spirit? It’s become a pronoun for humanity itself—one head, two eyes, two legs, two hands, spirit obeying divinity—which made both our Tang and European missions necessary.”

Ko had been contorting his expression in response to Yashiro’s words, but upon encountering the final leap of Yashiro’s jest, he laughed soundlessly before speaking. “However, in China, modernity is scarce.” “Since we have not yet adopted the West like your country has, that is where we are losing.” “Your country, on the other hand, no longer has much need for that, does it?” “Well, that part remains unclear.”

Yashiro immediately picked up on what Kuji had said and responded. “However, in their final years when there was nothing left to adopt, they all returned home decadent.” “When it comes to that, Japan must firmly seal the lid once and for all and consolidate it.” “When Japan finds itself needing to consolidate internally, China is now being compelled to send envoys to Europe—which is why I believe the friction between Japan and China will persist.” “To put it simply, those here in the West are the ones who know best such differences between the two countries and exploit those differences in various ways.” “We are being monitored.”

When the group fell abruptly silent again, coffee and whiskey arrived from downstairs. Makiko stretched out her wisteria-colored arm and distributed them to everyone. The men’s moods—which had begun turning edgy—softened in Makiko’s faintly wafting scent. As Kuji reached for the whiskey, his eye suddenly caught the rose Makiko had tossed by the pillow. Even during that time when he’d been utterly absorbed in discussions of rationality until moments before, seeing that single crimson bloom made him abruptly aware how divorced his words had been from tangible reality—and the superior radiance of his self-satisfied enlightenment, which he’d been basking in alone, began shifting into a loneliness akin to a bitter smile.

But what’s wrong with believing in rationality? This is how it should be.

And once again he reconsidered and said calmly to Mr. Ko.

“Japanese intellectuals have a custom of expressing gratitude and respect for received influences and benefits far more than you Chinese people or Westerners might imagine.” “Therefore, even regarding matters like Japan dispatching missions to Tang China long ago to adopt civilization into our country, our history explicitly documents this and does not neglect to ensure gratitude is recorded.” “But isn’t it that Chinese intellectuals—or rather, they themselves—simply cannot break the habit of never forgetting only that they were the ones who taught others?” “It does seem to me that Chinese historians have a particular tendency not to write about influences received from other countries.”

In response to Kuji’s slightly pointed question, Ko remained silent, smiling as if he found it difficult to answer. “There may be such cases, but since we learned this in Tokyo schools, Japan remains a country filled with fond memories for us.” “Those who studied in the West also feel the same way, so even when they return home, they find themselves unable to express their thoughts as they truly are.” “Now is an even more difficult time for us, so if we carelessly say something like ‘Japan is good,’ we would be harshly attacked.”

“Someone else said something like that too.” “That’s why they say Japanese women are good—and praise only women.” “Then I suppose that’s safe enough.”

In response to Yashiro’s words, Kuji turned to face Makiko,

“Did you hear that?” he asked in a playful tone. “I never forget such things.” “Wilde says one should stick to praising women when it comes to them. Right, Ms. Chizuko?” Then Kuji said, as if drawing forward Chizuko who had remained silent until now,

“Yashiro has never praised you, but you must let him praise you at least a little. Since it’s practically me doing the praising in his stead, it’s rather unreliable.” “We still lack cultivation, don’t we? We.”

Chizuko raised her coffee and retorted.

“The deficiency in cultivation lies with Yashiro.” “You can’t make such grand claims either.” “The Japanese missions to Tang China grew corrupt in their final years too.” “You’d best take care.” Kuji began slipping into the illusion that Yashiro was already obliquely scrutinizing today’s affairs between himself and Makiko, his gaze instinctively starting to drift toward the rose on the bed. “The missions’ corruption stemmed from Tang China’s decadence as it neared collapse.” “The Japanese envoys themselves bear no blame whatsoever.”

“However, that explanation doesn’t fully hold,” Kuji countered. “Just because we speak reverently of the Tang dynasty—they even made us adopt their right-over-left collar style in Japanese garments! The students sent to Silla studied with genuine diligence, but most who went to Tang fell into corruption.” “They’d father children and demand official funds from subsequent missions, ruin themselves to become Tang’s burdens—all manner of disgraceful acts. Take Enzai—that monk was ostracized even among Japan’s Tang-based clergy, then drowned when his ship sank during the return voyage.” “History records 151 students by name alone—there must have been thrice as many unrecorded. Given that, some undoubtedly returned as corrupted as those coming to Paris today,” Kuji added, his words now edged with implicit criticism.

“However, such things cannot be entirely dismissed as corruption.” “In some way or another, each of these has served a purpose.” “It’s simply that historians perceive it as corruption and record it as such—which might mean the corruption lies with historians themselves.” “In any case, they became corrupt precisely by going as they were.” “Chang’an at that time had degenerated into a place where corruption was inevitable—it wasn’t just Tang culture there.” “India, the Western Regions, Persia, even the Arab Caliphate and Iranian culture all crowded into Chang’an—it resembled modern Paris.” “But even in Japan during Tenpyō 6, that Chinese monk Ganjin—the one who founded Tōshōdai-ji—brought over twenty-four people including Nyohō, a master sculptor from the Western Regions along with Indians and Chinese. That’s how Iranian culture slipped in too.” “Looking at this, isn’t it natural *The Tale of Genji* emerged in the Heian period? Take Buddhist statues—in Tenpyō 8 of the Nara era, Indian monks like Bodhi and Butsutetsu came over and smuggled in what amounts to Iranian culture through those statues—the very origin of European culture.” “So if we nitpick about which country borrowed what from where, there’s no end to it. Once you start down that path, you realize no nation exists without influences from elsewhere.” “Yet what truly baffles us is how this rationality called science builds civilizations only to destroy them and move on.” “Syllogism will be humanity’s undoing in the end.”

Yashiro, seemingly having forgotten Ko’s presence beside him, gradually raised his voice as he spoke. Kuji sensed their conflicting intentions and leaned forward again. “So you’re saying humans must ultimately embrace irrationality, then.” “No—the question is whether you can remove irrationality from humans.” “If you can take it away, then try taking it.”

“Then isn’t modernity just making one mistake after another?” “You keep pointing out nothing but modernity’s errors, yet acknowledge none of its benefits or graces.” “But however we may protest, we’re already within modernity—we must search out its happiness.” “You wander about seeking only its misfortunes.” “Do you hold rationality in such reverence?”

Yashiro let out a voice tinged with sadness. “It’s not a matter of doing or not doing. It’s about mind and rationality,” he said haughtily. “Mind and rationality.” “Not politics.”

Kuji answered haughtily. “Then you’re endorsing starting wars all over the world like Europe here does.” “Keep chasing rationality all you want—humans will inevitably end up engaging in nothing but the politics of war.” “That is absolutely the case.” “Japan, in its desire for world peace, will undoubtedly find itself shedding tears and fighting in the near future.” Perhaps because Ko was present, Yashiro’s eyes—having concluded his argument with war in this manner—glistened under the electric light as something like tears welled up. Disappointed, Kuji poured whiskey into the glass of an animated Yashiro,

“You’ve become quite the Catholic, haven’t you? You caught it from Ms. Chizuko, didn’t you,” Kuji teased.

“Oh!”—Chizuko seemed startled at having been struck by an unexpected remark, yet her faintly parted lips betrayed irrepressible delight through their smile. Kuji felt a flicker of fire akin to vexatious resentment toward her immaculate expression. The more he thought of his inevitable marriage to Makiko now, the more acutely Chizuko’s absence pained him. Damn it—I should’ve married Chizuko when I had the chance. This regret abruptly resurrected memories from their vanished shipboard days—the lanterns on their returning skiff through Pinnan’s night waters, black waves rocking the hull, Chizuko’s melancholy eyes as she wiped spray from her face—yet even as these visions of southern seas surfaced and lingered with bittersweet persistence beside Makiko, his body shed all restraint and swelled unmistakably toward Chizuko.

“Mr. Ko, have some more.” “Didn’t you drink so much last night?” Makiko poured whiskey into Ko’s glass, then suddenly fixed her gaze on him and tilted her own glass. As urged, Ko silently sipped his whiskey, then turned to Yashiro,

“Last night, I went to Montmartre after that, so I was late,” he laughed abruptly. With alcohol’s influence compounding matters, Kuji felt nothing but uncontrollable nostalgia toward Chizuko. Why had these memories surged up so abruptly? The lights as they rowed back to their ship anchored off Pinan at night; the hull swaying on black waves; Chizuko’s sorrowful eyes as she wiped spray from her face with a handkerchief—each vision of the southern sea’s nocturnal scenery swelled like phantoms only to fade away. Whenever Kuji recalled that irrepressible joy, he tried stitching together fragmented memories of their journey—how he and Chizuko, once so close, had cleanly severed ties—but he could no longer sense any possibility of the past returning.

Something’s really off tonight. Maybe I’m drunk. Kuji stood up for a moment. His legs were unsteady, and the red carpet appeared to spin.

“Got me,” Kuji said and sat down again, then turned to Ko. “Mr. Ko, I hear Chinese mock Japanese when they get drunk, but we Japanese do the opposite.” “We’re quick to trust people—that’s why we get drunk so fast.” “Meaning when you feel gratitude, you can’t turn ungrateful.” “You’re too rationalist.” Yashiro poured more whiskey into Kuji’s glass. “Exactly.” “Drinking without getting drunk is irrational.” “Mr. Ko—you came to France to study rationalism.” “If it’s rationalism, I’m its ally.” “Yashiro here’s our enemy.” “You’re misapplying patriotism.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.” “How can patriotism tolerate distinctions between rational patriotism and irrational patriotism?” “Making such distinctions is precisely what defines colonial patriotism.” “No—rational patriotism exists.” “This is the modern patriotism newly born of our era.” “This very spirit should become the new object of our hearts.” Kuji abruptly sat up, straightening his back, and pressed toward Yashiro. “How can patriotism be old or new?” “It exists because it exists.”

“Patriotism that just ‘exists because it exists’ isn’t modern.” “Only by reworking and refining this can you navigate the world’s stormy seas.” “In an era of rationalist modernity, clinging to classical patriotism will turn every new generation into relics.” “Turn youth into relics, and science dies—the nation dies with it.” “Even our diplomatic efforts for Sino-Japanese friendship would crumble.” Caught off guard by Kuji’s ferocious attack, Yashiro responded in an uncharacteristically subdued voice.

“In their hearts, people believe there’s at least one good part within them,” “If only that exists—there’s a single point where everyone wishes all in the world would come to share such a heart.” “Patriotism arises from there—in emotions born from such a place, there’s no distinction between modern and ancient.”

“That’s exactly the point!” Kuji rapped the table. “Because every heart arising from that point commits its own errors, it is rational to seek this one point that does not err. It is only when patriotism arises from that critical spirit that it can be called sound.” “But patriotism has no logic,” Yashiro countered. “The error of Chinese intellectuals lies in using reason to push ‘anti-Japanese’ rhetoric—once they start chanting that, we steel our resolve. Once resolve hardens in one place, war spreads everywhere. At such times, even if they claim rational patriotism means sparing lives or taking them—if they’re more rational than before, they’ll slaughter more. If irrational, it becomes a model of magnanimous unreason—all settled neatly with a single signature. Anyway, I say this ‘rational patriotism’ is profoundly irrational. And yet everyone still clings to patriotism.”

“Since talking about patriotism in front of others only makes it grow more irrational, let’s stop tonight.” “I feel bad for Mr. Ko.”

Kuji filled Mr. Ko’s glass with whiskey, then bowed slightly toward him with the intent to apologize for Yashiro’s blunder, saying, “I must apologize for inconveniencing you tonight.” “It was quite interesting,” Mr. Ko replied. “Since this concerns us as well, I shall reflect on it further.”

After saying this, Mr. Ko looked toward Yashiro, “Mr. Yashiro is quite the eloquent speaker.” “I fully grasped your theory of irrationality, but ordinary Chinese people do not consider anything unnecessary to themselves at all, so there is no such thing as patriotism.” “Moreover, for a long time in China, warlords continued to ravage the people’s spirit, so they were too preoccupied with thinking about fleeing around from now on—even patriotism became a matter of practicing fleeing together.” “In Japan’s case, since the feudal system was fully implemented, even if a daimyo changed, the people likely had no need to flee.” “That is the reason for strong patriotism, and I think it’s also why the soldiers are strong.” “I believe China still cannot cease its anti-Japanese resistance until patriotism is fully realized.”

It wasn’t a particularly profound statement, but Kuji thought Mr. Ko’s response was a safe one, no matter who might hear it. Moreover, upon considering it, there was a faint trace of irony mixed in.

“If patriotism becomes fully realized, wouldn’t anti-Japanese resistance only grow more intense?” Yashiro inquired. “Yet China has always been more adept at yielding its own country to others than extending its reach into foreign nations,” replied Mr. Ko. “I believe it will continue to yield regardless.” “That way, the government remains secure.”

The first to raise her voice and burst out laughing at Mr. Ko’s words was Makiko. Everyone simultaneously looked at Makiko. Makiko, the rims of her eyes flushed cherry-pink, opened her moistened eyelids as if drowsy and guffawed so hard she nearly collapsed. Kuji suddenly became angry and glared at Makiko. Makiko, who seemed to sense Kuji’s gaze without looking, averted her eyes from him, “But there’s no such amusing story.” “Oh, how amusing.” “China is such an amusing country.”

As she tried to support her dangerously tilted body with the chair's armrest, the cigarette ash pinched between her fingers scraped against the table's edge and crumbled away.

“What’s this? Look at yourself.” “Look at yourself.”

Kuji stamped out the cigarette ember on the carpet with his foot and said. “What’s wrong with that?” “What’s wrong with Mr. Ko being here?” “Aren’t you being rude?” “But he was considerate last night too.” “Wasn’t he even more considerate last night, Mr. Ko?” Makiko raised her gleaming eyes toward Mr. Ko, nostrils flaring wide as her crimson-glistening lips twisted in a defiant sneer at Kuji. “You should go to bed.” “You’re worn out.”

As Kuji slipped his hand under Makiko’s arm to guide her toward the bed, her limp body suddenly tensed with force and thrust him away from its very core.

“Go away.” “I need to discuss things with Mr. Ko.” “I can’t be bothered to listen to your nonsense.” “Rationality this, irrationality that—what’s the point of all that?”

Sitting up and averting her gaze from everyone’s eyes as if annoyed, Makiko took the glass with half-closed eyes. “That’s enough. Idiot!” snarled Kuji.

“Cigarette.”

Makiko reached her hand toward Kuji. While Kuji was looking on in shocked disbelief, wondering where such recklessness had been hiding within Makiko, Ko had already extended a cigarette toward her.

“Thank you.” Makiko directed a slight smile at Ko, edged closer to the flame of the lighter he had lit, then turned back to Kuji, “You should leave now.” “You’re not fun.” “If you’re going to talk about cigarettes, you should just give me one.” “What are you staring at?” Kuji felt as though he had been kicked hard in the jaw. As he struggled to suppress his boiling anger, Makiko’s beauty only grew more pronounced—his breathing turned ragged—and he spun around to face the window.

“This is utterly irrational!” A laugh burst out at Kuji’s muttered bitter smile but immediately fell utterly silent. “What did you say?” “You did say something, didn’t you?” Makiko, trying to turn Kuji’s turned-away back toward herself, flashed a sly smile and pulled at the base of his arm while—

“Turn this way.” “There’s no one here to feel shy around.” “Everyone’s just people from the ship.” “Ms. Chizuko,” “Wasn’t that time fun?” “On Hong Kong’s Romance Road, watching the sea through spring rain while we ate mandarins.” “Never tasted mandarins that good in my life.” “Ah, I want mandarins.” “Aden was nice too.” “Salt mountains everywhere, camel caravans battered by wind.” “Remember? Where the salt mountains were—we met Mr. Ko’s motorcade there. You wore a helmet, all red-faced waving hello.”

Kuji alone let out a low "Heh" in laughter, but the others all softened their eyes as though bathed in the shared briny scent.

Kuji had grown close to Chizuko around the time they reached Hong Kong. Back then, Makiko still belonged to a different social circle from Kuji and Chizuko, making Yashiro—who associated more with Makiko’s group—the one who truly understood her situation. As he listened to Makiko reminisce about their voyage, Kuji wondered whether these recollections were meant to stir some specific memory in Yashiro. “You seem quite cheerful.”

After a while, Kuji rejoined the group. However, at that moment, Makiko—who until then had been chattering away with lively animation—suddenly crumpled onto Chizuko’s lap and began to cry. “Those things are gone now. All of that was just a dream.” “All of that was just a dream.” Everyone seemed shocked by Makiko’s violent mood swings, but whether this was the turbulent overflow of loneliness from her separation from her husband or not, they could only gaze at the striking whiteness of Makiko’s back as she writhed under their folded-arm stares.

“You should go to sleep now. You’re tired tonight.”

As Kuji approached to try to pull Makiko up, the tactful Ko stood and made his farewells to everyone.

“It’s alright. I’m sorry for crying like this.” “It’s nothing.” Chizuko and Yashiro tried to rise to leave while comforting the apologizing Makiko. Makiko tried to detain them too, but since it was already past eleven o’clock, everyone filed out of the room. Kuji and Makiko stood in the hallway quiet as a receding tide before returning to the room without meeting each other’s eyes. Makiko made no further attempt to speak to Kuji; she collapsed onto the bed and resumed crying.

Kuji leaned against the chair he had been sitting in, licking his cup alone, but as the sound of sobs gradually subsided, he felt the thorns that had been trying to pierce Makiko also dimly withering away.

“That’s enough now. Come here,” said Kuji. Makiko obediently got up and came over, puffed up slightly with a girlish innocence, and sat down on the chair next to Kuji. Kuji placed the cup in front of Makiko and let out a light sigh while— “Drink a little more,” he said, looking at her face. “No.” After Kuji poured two more cups of the remaining whiskey and drank them down, this time it suddenly came over him at an oddly disjointed, frantic speed. However, he continued drinking. As he kept readjusting his elbow slipping off the table, a fury that made him want to scream welled up, yet still he drank. Then, with a momentum as if something had slipped free, the bottle no longer properly met the cup when pouring, only clattering emptily.

“You should stop now.” “You mustn’t.” “Don’t drink so much.”

Makiko also became serious and tried to stop him. But the more Makiko tried to stop him, the less able Kuji was to stop himself. An inexplicable irritation swelled within him each time Makiko spoke, until he could no longer contain it. “Everyone’s just a bunch of irrational fools. How utterly irrational!”

As Kuji said this, he stood up fixing his gaze on a single point in the room that seemed to spin dizzily, but his legs would no longer obey him. He moved along the backs of nearby chairs to reach the bedside, grabbed the rose Makiko had thrown, and tried to pin it to his own chest. However, he couldn't fasten it properly either. "I'll pin it for you, so stay still," "Stay still."

While Makiko was trying to pin the rose to Kuji’s chest, Kuji grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “How could there be such a foolish thing as no rationality existing? It does exist. It’s right here.” “There’s no such thing.”

After pretending to pin the rose, Makiko took off Kuji’s jacket and tried to make him lie down under the blanket, but Kuji sat up abruptly again.

“There is.” “I can see it!” “It’s clearly visible and blooming!” “What foolish things you’re saying.” “They’re all blooming.” “Hmph. So irrationality blooms, does it?” Makiko, with the deft hands accustomed to handling her former husband, skillfully removed Kuji’s shoes, took off his trousers, swiftly undid his tie, and then laid him down. Lying on his back with his eyes closed, tears kept flowing from Kuji’s eyes.

Makiko opened the window and tidied the disarray around her before extinguishing the room's lamps one by one. By the sole remaining lamp left beside the pillow, she hunched forward and made herself small, smoking a cigarette alone. At times she remained motionless with her head in her hands, but eventually began crying quietly, stifling her sobs. Mingling with her muted weeping came the sizzle of hair scorching and shriveling from the cigarette's ember.

In a newly tailored check-patterned Western-style dress, Kuji’s mother stood. Kuji looked up at his mother’s navy-blue necktie hanging long down her front and teased that it resembled a naval officer’s uniform. From the side, Makiko said in a resonant voice, “This is the one I picked out.” “Please don’t say such things.” As she spoke，she once again pulled taut the hem of his mother’s dress.

This is strange, Kuji thought. He couldn’t tell whether he was asleep or awake, yet when he supposed himself conscious, that perception too felt plausible. Then his mother—who ought to have been downstairs—now descended from the second floor, and he sensed her calling him. As this increasingly seemed dreamlike,

“This is absurd. Mother couldn’t possibly be in Paris,” he muttered.

Even so, his mother was praised by Makiko for how well the Western-style dress suited her and kept fidgeting with apparent delight.

He did not know how much time had passed, but Kuji eventually awoke. Because his throat was terribly dry, he got up, turned on the lamp by the pillow, and stood to go drink water in the bathroom. The cold water flowed down his esophagus with a lucid weight, abruptly rousing him from drowsiness. The blanket lay heaped upon the bent knees of the sleeping Makiko, her upper lip—bearing a small beauty mark—slightly flushed and catching the lamplight. Even as he looked upon this, no desire arose in him to sleep beside her again. As he sat in the chair contemplating his earlier dream of his mother—this time unlike the dream—the fact that only his own eyes were seeing the room with unnatural clarity began to feel like a tranquil undertone akin to a shuddering, almost pleasurable sensation.

Kuji put on his shoes, muffling his footsteps to avoid waking Makiko, then dressed and slipped quietly out of the room. The street outside the hotel was utterly devoid of human presence—a true depth of night. Between the carvings of the tall, narrow buildings, clouds moved swiftly. The sound of footsteps returning along the stone wall toward the inn finally began to sound like his own again. He swung both arms wildly, thinking he might lose this precarious freedom at any moment, yet found vigor in his escape from Makiko’s presence. Even the shadows flickering on the stone wall seemed to cast coquettish glances at their master—himself—

“Alright, alright,” he nodded to himself. When he came in front of the hotel, struck by the beauty of having not a single soul in sight, Kuji found himself disinclined to enter immediately and instead sat down on a bench along the street to light a cigarette. The straight trunks of horse chestnut trees lining both sides of the frozen straight street converged toward a single point with a profound stillness—the magnificence of that linearity; the gas lamps shining like crystalline light, their design’s brilliance radiating with the sharpness of night. A world where future dreams breathed with a bluish tinge right before one’s eyes, unfolding like a model of frigid artificial extremity. Kuji’s eyes were only growing ever clearer.

"I can't do romance anymore. This surpasses romance. What's so interesting about that sort of love?"

Kuji inadvertently muttered.

As though the clock’s hands were piercing straight through his forehead, the dignified and elegant chill of orderly reason—resembling a kind of terror—could appear so beautiful to human eyes in this way—what a strange thing this was!

Kuji thought that if he were to desire anything in this world, he would only wish for a more beautiful object of love than this. But where could such a thing exist? If such a thing existed, there would be no one but his mother. He continued to gaze up at the permeating gaslight as if looking at a blade that had cut away his sorrow. In the overlapping details of tree leaves, in the passing moment when one might discern even the quiet rise and fall of water currents coursing through each and every leaf—this mystery that continues its flawless workings, maintaining order without a single point of deviation—yet even all of this was wrought by human will. It was the wisdom of humans, ceaselessly yearning for rationality, that had done this.

"But what is rationality, after all?" Kuji could no longer answer when pressed that far. He stood up from the bench and walked toward the point where the gaslight’s glow converged beneath the trunk of the horse chestnut tree.

“Virtue unperfected; learning undiscussed; inability to correct faults—these are my sorrows.” Suddenly such words of Confucius escaped his lips, yet even they struck him as filthy words.

The paved path ahead—running along a long stone wall with tree trunks continuing beside it—appeared sloped like an incline despite being perfectly flat. As Kuji narrowed the angle of the light, a dog emerged from under the building directly across. The pleasure he had believed until now to be a world of beauty for himself alone was abruptly shattered; he perceived the approaching dog’s form as an unclean murk like black poison, yet even so, when it drew near, he felt a sense of nostalgia. He crouched down and stroked the dog’s jaw,

“Hey now,” he said in Japanese. “What do they call you?” As the dog silently pressed its neck against his knee trying to lick upward, he drew back his face and repeated the same words in French. The lean Setter—its musculature visible beneath a gaunt frame—rested both front paws on his arms, eyes glinting as it stared at him with sun-warmed fur hanging down. The squishy coldness of its paw pads against his hand marked this solitary living being. Before those eyes that could only be called naked vision itself, Kuji tightly clasped the dog’s neck. Even while keeping its skin within his embrace, as he felt the dog’s skeleton stretching toward him through movement, Kuji gradually grew moved until he could hardly release his grip.

“You, come here every night.” “Then I’ll come too.”

As he said this and continued stroking its head, Kuji suddenly remembered Chizuko. Chizuko’s hotel stood where one turned left from the square where the paving stones converged ahead. He wanted to reach the window of that room visible from the street and began walking in that direction, but the dog followed behind him for some time.

“Go home already. Tomorrow and tomorrow again.” “Tomorrow and tomorrow again.” Kuji looked back again and again as he moved away from the dog. However, when he thought about why Chizuko’s purity appeared so strikingly beautiful only tonight, it struck him as strange. When the window of Chizuko’s darkened room on the fifth floor came into view, his chest grew restless, and he gave it a slight shake.

“Something’s off. This shouldn’t be happening.” Muttering this, he kept gazing upward from below. This must be love—he thought, then immediately dismissed it as absurd and tried to turn back, but just then spotted a suitably placed bench in the square, so he sat down and lit a cigarette. While gazing at the window, Kuji imagined Yashiro and Chizuko—utterly devoted to one another—and from their side envisioned the tableau he himself envied, growing lonely with a regret he alone could not act upon.

“Their love is truly splendid. How could I possibly destroy this?” Once more he continued gazing at the high window as if worshiping at an altar, remaining motionless until his vexing emotions subsided—partly because he sensed the danger that turning back now would mean not returning to his own hotel but passing straight ahead and likely circling back to Makiko’s tiger’s den of a hotel. In truth, this strange figure sitting on a midnight bench was also half due to a premonition that he could no longer fully escape Makiko; that Chizuko’s window had become the last straw for his sinking self—this unforeseen blunder of the night—was something Kuji acknowledged with a bitter smile.

The iron of the bench exuded dew, responding coldly against his back. Kuji thought that if his mother hadn’t appeared in the dream he saw atop Makiko’s bed, he was certain he would have been lost then.

But it was no use. There would be tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow too. A mother’s dream alone could never fully ward off danger. Then Kuji wondered if he should simply return to Makiko’s side once and for all. He rose from the bench, went to the entrance of Chizuko’s hotel, and pushed at the door with his shoulder. It opened without resistance. Though he hadn’t meant to enter, he found himself already stepping into the lobby and climbing the stairs. She must be fast asleep by now—yet drawn by the faint hope that even a single glimpse of Chizuko might somehow free him from the crisis closing in, his feet carried him unhesitatingly to her door. For a time he knocked, but there was no sign of her stirring. Standing in the pitch-dark corridor, Kuji became acutely aware of himself undertaking this preposterous escapade and wondered whether he still hadn’t sobered from the evening’s drinking. Yet as his knocks persisted, a sound came from within as though Chizuko had awoken. Pressing his lips to the keyhole, he called out, “It’s me—Kuji. Kuji.” After the click of a turning lock, Chizuko soon opened the door with sleep-heavy eyes.

“Pardon the late hour—something urgent came up.” With that, Kuji entered without looking at Chizuko’s face and sat down in a chair. Chizuko, wearing a burgundy gown, sat at the edge of the bed, “It’s nearly dawn. How rude to wake me when I was finally asleep,” she said with a dissatisfied smile, stroking both cheeks.

“Just for tonight, I won’t wake you again, so please keep me company for a while.” “I’m really in a bind here.” Kuji fell into his usual habit of leaning his head against the chair back and, with a somewhat foolish smile, pondered where to start.

“What’s wrong?” “You’re still drunk, aren’t you?” “Then no.” “No, I’m sober now, so I’m fine.” “Since I haven’t told Yashiro about coming here either, you mustn’t say a word about it.”

As soon as he finished saying this—the moment Kuji thought, *Oh no*—Chizuko’s complexion had already changed, the sleepy look from moments before completely gone.

“You don’t need to worry.” “What’s wrong with people knowing I came here?” “If something like that were wrong, would I come here at this hour?” Kuji pressed in forcefully to restrain Chizuko and fell silent for a moment when anger suddenly welled up within him. Though he himself had acted as their matchmaker, if they feared that fact, then he knew things that would make them fear it all the more—and for a while he remained silent, tense. Yet at the very moment he realized their quarrel was something inconceivable except in the depths of night, Kuji smiled bitterly—aware that even his earlier resolve to visit Maria by knocking on her door had now transformed into something utterly changed.

“Tonight something happened between Mrs. Makiko and me that I can’t put into words—I rushed out here. After you all left, I got drunk and ended up sleeping there until now.” “But when I woke up from dreaming about my mother, I gradually grew frightened and actually sneaked away here.” “Ms. Chizuko—what do you think?” “If I accidentally keep doing things like today again tomorrow, I’d inevitably have to marry Mrs. Makiko—but how do women view marrying someone like her? That’s what I came to ask.” “Truthfully, I don’t think that would lead to anything good.”

While gazing at her feet and occasionally shuddering as she hunched her shoulders, Chizuko appeared convinced for the first time. “But they say Mrs. Makiko’s husband is still in Vienna.” “In that case, you really ought to keep your distance.” “She claims they’ve separated.” “But is that actually true?” “I can’t verify that part, but abandoning his wife alone in such a place means they’re effectively separated.” “That’s how it began—me taking pity on her quite out of character.” “How could anyone stand idly by watching such a precarious Japanese woman drift about Paris alone?” “There’s no predicting where she might land.” “So I thought—given our shared voyage here—I’d let matters lie if she collapsed temporarily. But after dreaming of my mother, I’m certain to face an earful upon returning home. Hence my reconsideration.” “Truly—try seeing things from my position.” “It’s complicated.” “To be blunt—forgive me—if it were someone like you, I could march you home to my old lady with pride. But another man’s wife? For starters, Mother wouldn’t spare me a single yen.”

Perhaps because he had come up thinking that just seeing Chizuko’s face would be enough, Kuji somehow couldn’t shake the feeling that he was doing nothing but lying—and yet, he hadn’t told a single lie anywhere. “I think Mrs. Makiko might be waiting for her husband to come meet her from Vienna.” “I’m sure that’s the case.” Chizuko, who had been blushing with embarrassment all along, straightened her back in a struggle to suddenly invigorate her own flushing face.

“Anyway, since I’ve known you longer than Yashiro, when times like this come, I get this sudden urge to lean on you completely.” “We’re still midway through our journey.” There was no telling what might happen. Today, this truth had sunk into him with piercing clarity. I don’t understand myself at all. “What in the world am I?” After murmuring this abruptly, Kuji stared at the wall, but realizing any words he might offer would only yield predictable responses, he felt an indescribable boredom and looked down again. The vivid capillaries surfacing through Chizuko’s translucent ankles—stretching from her knees—reminded him of the icy chill from a dog’s paws that had leapt onto the pavement earlier, and Kuji grew unbearably uncomfortable with how he kept shifting from one state to another.

“Ah, I’m so sleepy.” “Let’s go back.”

Having said that, Kuji stood up. And then, after taking two or three steps around the room, he sat down briefly beside Chizuko. “Hey, wouldn’t it be nice if we just ran away somewhere starting tomorrow?” “Maybe I should go to Switzerland for a while.”

“Hmm. That way would be better for me.” “But being alone is kind of lonely, huh.” “But you were in love with Mrs. Makiko, weren’t you? That much.”

“Did even you see it that way?” Kuji said with a sigh and leaned back further. Chizuko’s chin appeared softly creased into a double fold as she propped herself on the bed with one hand, gazing down at him with only her face. The more Kuji wished not to leave this place, the more he felt an insurmountable restraint that had somehow grown between them; tightening his resolve again and again to suppress any impulse to reach out, he kept looking up at Chizuko from below with feigned nonchalance.

“When I really think about it, it’s utterly absurd—but you know, come tomorrow morning, Mrs. Makiko will certainly come to my room again.” “Then I won’t be able to escape anymore.” “If I’m going to run, it has to be now.” “So, it’s a hair’s breadth situation.” “That’s how it is.” “My fate hinges on the next few hours.” Having said this, Kuji laughed while looking up sharply at Chizuko’s eyes, thinking that the real crisis might actually lie on his side.

“But is something like that really so difficult? If it were me, I wouldn’t consider it anything at all.” “Do you think it’s that simple? Even though I don’t love her, I have to keep showing this pretense of affection—that’s what it means.” “Then you’re the one at fault. Why did you make such a face?”

As if declaring she would show no more sympathy, Chizuko averted her eyes from Kuji.

“But that’s just how it is. If I don’t dislike you enough, I can’t make a face like I hate you. Well, if a man likes someone even a little, he’d naturally want to show that much kindness—that’s just how men are. I’m not someone as resolute as you who can act so clear-cut.” “If Mrs. Makiko comes tomorrow morning, I’ll find a way to lie and put on a kind face for another day.” “So that’s why I came to consult you.” “I suddenly thought that maybe if I could just see your face, I’d be able to escape.”

Kuji, who had inadvertently uttered what he had resolved never to say, felt a sudden calm at having made such a smooth and natural confession; however, thinking that Chizuko must not have noticed, he also felt reassured and sat up. “It’s because of our old ties.” “But in times like these, I can’t go anywhere, can I?” “Where am I supposed to go?”

“What does that mean? Should I tell Mrs. Makiko your feelings from me? Then why don’t you try talking to Mrs. Makiko tomorrow—though I don’t know what she’ll say. Since she’s that kind of person, she probably isn’t fretting nearly as much as you are.” The shadow of Chizuko’s lowered eyelashes—straining as if to feign deafness—sank quietly, avoiding meeting Kuji’s gaze.

“Having you talk about such things would be troublesome.” “Because things will get blown out of proportion.” “We’ve got to settle these delicate matters smoothly and implicitly—or it’ll be a mutual disgrace.” “For example, if Mrs. Makiko and I were to end up married and some day both find happiness, there’s no telling whether what you’ve said might not become another unfortunate memory.” “So, please keep tonight’s matter locked away in your own heart.” “If it gets carelessly disclosed, there’d be no point in me going out of my way to talk about it.”

Chizuko directed a bright smile at Kuji for the first time and stopped an impending yawn with her hand.

“It’s difficult, isn’t it—your situation.”

“It’s difficult.” “However—well, I’ve somehow managed to calm down a bit after meeting you.” “With this, I should be able to hold out for about one more day tomorrow.” Kuji had spoken those words without particular thought, but when he looked, Chizuko’s demeanor had suddenly changed—she drew back her shoulders as if recoiling, a faint shudder traveling through the folds of her gown. He had shifted the boat that had leaned too far toward Makiko’s side to tilt it toward Chizuko instead, thinking this wouldn’t do, yet now felt unsettled by how he’d unintentionally overcompensated again, leaving no stable balance. At such moments, he thought, if only his mother were here—a pillar would stand straight as a rod—and so Kuji tried to envision something that might substitute for her.

“Somehow, my way of saying things comes out strange.” “That’s not what I mean.” “I’m not getting in your way or anything.” “Even I need to keep someone as pure as you in mind during times like this—it’s necessary.” “Right?” “At times like these especially, it’s someone like you who becomes my lifeline.” “Just having you stay here with me is enough.” “Even Yashiro only needs to show some gratitude.” “If you won’t even do that much for me, what kind of friend does that make you?” “I plan to tell Yashiro eventually.”

Like a wife being pressured to reconcile, Chizuko started to say something but fell silent, her hands remaining on the bed. “Just because I said such things doesn’t mean it should cause you suffering.” “It’s nothing at all.” “Why would there be any unreasonableness in what I’m saying?” “Then I’ll take it back—but even if I resort to desperate measures in desperate times, there’s no reason for that to be wrong.” “Let’s go back.” “We’ll meet again.”

Kuji stood up and extended his hand to Chizuko. Chizuko lightly touched Kuji’s hand and said cheerfully, “I’ll come by around noon tomorrow.” Having said that, she closed the door behind him. The Paris night, which ends early, was beginning to lighten. Kuji felt his emotions growing calm, as if thoroughly washed clean, as he walked toward his hotel.

“Somehow I’ve been going on about this, but my troubles aren’t about women. I just want something to take my mother’s place. That’s all there is to it. Whatever comes of everything I’ve said—that’s already fine.”

As Kuji thought this, both Makiko and Chizuko momentarily vanished from his mind, and only the sound of his shoes echoed in his ears, as if tallying the vibrations in his head.

Kuji awoke around noon. Even as he washed his face and tried to recall last night’s events, he felt no tangible fear—as if yesterday and today existed on separate planes. With a toothbrush clamped between his teeth, sunlight stabbed his eyes as he peered down at the street from his window. If anyone could suffer on such a splendid day, he thought, it would be truly pitiable—and realizing that person had been himself mere hours before, he marveled at how a night’s sleep could so transfigure one’s existence. The Romanian girl next door sang softly to herself; there must be some secret joy animating her voice.

At thirty-five, I have lost my way. Kuji sometimes found such words—ones Dante had agonized over—rising to his lips. However，if there were any troubles today，he thought all he needed was to tell Makiko a slight distortion of the truth. And moreover—just like a skilled doctor—the more adeptly he told lies，the happier they both became. If he were to confess everything plainly as he had done with Chizuko，the blow dealt her might prove immeasurable. Then why were lies bad?—

While thinking this, Kuji nevertheless resolved that today he would try telling Makiko just one truth—and that by doing so, the two of them might become as carefree as if he had told a lie. The thought itself began to take shape as his sole pleasure for the day. After changing clothes and drinking coffee, he found a slip of paper inserted under the door. When he picked it up and read it, it seemed Makiko had come while he was asleep, and it said she would be waiting on the bench in front of Verlaine at Luxembourg Gardens for about an hour after noon.

While drinking coffee that served as both breakfast and lunch, Chizuko arrived as promised. Her eyelids appeared more swollen than usual yet carried a fresh vitality. Having just climbed the long spiral staircase—her shoulders still heaving from the exertion—she wordlessly approached the window railing, and for some reason still refused to look at Kuji.

“My apologies for subjecting you to that unforeseen scene last night. Have you eaten lunch?”

Chizuko replied that she had already finished and come, gazing at the roof of the architecture school ahead. Kuji thought about how visiting a man's room in daylight held no fear at all, yet being alone with a man at night could make one grow so uneasy—and how all of yesterday's events too must have been the night's fault—until something like that conclusion began forming belatedly.

“Has Mrs. Makiko come?” “It seems she came by, but since you were asleep, she left a note and went back.” “It says she’ll be on the bench in front of Verlaine from noon, so you need to go now.” “And what do you intend to do?” With her back against the light-blue karakusa-patterned railing, Chizuko wore a sarcastic smile, her lips curled. “There’s no helping it.” “Not being able to correct one’s faults—this is my worry.” “I’m going to give a lecture on the Analects now.”

“But you seem oddly cheerful.” “When I woke up today, I found my state of mind had shifted slightly.” “Last night, I couldn’t bear not seeing you—in truth, I fell in love with you last night.” “Before climbing your stairs, I simply sat on a bench in the square and stared at your window.” “But then this restlessness came over me, and before I could stop myself, I was already climbing those steps.” “Yet when morning came, somehow... it wasn’t like that anymore.” “I’m completely over it now—just like this.” “What a crisis this is.”

As Kuji tore off a piece of bread and spoke carefreely, Chizuko watched him with a forlorn gaze— "So I was in crisis too, then?" Having said this, she turned sharply and leaned her elbows on the railing again, peering down from the window.

“Ah, there’s a lot that’s hard to wrap my head around.” “Going around explaining every little thing like this—it’s not exactly healthy, is it?” “You came to comfort me today as well, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. I can’t understand why you’d be alone in the middle of the night. I thought I shouldn’t open the door, but then I wondered if some urgent matter had come up. You really know how to surprise someone. I’ve had enough of that sort of thing.” “No—it really was urgent business. If I hadn’t gone to your place last night, I might not have remained so carefree today. At the time, you were a great help—but I suppose even that was partly the night’s doing.”

If people’s hearts differ so much between night and day, then what is it that remains unchanged? As he broke off the bread’s crust pricking his lips and was about to touch upon his usual thoughts once more—Chizuko came down from the railing.

“What will become of someone like you?” “I’m worried about that.” Without any particular look of concern yet with puzzled eyes, Chizuko gazed at Kuji before turning to examine her face in the mirror above the washbasin. Though Chizuko appeared unchanged in her navy-blue outfit that suited her so well, Kuji—gazing at her reflection from behind—swallowed his now-cold coffee with a sensation like glimpsing a lonely shadow, thinking she too had become someone he had pushed away.

“Are you meeting Yashiro today?” “Yes, we have plans.” “Why did you come to my place when you already had that arrangement? It’s not like I asked you to do anything.” “Oh, but Mr. Kuji, didn’t you say such a lonely thing yourself? Friendship or something like that—” In Chizuko’s turned-back eyes—her cheeks flushed as she spoke a little too quickly—Kuji felt the joy of glimpsing a flicker of her still-unsettled heart. But considering that this too might be merely the transient beauty of a passing gaze, he once again quieted his pursuing heart.

“Ms. Chizuko probably thinks it’s her own fault that she’s made me like this.” “But if that’s the case, that’s a mistake.” “You see—the attitude I’ve taken toward you since we parted in Marseille has been far less kind than how I was on the ship. While I’ve thought I must apologize for it once—when a young man like me suddenly comes from rural Japan to Paris—for a time his head spins terribly.” “In truth, I had no time to think about Japan or anything else for a while.” “Then you appeared again—only my upside-down legs came at your face.” “Not that I feel any need to make excuses—but given how close we once were—ending up like this—it’s certainly I who brought you to such a state.” “It’s not you who made me like this.”

“Back then, you were truly kind to me.”

In a voice devoid of confidence, Chizuko said this and picked up the new necktie on the table to gaze at it. “It’s nice, isn’t it? This,” she said, looking at Kuji and laughing. Though the sorrow of recalling days gone by was a constant companion of travel, in their case it only served to heighten their suffocating feelings; yet Kuji was coming to realize there would be no better opportunity than now to say what needed to be said. “Please listen a bit longer. This isn’t turning into some kind of courtship, is it?”

“I am listening.” As if the bubbling up of Kuji’s reversed emotions had suddenly stabbed her chest like an unexplored realm, Chizuko gasped and stared at him with widened eyes—rooted in place. In that instant, Kuji’s eyes too flew open. “It’s nothing so altered.” “Of course it’s trivial really—but there’s one reason I must tell you regardless.” “Having been so captivated once—I can’t claim there’s nothing left to say.” “Truthfully speaking—yes.” “You must feel similarly.”

When their usual friendly banter unintentionally stiffened and began taking on a serious air, their words faltered with a stillness like witnessing scattered sparks after an unexpected burst. When Kuji heard the coffee cup he had tried to set down quietly clatter loudly against the silver tray, he found himself with nothing to say—so much so that he wanted to pick it up and set it down again. “Mrs. Makiko is probably waiting, so shall we go?”

With a calm expression that suggested she had come to fully realize Kuji could do nothing more no matter what might happen, Chizuko lightly invited him. Then Kuji, knowing that in truth nothing whatsoever had transpired between them, laughed with the lonely desolation of insipid relief.

“Well then, shall we go to Mrs. Makiko’s place?” Kuji put on his coat and closed the shutters to keep the room from warming up. When the surroundings grew dim, Chizuko’s body suddenly seemed to swell anew, and they both startled at their unnoticed proximity—this unexpected closeness making them avert their gazes in mutual embarrassment. As Kuji felt a moment far more perilous than any during their earlier conversation stagnating around him—lingering entirely beyond his will—the realization struck him anew that this same sensation had consumed him throughout the previous night, his emotions surging back to life once more.

“Come on, hurry up and get out.” With that, Kuji spoke as if to drive Chizuko out of the room and locked the door behind her.

Chizuko, who was heading to Yashiro’s hotel, parted from Kuji after telling him she would go to Luxembourg later. Kuji entered the park alone. As he passed through children scrambling for a ball between tree trunks, wove through old women knitting, and circled the thicket toward where Verlaine’s statue stood to the left, he saw Makiko sitting on a bench with her back turned, jotting something in her notebook.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” With a mind somehow prepared for conflict, Kuji plopped down heavily beside Makiko as if throwing his body onto the bench.

“It’s a haiku. What do you think of this?” Makiko smiled brightly without looking at Kuji, her eyes fixed on the notebook as she leaned her shoulder toward him to show the haiku. Faced with Makiko—who had approached like this without asking a single question about last night—Kuji faltered inexplicably as he peered at the notebook. “The children of long ago sleep—treading on blue—Nice.” “This one.” After saying this, Kuji looked at the infant sleeping in the stroller near the carousel and rocking logs behind them, then looked at the beautiful lawn spreading out before them. Here alone, the thicket’s branches stretched skyward and interlaced to form a blue hollow below, where at the slightly sunken center of the lawn stood Verlaine’s statue.

“Seeing the rocking log cease its sway—treading on blue—” In the notebook, besides such verses, there was also one titled *“Waiting for Someone, the Mirror Clears; Blue Fallen Leaves”* that had been erased. While looking at these verses, Kuji had secretly been waiting for Makiko to reproach him for having fled the previous night, yet Makiko showed no sign of broaching yesterday’s matter. At a time when both were grappling with their respective struggles to articulate what needed saying, Kuji briefly suspected Makiko’s sudden introduction of haiku—a seemingly tactful maneuver—might be a deliberate stratagem she had devised with full awareness. Yet even so, he sensed no disturbance or impurity in her heart within the verses she had composed; surrendering to the bright poetic realm they depicted, he sighed and gazed up at Verlaine’s statue. Directly above three naked women writhing and craning their necks upward in frenzy loomed Verlaine’s half-emerged figure, his piercing gaze penetrating some unseen essence as he stood fixed on the distant spire of the Panthéon.

After all, even this poet who was perpetually drunk hadn't been tormented by matters concerning women. Those eyes were gazing fixedly at the male ideal, Kuji thought, and he wondered how he might communicate to Makiko his own state of disquiet since last night - one that resembled that unwavering gaze. "Seeing the rocking log grow still - treading on blue - That might be better."

And again, Kuji murmured.

“I also think this might be better.”

“That’s better that way.” “It has profound meaning, and your state of mind comes through rather beautifully.” “You’re quite the Bluestocking.”

Kuji truly felt that the rocking log within both their hearts was progressing like a quiet gathering after its swaying had ceased, and he well understood Makiko’s efforts—having given a hint to her heart—to gradually wish to tread upon today’s blue grass.

“Couldn’t you have Mr. Higashino look at one or two more if I write them? I wonder what he’d say about something like this?”

As Kuji took back the notebook and looked at Makiko’s face as she spoke, “It’s no good. Mr. Higashino would say this isn’t haiku—it’s a lyric poem. Since he’s strict about haiku form, showing him would only get you torn apart.” “Fine, that’s better.” Makiko laughed. “But I don’t really get this business about haiku being strict. And on top of that, you stepped on my foot.” When Kuji said this—after Higashino had stepped on his foot—he recalled that question about where this pain originated from the stepping. Now that he thought of it, he realized that perhaps merely sitting quietly side by side like this with Makiko meant nothing at all to the two of them. Realizing how far they still were from the calm that follows mutual trampling and turmoil, Kuji thought, *Ah, this won’t end here*—and then, even as he kept the women trampled beneath him, Verlaine’s state of mind—gazing intently ahead with arched eyebrows—spread ever more deeply into his innermost being.

That day, Makiko was not merely obedient and kind to Kuji throughout. With a demureness utterly transformed from the previous night, she remained constantly attentive to her makeup; her upward-glancing eyes animated with delicate consideration, and even in trivial errands, she followed Kuji’s lead without question. Since a few of their usual restaurants were open, no one was troubled as they had been the day before, and at dinner, the four of them—Yashiro and Chizuko included—had no trouble at the Dome.

Kuji had already steeled himself that this night would be the last when he could no longer part from Makiko, so when coffee was served after dinner, he addressed the group:

“What do you say—tonight, why don’t we all go to Tabaran?” he suggested. Tabaran was a revue theater in Paris that stood head and shoulders above the rest, doubling as an excellent dance hall. Everyone immediately agreed, but it was still a bit too early to head there yet. Kuji did not speak much as he usually did that night. One after another, the things he had believed in were crumbling in his mind, leaving him listless and unmoored. The faces of the foreigners dining around him all seemed unbearably oppressive, and even when he shifted his body slightly, he found himself thinking that perhaps this chair alone was what his heart could rely on. Even so, at times when some single point of Makiko—who seemed poised to become a bride—would abruptly reveal its beauty, his heart would leap as though light had begun to pierce the path ahead, and for a while he would pursue the impression lingering in his mind, wondering what exactly that had been. Each time,

"I still love beauty. Seeing how much I love beauty makes me realize I’m still a heretic," he thought, sensing the change within himself as night slowly approached. "Hey," said Kuji, turning toward Yashiro. "Lately I’ve been thinking—the will modern people seek isn’t beauty or truth, nor even goodness for that matter. It’s something else entirely. What do you think?"

“Then what? Evil?” Yashiro said nonchalantly. Kuji’s eyes lit up as if he had found his mark. “Yes—close to evil, but not quite evil.” “Look at this electric light, for instance.” “That spiritual quality we seek—akin to electricity—has no words yet.” “If someone would just coin the right term, it would redeem us all.” “That’s precisely what’s lacking.”

And Kuji said vacantly, gazing up at the electric light.

“There are things like love and wisdom, aren’t there? There’s simply too many of them—everyone’s turned into fools. With all this fumbling about, I don’t even know what to pick up anymore. It’s the corruption of Japan’s missions to Europe.” “No—you’re wrong. The one crucial thing is missing entirely. That’s why we’ve all become scavengers. When I look at electricity, I can’t help thinking this way. First of all, this isn’t physics or chemistry, you understand? It’s like another flower of evil beyond that realm. At this rate, it’s as if all words have ceased to exist.”

If they started speaking again, they would talk endlessly and begin to argue—sensing this, the two fell silent. Chizuko seized the moment and stood up, suggesting to the group that they go for a walk. “When words fail, walking is the only recourse.” Laughing, Yashiro followed Chizuko out of the café. From earlier signs, Kuji had intuited—without being told—that Yashiro still did not know he had met Chizuko twice between last night and this morning. Now was not the time to speak of it, he thought; as he responded to Chizuko’s skillful pretense—she alone knew and kept silent—he too walked on with feigned ignorance. To him, this act resembled a sleight of hand: wrapping something neither secret nor false in the hues of secrecy, only to let it dissolve as such in the end. Despite the two’s efforts to forget it, in those moments when their gazes met, it would quiver with electric delicacy like a creature wholly independent of them—something they could not shake off. No matter how far apart they were, or how much the two might despise each other, it was a consciousness like lightning—ceaselessly stretching onward without end.

By the time the group arrived at Tabaran, it was a little past nine. The revue had already begun. The venue was not particularly spacious—its stage barely deep enough for about twenty dancers to perform, with only a Noh-style dance floor extending at floor level from the central audience area. Yet the revue and band’s unified brilliance, coupled with guests dancing during intermissions and the stage performances’ relentless swiftness—even in their fleeting overlaps—merged into a machine-like rhythm that engulfed the senses, flowing forth like time itself.

The group sipped champagne without dancing, their eyes fixed solely on the revue. The aligned nude bodies of the dancers—moving without losing perfect symmetry—continued their opening, closing, contraction, and flexion with the crisp clarity of chiming single notes, their unified forms showcasing consistent muscular beauty. Kuji alone had been there twice before while the others were first-timers; initially they merely watched the dance’s monotony without particular emotion. As the performance advanced through the second and third acts with steady precision, Yashiro found himself drawn into the flawless rhythm of movement that persisted without a moment’s error—

“This is a wonderful place.” Yashiro was the first to let out an admiring sigh.

“I’ve truly never seen a revue like this before.” Makiko too seemed to want to convey that she had been feeling exactly the same excitement all along.

Chizuko, who never took her eyes off the stage, nodded silently in agreement. Yet the dance of twenty performers—initially resembling monotonous calisthenics—began revealing increasingly intricate swells, like a sweet flower unfurling its petals.

Kuji had expected that soon everyone would become helplessly enraptured, but he too began to feel excitement.

“Watching this makes me feel we’re fundamentally Easterners after all,” Kuji whispered to Yashiro. As one’s gaze traced from the dancers’ torsos to hips and legs, their bodies showed such striking similarity—from the taut curves of their breasts to the single horizontal crease etched into each abdomen—that they might have been scattered incarnations of one human form. The muscular rhythms responded with uncanny sensitivity to the band’s tempo, unfolding like six-petaled symmetry in a kaleidoscope—contracting only to extend again, rotating while twisting, fragmenting before coalescing—all flowing in unvarying cadence without delay or haste, a relentless monotony chiming like clockwork.

“Incredible…” As he watched on, it ceased to appear as human dance at all, Kuji said. Against the jet-black velvet curtain backdrop, the geometric pattern governing all sequences of dancing bodies achieved such perfection that it began to resemble an indescribably fragile dance of knives. Then, when the curtain fell, the band surged forth in rapid tempo, pulling the audience toward the center.

“Shall we dance?”

Makiko, seeming unable to keep merely watching any longer, looked at Kuji and invited him. Kuji paired with Makiko while Chizuko paired with Yashiro, flowing into the crowd of guests. Each time they circled past Yashiro’s back into view, Chizuko and Kuji occasionally met each other’s gazes. Yet with a steadiness that regretted her daytime agitation, Chizuko circled all the more properly with affection toward Yashiro. At that smile of Chizuko’s, Kuji’s caring turn toward Makiko—whom he supported—deepened.

When the curtain rose, even as the guests returning to their seats continued to sway, on stage a slow dance of human bodies—now transformed into three petals—had already begun around a moon ring suspended in midair. A group of nude women with bird feathers adorning their heads pressed their skin together across the stage, forming a motionless expanse of rose-colored cloud that gazed up at the moon from below and quietly flowed along with it in layered drifts. Then, in an instant, one edge of the quiet cloud that had spread across the entire stage surged over and cascaded down into the audience’s dance floor. And then, abruptly transforming into a lively dance of brisk tempo, they spun while splitting left and right only to contract back into one, then reversed course under the moon’s pull and flowed back toward the stage. After that, the guests all stood up like a crowd drawn by the tide and streamed into the dance floor. Kuji, overwhelmed by the spectacle of the dances above and below merging into one, involuntarily stood up and this time flowed into the dance paired with Chizuko. Yashiro too paired with Makiko. Each time they turned, Makiko’s eyes flashed blue over her shoulder—glowing and receding only to reappear with an entranced half-lidded gaze. The moon suspended in the stage’s sky extended its arms from a silver ring as if beckoning, swirled its legs, and continued shifting its radiance while gazing upon both clouds and people.

“Mrs. Makiko, how are you feeling today?”

Chizuko arched her back—perhaps still preoccupied with how the daytime affair had concluded—and looked up at Kuji for the first time. "It went rather calmly." "Not nearly as worrisome as I'd anticipated," Kuji answered. "So you've settled it after all?" "I believe I've decided." Even as he spoke, Kuji felt his unease vanish completely upon resolving to wed Makiko—though his arm still encircled the back of Chizuko, who had so deeply unsettled him. How intricately men and women maneuver, he reflected, watching Makiko recede into the distance.

As the upper and lower dances gradually formed the shape of a cosmic mechanism, Makiko’s face—which had been distant—emerged from those gradations, drawing near with a nimble turn. Then, those half-lidded eyes summoned back to Kuji the memory of last night’s roses, and his own chest, circling forward, seemed to crumble and flow away around that single point of red.

The familiar chirping of sparrows that had even crept into the window was drawn into the thicket below. Turning the faucet, Kuji filled the ceramic washbasin with hot water, then lathered soap up to his wrists and scrubbed with methodical care. In the morning light, his skin appeared faintly pallid, but as he rubbed, his arm began taking on a ruddy tinge.

“There’s a Cézanne exhibition today.” “Let’s go see it.” “I’d completely forgotten.” “I suppose so.”

Makiko gave an empty reply while writing a letter at Kuji’s table. Kuji changed into a dress shirt and pressed the razor blade against the strop; then, after briefly observing the fine hairs at the nape of Makiko’s neck, shaved his face. While shaving off the soap on the right half of his face where sunlight shone, he attempted to immerse himself in a certain calm notion—that it was futile to say anything now about what had transpired.

Kuji cherished this morning's sunlight—under which they had carried out what men and women ultimately do without a thought for before or after—as a moment devoid of any discontent; yet he also briefly considered whether it would be right to inform Chizuko of this.

Undoubtedly, Chizuko and Yashiro were continuing even what he and Makiko had done as a future matter—maintaining their traveler’s state of mind all the while. Yesterday morning, Chizuko had reflected her face in this mirror here,

“So, what do you intend to do?” Kuji found himself recalling how Chizuko had asked him about Makiko, but this major shift from yesterday failed to evoke any distinctly altered emotions; rather, the mundanely quiet nature of it left him feeling peculiarly unfulfilled.

After finishing their meal, Kuji went with Makiko to the bank to withdraw money, and on their way back they went to see the Cézanne exhibition at the Tuileries Gallery. From the deep green shade of trees encircling the gallery, the morning fountain shone in its proper form. Stepping on marble steps that had yet to be warmed by sunlight, Kuji stood in the first room feeling a rich joy like opening a pristine canvas as he thought about viewing Cézanne now.

The venue—newly arranged with three not particularly spacious rooms connected in series—had a considerable number of people inside, though not to the point of being noisy. When he looked around, everyone had removed their hats and made no noise, quietly still as if in worship; to Kuji, this first brought a sense of relief. There were also 140 paintings.

He did not examine each piece one by one; standing at the center, he first surveyed them all at once, then as if reluctant to leave anything unobserved, returned to the beginning and began scrutinizing them methodically. As he continued viewing, each painting maintained—without deviation—the extension of Cézanne’s precise brushwork from his early period, sequentially revealing on the walls how realism deepened like branches and leaves extending and flourishing of their own accord; even Makiko’s figure standing before them in black attire appeared sharply defined, a beauty stripped of superfluity.

“Cézanne did the most ordinary things.” “That’s something everyone else couldn’t do, so it’s strange indeed.” Kuji murmured to Makiko midway. Even as he said this, he noticed his own strange mind—now unable to consider the most mundane daily matters straightforwardly—and thought he must occasionally correct his thoughts by gazing at such paintings; he began to reconsider anew where and how his mind had warped and strayed from factual truth.

“When I look at such paintings, no doubts arise—it’s good. When it’s fruit, they’re just painted to make you want to pluck and eat them, but with that old man’s paintings, you feel like cracking a joke to make him laugh—it’s strange. They’re all utterly unremarkable paintings, aren’t they?” “Yes, that really is the difficult part, isn’t it.” Nodding, Makiko moved to a painting of a vase piled high with sharply pointed yarrow leaves that seemed ready to prick one’s hand. As Kuji walked along viewing the paintings sequentially, he drifted apart from Makiko but occasionally glanced back toward her. Each time he looked at Makiko, he realized he was observing her figure just as he viewed the paintings on the walls—and thought how painting something as simple as gazing at a person could demand such painstaking effort. Pondering art’s difficulty anew, he entered the innermost of the two connected rooms where the famous bathing painting hung.

From what Kuji observed, in this canvas—where Cézanne’s late-period dry brushwork resembled East Asian paintings—he felt there already appeared signs of disarray in painting techniques, as if foreshadowing the confusion and turmoil people would fall into thereafter. In stark contrast to each of the paintings filling the first two rooms—which lacked even a single trace of simplified lightness born from a spirit concentrated on its subject—the final bathing scene, though an unfinished work, revealed a striking spiritualism in its composition and lines, with the painter’s abstraction, already wearied by reality, standing out prominently. It was truly composed of ethereal, beautiful lines and pale hues, with the canvas’s base color emerging uniformly through gaps in the white lead, transforming into the direct foundational tone for the entire color scheme.

After pressing his nose against the bathing canvas as if trying to devour it—even sniffing the scent of oil—Kuji walked through the three rooms time and again. In the room filled with light that was neither dark nor bright, there existed no unnecessary grandeur to intimidate the paintings or people, nor any oppressive constraint to unsettle the hearts of viewers. At first, while gazing at the canvases with a carefree mood—as if he might suddenly step outside only to return for another look—he gradually noticed that even in Cézanne’s paintings there was a simplification devoid of any particular beauty, and thought, “Oh.” It resembled catching a fleeting glimpse of what he had been seeking—a figure passing stealthily by, its face faintly flushed—but the next moment,

“This is—!”

Kuji remained seated on the bench in silence. Each time the same astonishment cycled through him, an indescribable emotion sank heavily to the depths. No thoughts rose within him anymore. Outwardly his face showed nothing unusual, but inwardly he stood thunderstruck. He wondered what meaning there had been in all those days and nights of relentless contemplation—that he should come to this moment only to be staggered by such simple beauty—and could only sigh at his own detached existence.

“There’s one that looks just like the scenery we saw in Marseille.” “That sea painting.” “The mountain beside it is also like that.” Makiko pressed the rolled catalog to her lips and sat on the bench beside Kuji as she spoke. Kuji merely nodded with a “Hmm, hmm.” Yet he could not fathom how to describe the unyielding correctness with which this monotonous little painting spurted up and repelled—without crumbling—the great wave of countless schools, complex and manifold, coiling and swarming to overwhelm. To Kuji, it was not merely paintings he saw; he perceived all ideologies rampaging through the world and human actions as being alike, and when he realized he too was precisely one spewed forth among them, he abruptly looked about and found himself seized by a humble urge to seek what had been lost.

“It’s precisely the utterly insignificant things—the completely trivial ones—that are crucial, in the end.” Kuji muttered this to himself and left the gallery with Makiko. As he descended the stairs, he felt Makiko appeared more vividly in his eyes—now cleared of extraneous matter—than ever before. Makiko too tilted her head as if dazzled by the blazing sunlight while looking cheerfully happy. The two crossed through the Tuileries ruins toward the flower beds. Among amaryllises, cannas, violets and other blooms stood a fountain. When they rested on a nearby bench, their view encompassed tall fountains spraying skyward across the square ahead—the surroundings enveloped in a lively spectacle of refreshing rivalry where sunlit water columns glittered and shattered.

No matter what thoughts flowed into his head, Kuji deemed them unworthy of fear, and he came to think that even events like last night’s were but one trivial occurrence among the most natural of things.

“Do you ever get letters from Vienna?” After a while, Kuji—taking this opportunity to ask clearly once and for all about Makiko’s separated husband, a matter he had still not inquired about—tried to pose the question.

“They do come occasionally—but there’s no need for you to worry about him.”

It seemed her intention wasn’t solely to forcibly reassure him; Makiko laughed casually and cast a fleeting glance at Kuji’s face. Her smile, too, carried an air of having remembered something she had to say at least once,

“But here’s what I think—please don’t take this the wrong way.” “That way you won’t have to dwell on trivial things—as you know, I’ve always had a strong-willed nature.” “So let’s both avoid discussing marriage as much as possible. My family situation is complicated—once you start thinking about it, it’s no good at all.”

Makiko’s wish to leave all matters here confined to this place was not unexpected to Kuji either, just as Chizuko had also mentioned the previous night. However, even Kuji had not anticipated that Makiko’s strong-willed nature—which had suddenly produced a haiku yesterday and startled herself—would persist even after such an event. Kuji did not want to ruin the fortunate aftertaste of having seen Cézanne, so he no longer felt any interest in pursuing Makiko’s concealed intentions as they were. And then, for a while, he sat with an ambiguous smile, hands clasped behind his head, gazing at the ever-spouting, ever-changing colors of the fountain as he grappled with this emptiness-laden richness—a sensation he had never before imagined that morning.

The fountain sent countless droplets surging upward one after another. At their zenith, these droplets would perform one last frenzied dance before all losing momentum—gaining speed as they scattered downward in a ceaseless cycle of return to nothingness—yet through it all maintaining an unbroken form that flowed like some immutable law of the earth. Even when stray gusts altered their descent, that upward surge retained a youthful vigor piercing through the wind—and above all, the fascination of each unique form leaping at its apex held Kuji’s gaze captive to this morning’s magnificent fountain. He saw himself mirrored in those droplets—the light’s jubilant shattering without respite becoming life’s transient joy—as a quiet ardor gradually swelled within him.

“Watching fountains is truly fascinating.” “Even what shatters seems joyful.” “But perhaps that’s exactly how it should be.” Kuji muttered abruptly. “So you’ve been contemplating such things all along.” Makiko smiled with such satisfaction—as though she had finally grasped something essential about him—that its intensity surprised even Kuji. “But truly fascinating.” “At that peak where the water divides and begins its fall—there’s a distinct line there.” “When I fix my gaze on that line, even your form drifts hazily into view.” “It’s rather delightful.”

“Is that how it is? For men.” “For men.” After saying this and gazing at the fountain awhile, Makiko murmured in a small voice—“I don’t understand”—her face flushing as though sensing something shared with Kuji. She leaned toward him with restless airs yet labored to hastily suppress them.

“Well, shall we go?” “Let’s stay a bit longer. This fountain too—it feels like it’s gushing up from the blood of the French Revolution.” Though called the site of the Tuileries Palace, all that remained now was a museum and a tall golden gate overgrown with duckweed—merely a park where children exposed their pale thighs under plane tree shade. Yet as Kuji gazed enraptured at the ceaseless dance of scattering water droplets, he gradually began to envision again the revolutionary tumult that had erupted from that arabesque-patterned golden gate visible there. At that moment, the crowd surged forward, shaking the iron fence before their eyes. Delving into the depths of that frenzied mob’s psyche, nobles inciting them—alongside Louis XVI’s hesitant young court intellectuals—witnessed Danton’s swelling passion blaze parallel to their maneuvers: fueling rebellion among the masses while Mirabeau’s desperate schemes to protect the king ended in ruin. Each time the faintest shadow of doubt crossed someone’s mind, a great fountain of severed heads clattered and scattered wildly, raging in madness.

After briefly describing the scene to Makiko, Kuji said, “Yet it was Napoleon—an Italian—who brought order to that violent fountain.” “That an Italian became the very embodiment of French patriotism here—that’s what strikes us as so strange.” “It seems understood, yet remains unclear.” “Actually, being here like this, I can’t help but feel deeply that life still assumes a pattern worth living.”

“Napoleon was Italian?” Makiko asked with a look of having heard something unexpected.

“Well, he was a Corsican islander—since that region was Italian territory then, Napoleon’s father fought France and lost.” “Yet here’s Napoleon—a Corsican fresh from defeat—conquering France single-handedly. That’s exactly why French patriotism makes no sense to us.” “Both conquerors and conquered just trusted the dice they’d thrown in their gamble.” “Nothing beyond that—that’s all it ever was.” “A metamorphosis.”

Had even that terrifyingly absurd grand event—where the one indispensable element in human progress remained mere dice rolls—already been licked clean by the nation’s compulsion to tidy up and extinguished here?

Hearing the lively laughter of children coming from behind, Kuji turned to look. A disheveled old man had gathered sparrows perched thick on his shoulders and fingertips, feeding one that had alighted on his knuckles with the tip of his tongue. Kuji tapped Makiko’s shoulder. “How about it? Can’t that scene be turned into a haiku?”

“He looks like Napoleon, doesn’t he? That old man,” Makiko said with a laugh. The old man strained his shoulders with all his might as if matching the sparrows’ freedom, his arms bending supple like branches yet never losing their form, standing imposingly as he continued gazing at the sparrows’ faces with a proud, ecstatic smile. Kuji stood up with Makiko to look, but soon growing weary of that too, he crossed the flower beds toward the Louvre. Beside the Louvre where they emerged onto the street lay the Seine River. On the water, motorboats raced. The prows of five boats aligned in a row leapt from the surface as they gained speed and vanished from sight, but Kuji quickly tired of this too and wandered along the bank. He gazed up at the thick plane tree trunk and resolved to endure to the very end the thing he tired of most easily. And through this endurance—always tormenting himself, wanting to inflict some groaning revenge upon himself—from the depths of the encroaching boredom, he felt Cézanne’s painting staring fixedly at him with a vivid, tense expression.

Kuji and others happened upon Yashiro during teatime. Chizuko had been out since morning searching for souvenirs to take back to Japan, and with a face faintly tinged with fatigue, she blended in among the gathering foreigners on the café terrace. “Are you already returning?” “I want to go back too.”

Makiko had blurted out before noticing Kuji’s presence, “What did you buy today?” she asked in return. “Various things.” “But all the good shops are closed because of the strike.” “I can’t get anything I want.” “In London, it’s all things men want—” “But things for women still can’t be found anywhere but here.” “Already talking about going back? How envious.”

Kuji said this, yet he showed not the slightest hint of envy.

“But even so, I have stayed far too long.” “I thought it would only be a short while when I came here, but how many months has it been now?” “Letters keep coming from my brother in London.” “If I do not come soon, he says he will leave me behind and go home—he keeps writing that so insistently.” “I do wish I could stay a little longer though.”

Chizuko picked up the luggage, made room for the arriving guests by vacating a chair, and turned to face Makiko.

“You still can’t bring yourself to go back home, can you? Not so easy, is it?” What had likely been intended as a casual inquiry refused to remain merely that, instead sending strong ripples through Makiko. Makiko evaded with a vague “Yes...” and fell silent for a moment before,

“But if I wanted to return home, I could do so at any time.” “There’s nothing standing in the way anymore here.”

Makiko’s words, carrying an implication that seemed aimed more at Kuji than Chizuko, were listened to by Kuji with a smirk.

Yashiro, who seemed inclined to say “I’ll leave women’s affairs to you,” continued smoking his cigarette with an air of feigned obliviousness—whether he knew about last night’s incident between Makiko and Kuji or not. However, Kuji briefly tried to gauge what state of mind Yashiro must be in as he saw Chizuko off, but given how stubbornly Yashiro showed no sign of any particular resolve, he quickly lost interest, certain there couldn’t be as much change as one might imagine from the outside.

“I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to London myself one of these days—but by then Ms. Chizuko will already be gone, won’t she.” To Kuji’s remark, Yashiro spoke in a tone sharp enough to cut through any further discussion of Chizuko’s departure. “We’re just staying here waiting for the Paris Commune—how utterly pointless when you think about it.” “Even if something happens that day, it’s France’s affair.” “Ridiculous.” “Still, there’s no harm in seeing what unfolds.” “No harm at all.”

Kuji said. “There’s no harm in it, but even if clashes between the left and right wings were to break out, all that’d happen is a bit of bloodshed—or if not that, they’d just burrow away like pimples and pop up somewhere else again.” “But that’s precisely what we don’t understand.” "If you don’t want to see the Paris Commune, just go to London with Ms. Chizuko." “If you end up getting her worked up into hysterics later, I won’t be able to handle dealing with you.” Yashiro, with slanting rays of light striking his forehead, merely continued to laugh, but Yashiro’s melancholy at parting from Chizuko no longer resonated much with Kuji.

“Things may look calm at a glance, but you can feel unrest brewing everywhere.” “By now Japan must be spinning in chaos too.” “Nothing but fire-starters and fire-quenchers brawling wherever you turn.”

As Yashiro spoke while avoiding any mention of himself, Kuji gave a sudden start and realized that he too was alone in lighting and extinguishing something within his chest.

On the terrace near where wicker chairs had been arranged facing the street, familiar regulars gradually gathered among the crowd. Though new faces mingled among what must have been over a hundred people, Kuji thought these foreigners—who feigned mutual indifference—must have inadvertently let stories slip during casual encounters, judging by how customers’ backgrounds became known without anyone specifically telling. He imagined vague shadows of himself, Yashiro, Chizuko, and Makiko lingering in their minds too. They were all patrons who had come from various nations—whether firefighters or arsonists—but in Paris this Dôme seemed particularly renowned, for even taxis hailed in distant suburbs would start moving the instant one mentioned the café’s name. What they hadn’t noticed initially was how Kuji’s group had unwittingly become a vivid presence on such café terraces. When Chizuko and Makiko appeared, their delicate skin glowing with moisture and eyelids that coolly narrowed and fluttered like a phoenix’s gaze stood out conspicuously, drawing stares.

Yashiro motioned to the approaching waiter with his chin and said. “This waiter here—this guy was having a sit-down negotiation with the manager over the strike right there the day before yesterday, but today both sides are acting all chummy as if nothing had happened. I wonder if habit has even imposed formality on quarrels.”

Kuji did not answer and simply descended the stairs to enter the basement restroom. A cleaning woman was combing her hair alone in front of the mirror, her leisurely figure illuminated by the electric light overhead. He finished his business and was about to put money on the saucer when Chizuko came down from above. Kuji, unable to find small change in his wallet, borrowed from Chizuko while, “Do you have any more errands to run today?” he asked. “Yes, I was just thinking about going to buy some woodblock print souvenirs or something like that.” “Hey, won’t you please come help me choose them together?” “But if Mrs. Makiko cannot go, please refrain from coming.”

Taking out the white copper coin from her handbag, Chizuko placed it on the saucer with a snap, her coldness declaring they all understood perfectly well. As they passed each other, Kuji felt the unnecessarily harsh metallic clang pierce to his marrow. With this final button torn away—or so it seemed—he ascended the stairs wearing a thin smile and returned to the terrace's light. When Chizuko rejoined them, the four visited several nearby print shops. At one store finding a realistic print from Van Gogh's early period, Kuji bought it himself, declaring this wasn't souvenir material for anyone. Chizuko most wanted Spanish works—Velázquez, El Greco, Goya. They bought some Italian pieces too, and while purchasing crayons for children afterwards, noticed a Made in Japan mark inside.

“No—that’s exactly what makes it a souvenir! You should buy it and take it back.”

Amid everyone’s uproarious laughter, Kuji said. Chizuko bought that one as well and walked to the next shop, but even as he walked along assisting with the preparations for departure, Kuji found himself vaguely wanting to return to Japan as well.

“It’s lonely when you’re left to prepare for departure alone. Like wiggling a loose tooth—I can’t settle down.” Makiko, who seemed to think Kuji shared her sentiment, immediately responded. “That’s right—I’ve been itching to go back myself for a while now. I really want to go back too. Shall we go back? I.” “You should go home.”

Chizuko promptly turned her gleaming eyes toward Makiko with a brief, appraising look, but—suddenly falling silent as if noticing something about Kuji and Makiko—resumed walking. Kuji briskly invited Yashiro and moved away from the women when,

“What’s become of things between you and Ms. Chizuko?”

he whispered to Yashiro. “Nothing in particular has changed.”

Yashiro answered as he turned his face away from Kuji.

“Is that really okay?” “Even if it doesn’t change.” “Even if I tried to change, there’s no way I could.” “But, well, it’s not quite as you say.” “There must be some way to at least make a semblance of a promise or something.” “If you go back now, it’ll be hopeless anyway.”

Yashiro remained silent. "I could stand in to counsel you instead. When you make no expression whatsoever, it's not our side that suffers—it's theirs." "At any rate, I'm grateful for your consideration, but let us leave that matter for today."

Yashiro maintained an utterly cautious attitude. Kuji, recalling that just as his own problems were swelling up only within himself, Yashiro’s must be throbbing in a place untouched from without, changed the subject when the women approached.

However, Kuji felt his heart grow comforted as he realized that what the two had continued to fight over here was not about the women.

“As we walk through Paris like this and suddenly become aware of our own thoughts—somehow, deep in our chests, we feel a speck of despair.” “I don’t know about you, but I certainly do.” “It’s like resignation after a mind that’s grown frantic trying to know everything it sees realizes it’s hopeless and gives up.” “From this city’s very foundations, humans try to wade through everything ever thought or done—that’s why we despair.” “In short, I’m endlessly made to realize how little I truly know beyond this mere fragment.”

At a certain street corner，Kuji suddenly brought this up，but none of them continued the conversation． After a moment，Yashiro began to laugh and said： “Going forward’s no good；retreating’s no good either—that’s what you’re saying，right？”

“That’s right. This place is just like a battlefield. My mind’s a storm of bullets. Even when medics come to help nearby, these bastards shove pistols in your face. I’ve taken quite a few wounds myself.” “I wonder if either of us will make it back alive.” When they thought about laughing, the two could no longer do so. Kuji watched Yashiro’s feet moving under the glaring western sun and realized he too must bear countless wounds; a natural sense of concern welled up within him.

That evening, as there was said to be a festival in the square near Chizuko’s hotel, the four of them went out to see it after dinner. Amid the thickly clustered trunks of horse chestnut trees in the square, electric lights as bright as bonfires—unlike their usual selves—shone, and a great many gaudy night stalls had sprung up. Stalls lined up side by side—those that piled cotton candy spewing from machines like snow, those that bundled long candy sticks with colored patterns, toy shops—resembled a Japanese temple fair, but the people walking among them didn’t seem particularly cheerful. The four of them strolled under the canopy of the night stalls and then stood before the attraction. The sight of a towering carousel—its horses as large as real ones, eyes glaring fiercely—rotating without riders while brushing against the fresh leaves of street trees was as gallant as an untamed steed charging across the sky. Beside it stood something like a circular music hall, where a dozen or so two-seater miniature cars moved across a narrow concrete floor.

The four of them found it most amusing and watched for a long time. The steel mesh stretched across the entire ceiling appeared to have an electric current running through it, with poles extending from each miniature car’s front up to the ceiling. The drivers all had women who seemed to be their lovers seated beside them, deliberately colliding their cars with others’ to savor momentary thrills—it was that sort of game. Since it allowed collisions anywhere without consequence among people of all sorts, there was nothing as disorderly and violent to watch as they charged ahead with blatant favoritism or hostility, delighting in their opponents’ screams and laughter. Those riding alone nimbly darted about avoiding collisions, but when they spotted an opening, would suddenly turn and charge straight into their opponents’ flanks. Every collision sent sparks erupting between car bodies. The naive ones were constantly rammed; dodging left brought attackers from the right, evading right invited strikes from the left—wandering in confusion until rammed from all directions left them at a standstill.

Perhaps because he had seen the Tuileries Fountain that morning, Kuji found this game—somehow symbolic of the French Revolution—amusing. “Why don’t we give it a try?” “It’s a war without international law.” “There’s no better way to learn!” “Let’s do it.”

However, Yashiro still hadn’t made a move to start, having only said, “Hmm.” The cars with beautiful lovers riding beside them were the most targeted for collisions; those that weren’t collided with much seemed like unpopular shops—their lovers had idle expressions. “Hey, let’s try it.” “As long as you don’t stick your hands out to the side, it’s absolutely safe.” “Let’s all do it together.”

While saying this, Kuji pulled Yashiro along and forcibly took the lead up the steps. Makiko and Chizuko, whom one might have expected to hesitate, obediently followed from behind. Kuji boarded one of the vacant cars and seated Makiko beside him, while Yashiro and Chizuko got into another car and began to drive haphazardly. The car was narrow and low enough for two people to sit snugly side by side, but once they tried driving it, its instability—sliding so freely in any direction—made it difficult to maneuver as intended.

“Haha, this is it—now we’re truly human.” Kuji looked at Yashiro with amusement and laughed. As they slid forward while his laughter still lingered, another car came charging ruthlessly. Just as someone cried “Ah!”, it rammed into their flank. The lack of physical pain despite the deafening noise abruptly emboldened Kuji. He surrendered to the erratic current and slid into the swarming cars. The forgiving faces of everyone—indulging each other’s recklessness while being reckless themselves—delighted Kuji profoundly. At first he strained to avoid collisions rather than initiate them, but by minding the other cars that treated chaos as order, he found himself trapped in the thick of this congested battle. Whenever he sensed someone about to charge—and they always did—the tension of anticipation mounted until Makiko screamed “Ah!” moments before impact and sank her teeth like a lion into Kuji’s torso. By the time they staggered from two or three collisions, Chizuko’s shrieks had risen from Yashiro’s car too.

“Alright, let me give Yashiro a good ram.”

“Let me give Yashiro a good ram,” he said to Makiko. He turned the steering wheel, taking square aim at Yashiro’s car flank as he built momentum. Chizuko spotted Kuji before Yashiro did—she leaned sideways in feigned terror, clutching Yashiro’s torso while keeping her eyes locked on the approaching vehicle. “No! Don’t!” She frowned in protest. Kuji grinned savagely and charged. A thunderous crash erupted as sparks sprayed outward. Both cars halted mid-glare until Yashiro’s vehicle suddenly slid free—now it was he who came barreling toward Kuji.

As Kuji brusquely dodged Yashiro’s head and began veering around for a detour, the car of a young man—who until then had shown no intent to charge but now opportunistically mowed down others—rammed into Kuji’s rear with a “Gah!” Failing to get a proper grip on the steering wheel, Kuji’s car spun halfway sideways. Then, right at that moment, Yashiro’s car struck again. From the two impacts, Kuji—still bent into an S-shape—ended up ramming into the flank of an unforeseen car. Another one came lurching over and plunged headlong into the tangle. Just as the three cars twisted together, a malicious one deliberately wedged itself in, and like a wedge splitting wood, the three burst apart in an unexpected scatter.

When Kuji had somewhat regained his freedom and glanced toward Yashiro, he too was pinned in the opposite corner, struggling as each attempt to break free was met with ramming attacks from behind—again and again. However, without particularly meaning to pay attention, Kuji noticed that many of the women in cars charging toward Chizuko would, each time they sullenly rammed others, change to angry expressions as if gauging their own men’s intentions behind the wheel. And whenever someone charged at them, those angry expressions would abruptly transform into smiling screams. Yet when he considered this, Kuji indeed recalled how strongly he himself had wanted to score points with Chizuko whenever charging at Yashiro. Particularly when lining up to target Chizuko, the alluring way she pressed herself against Yashiro’s body stirred a strangely cruel hostility in him, making Kuji ram their car without restraint as he spun the wheel.

The venue kept shifting in subtle permutations, leaving no one speaking except through shouts and laughter. With their bodies pressed together, passengers instantly understood each other's intentions through movement alone. Whenever the car of Makiko's desired man approached, Kuji felt her body instinctively lean forward and abruptly wrenched the steering wheel to ram it. Yet he also charged relentlessly toward vehicles carrying men who pursued Makiko. As driving grew familiar, the cars became maneuverable with surprising freedom. This allowed them to cloak competitive urges behind technical clumsiness, making time dissolve in their contest while female passengers grew increasingly conscious of their roles like shopfront mascots. And with each collision, the scattering sparks deepened into warped approximations of kisses.

Especially when ramming into men they liked, the women's screams became exaggerated. One woman kept screaming ostentatiously as if demanding attention. Finding her irritatingly provocative, Kuji rammed into her repeatedly, yet each time she responded with delighted shrieks. The most skilled driver—a handsome youth with a tightly drawn face—would circle leisurely from distant corners before suddenly accelerating to crash into Makiko's flank every time. Whenever this young man approached, Makiko grew visibly restless, her demeanor never relaxing its vigilance about whom he might strike besides herself.

Kuji repeatedly targeted the handsome youth’s car and rammed into it. As the young man’s fierce attacks grew more frequent, Kuji’s jealousy toward Makiko intensified, and he suddenly turned to charge at Chizuko’s car. It was at this moment that their playful antics, too, had gradually shifted in nature over time. Kuji was once again targeting Chizuko and about to lunge—

“Ah!”

In the moment Makiko let out a scream and leaned in, the youth knocked away Kuji’s steering wheel. "You bastard!" Kuji thought, straightened his twisted neck, and took aim at the youth. Then once again the youth came flying at him like a falcon. As sparks flew more frequently between Kuji and the youth, Makiko stopped screaming altogether. When their clash grew too conspicuous to ignore, Yashiro finally launched his own assault on the youth. Yet no one could match the young man’s skill behind the wheel. None even tried to pursue him. The youth darted nimbly through narrow gaps between clustered cars—vanishing into the distance only to surge back unexpectedly for another charge before retreating again.

When Kuji grew irritated, he rammed into screaming women, wedged himself against Chizuko’s body, and took advantage of every collision to scatter others as he kept driving. Yet the more his irritation mounted, the more others rammed into him and cornered him until—drenched in cold sweat—he found himself utterly unable to control the steering wheel. And so Kuji ended up serving as nothing more than a living demonstration of how the abuse of will leads to lost freedom, bringing this electric play to its conclusion.

“Ah, that was fun. But it’s scary when they clang into each other properly.”

After descending from the circular hall, Kuji walked alongside Makiko—who had said such things—and then proceeded through the marronniers with Yashiro and the others. He felt a relieved calm at being freed from life’s microcosm but thought this current expansiveness of walking away from life’s displayed model might resemble endless death. When he looked back at the circular hall through gaps in the trees, new guests inside the enclosure could be seen scattering sparks. Kuji felt a surge of inexplicable affection toward Makiko as she pressed closer to him and, supporting her arm, walked toward the hotel. By now, he could no longer spare concern for Chizuko or Yashiro.

For the time being, Kuji sometimes stayed over at Makiko’s room and Makiko at Kuji’s. At times they would spend nights together at hotels, but Kuji strove to love Makiko with such flawlessness in outward appearances that not a single blemish could be found. When walking through the streets, he supported her arm up to the elbow like Westerners did; if Makiko said she wanted to eat something, he let her eat it; if she wanted to see something, he took her there. For he thought—if a man couldn’t even satisfy one woman during his leisure hours, what worth could he possibly have upon returning to Japan? Moreover, such acts proved far simpler here than in Japan, their daily routines established so no one disturbed them even when they carried on this way. Any disputes between them amounted only to matters like one falling asleep too early at night, lingering too long over department store purchases, or arriving slightly late for meetings—nothing more substantial. Yet despite this, an unshakable sense of insufficiency persisted deep within Kuji’s heart. For both harbored hearts prepared to part at any moment should separation come—indeed, perhaps this very anticipation allowed their days together to pass without conflict. Had either voiced this clarity outright, it would surely have left one of them utterly adrift.

On a day when Kuji and Makiko had left their intensely pent-up emotions unresolved at some final point, the day finally arrived when Bastille Day would be tomorrow. At street corners, the sound of stakes being driven in for bands preparing their dances could be heard, while labor groups from every department of France—three hundred thousand, four hundred thousand—continued pouring into Paris, now like a cage. When night fell, the sound of paupers’ drums—declaring that the great procession would continue until tomorrow morning—could be heard from every street. As the left-wing forces solidified their ranks, rumors reached Kuji and the others that the right-wing’s battle formations were also being increasingly honed. Just as during the French Revolution when the Bastille prison was breached, it was also among the common expectations that tomorrow would see those gates shattered first once again.

Police squads equipped with bayonets gathered at street corners, standing guard against rioters. That night, Kuji walked through the city with Yashiro along streets where cars had grown scarce—apparently requisitioned elsewhere. Whenever he saw crowds forming processions through the avenues, he felt as if peering into that cage where he'd driven electric cars on the festival night, waiting through the deepening darkness for tomorrow's sparks to finally fly. When the two crossed the river from Saint-Michel and climbed the slope from Grands Boulevards toward Saint-Martin, Kuji abruptly asked Yashiro:

“By the way, when did Ms. Chizuko come to be returning?”

“The morning of the 15th.” “So that’s the day after tomorrow. Train or plane?” “She chose the plane. I’ve already gotten the ticket.” From afar came the constant sound of the crowd marching toward Bastille—now fallen silent—its drum rhythms, like those of a Nichiren Buddhist procession, surging and continuing to be heard. “Once tomorrow’s over, I plan to head to Berlin myself,” Yashiro said.

As they circled from Saint-Martin toward Cuny, processions waving red flags in the thin mist gradually multiplied, and as night deepened, a fervent heat overflowed into the streets.

While people’s hearts clamored in uproar over the Paris Commune, that morning, even after waking, Yashiro felt not a shred of buoyancy in his mood. After getting up slowly, he called Chizuko and told her he would handle the preparations for her departure tomorrow morning that night, so she should leave everything as it was; then, having informed her he would be waiting at the dining hall dome shortly, he began getting ready. He fastened the tie with the pattern he and Kuji had vied to buy out at a shop that also carried neckties. And when Yashiro left the hotel, he noticed a letter from Japan stuck in the keyhole as he was going out. It was from his sister, who had long been bedridden at the seaside. In the letter, among various things written as one would expect from a patient, there was the following.

――I believe I informed you before, but perhaps because Father has grown frail of late, the moneylenders have stopped their harsh measures. When Father made the Ise pilgrimage with Mother, there was an incident where he became startled upon unexpectedly joining up with the hometown fire brigade—since then, he seems to have aged abruptly. The other day, he returned to his hometown for the first time and visited our ancestors' graves. Perhaps because I was born in Tokyo, I do not know where my own hometown lies. Brother went to Paris and came to regard Tokyo as your hometown; this made me truly happy as if it were my own. When I think that in our family, I alone remain adrift like this, it fills me with sorrow. Even so, when I imagine you will soon return, I earnestly hope my illness improves by then and wait morning and evening with all my heart. When afternoon comes with the sound of waves, this coast always rises high here. You are across this sea, aren't you.――

A scene of the setting sun shining over the seaside where Hakone’s mountains were visible floated into Yashiro’s mind. Though his heart clouded abruptly at the thought of his sister still convalescing there below, he tucked away the letter and entered Luxembourg Gardens for his daily morning routine. Between tree trunks where flecks of sunlight fell, a young pastor walked reading his Bible—the delicate hands holding its golden pages sent glints that pierced Yashiro’s eyes.

Passing by the large yellow roses whose buds swelled day by day as they opened, and treading on the thin sand within the lawn as he walked, Yashiro suddenly realized that today would already mark his farewell with Chizuko. A roaring sound wave, like an oncoming wave, momentarily erased the park’s verdant hues. Even so, as he sat still on the bench gazing at the tree trunk, the severed verdure gradually returned to its original calm.

On the terrace of the dome were already visible Shiono, Higashino, and three or four other Japanese acquaintances. One was a newspaper correspondent who, saying he had to rush around all day, seemed excitedly engrossed in debating where one might best witness clashes between right-wing and left-wing factions; but Yashiro found little desire to see such things. "But still," said Shiono, "the Paris Commune changes with the times, doesn’t it? Every year these streets used to swarm with frenzied crowds—trams couldn’t get through at all. But look at this desolation now."

It was Shiono who had said this. Yashiro had long heard tales of the Paris Commune’s liveliness and had seen it in films as well. However, since this was his first time seeing it in person, even though the city’s appearance did not seem so different from an ordinary day at a glance, he did not find it as surprising as Shiono did.

“We’re travelers, so even if you say that, I still don’t really understand.” “In that case, we’re merely skimming France’s surface and know nothing of it.” Yashiro said to Shiono and laughed. Even those who knew France well developed an unacknowledged sense of seniority after long stays here, naturally making Japanese grow subdued and humble—yet Yashiro doubted whether even those posturing as seniors truly understood France to any meaningful depth. The Japanese still persisted in their belief that they couldn’t grasp what it meant to observe foreign countries by discarding their inherent qualities from within themselves, nor did they think such a feat achievable for humans.

“Mr. Nakada here is departing for Germany tomorrow, but when are you?”

Shiono asked Yashiro again. Nakada was a professor of political science at a university who had come from London specifically to observe this Paris Commune. Despite his open and bright smile, this man retained a simple, robust demeanor unyielding since his student days; Yashiro felt certain that the current fervor of left-wing activism and right-wing nationalist consciousness—their opposition being more than just prime academic material—must have assailed him with intractable problems weighing on his mind. However, upon surveying the scene, this was not limited to Nakada alone. All those present here went without saying; for the world’s intellectual class, there was likely no day as worthy of attention in recent times as this one. Moreover, no matter what might happen, the news was certain to obfuscate its words and refrain from providing clear reports.

“I’m also planning to go to Berlin soon.” “I’ll see you again there.”

Yashiro said and gazed at Nakada’s somewhat troubled smile. Even as everyone else debated whether the most intense clashes would be at Bastille or the Champs-Élysées, Nakada alone crossed his arms, periodically falling silent as he sank deep into thought. “With things here having turned out like this, those who will teach students from now on must be at a loss.” Yashiro inadvertently let slip during their casual chat. “That’s right. We’ve become unable to teach anymore. Ever since I started observing things here, seeing Japan come to this state—it’s truly troubling.”

For a university professor to say such things to a layperson was undoubtedly a matter of grave significance requiring consideration, but Yashiro felt goodwill toward Nakada for having inadvertently let it slip. If one were to logically extend Nakada’s murmurs into a debate using global common sense as justification, Japanese universities would surely face ruin. Yet Nakada’s murmurs carried a sorrow imbued with beautiful sensitivity. As long as humanity wished continuation over destruction, there was no better method than this to grasp the heart of a nation rooted in such earnest yearning. Yashiro reflected that this had always been the crux of his ongoing debates with Kuji, and resolved that today he must make Kuji fully recognize his error and temporarily draw him back to a Japanese perspective—but in Kuji’s face that surfaced in his mind, only stubborn defiance remained visible.

Ah, I can't compete with that. He's possessed by a ghost. He couldn't help muttering this to himself even as he waited for Kuji's arrival more eagerly than anyone else. To him, Kuji's stubbornness didn't appear as intellectual rationality; it simply remained invisible through that very stubbornness - a visceral propensity inherent to the Japanese. "I hope you'll forgive my impertinence," came the question, "but how do you perceive today's issues here as matters concerning youth?"

Suddenly, Nakada turned to Yashiro and asked with a smile that suggested interest. “I’ve always disliked formulaic thinking.” “Perhaps because of that, the issues here just don’t quite resonate with my sensibilities.” “So, even logically?” “That’s right.”

Yashiro answered. Since he hadn’t lived there himself, it naturally meant that he didn’t even understand the emotions of the people there. Even as he answered in such a manner, he could only repeat inwardly directed protests at Kuji—how could he understand the logic there without even comprehending the emotions? “However, no matter what one says, it’s logic.” Nakada muttered and looked down, then fell silent, seemingly calming his mind to the logic of common sense that was steadily tightening around his thoughts. Yashiro also fell silent; however, when he pictured the grotesque scene of every single one of the emerging newcomers—the procession of countless heads engrossed in logic, logic—fluttering their eyes as they gazed at the scenery—he suddenly found himself looking at the stones of the sunlit pavement on the opposite bank and waiting impatiently for even Chizuko to arrive. Then, Higashino, who had stood up from the back,

“Pi can’t be cleanly split by three-point-whatever.” “Then you’d all better watch yourselves.”

With that, he said without addressing anyone in particular and crossed the tram street, hunched over as he went. Following that, several open-top cars of the strike committee members—mobilized and dispatched—lined up, each maintaining their robust and vigorous postures as they raised their fists, “Front Populaire!” (Popular Front) they shouted.

The flow harmonized with the cars streaming over the pavement's gleaming studs, and the foreigners on the terrace too grew more heated than usual. As soon as Shiono’s face flushed crimson, he suddenly— “Bastard!” he shouted alone at the cars. Since it was rapid Japanese, no one understood, but Shiono, steadying the camera hanging from his chest with his hand,

“Come on, let’s go.” “Ah, right—I’d forgotten to give you these.” With that, he pulled two small metal press cards from his pocket—obtained at the embassy—and handed them to Yashiro. Holding these insignia-bearing cards meant one could enter anywhere throughout the day—they were what Kuji and Yashiro had requested earlier. The mobilized committee members’ cars came roaring up one after another. The correspondents scattered to gather material, but Yashiro couldn’t move until Kuji arrived, so he had Shiono and the others go ahead to Bastille while arranging to meet them at the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs-Élysées.

After the terrace suddenly emptied, Yashiro sat alone drinking coffee. According to foreigners who had returned from outside, the crowd marching from the Grands Boulevards toward Place de la Nation was said to number approximately five hundred thousand. The people of the surrounding streets must have gone to watch the procession, for there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. The dancing platform built at the street corner remained with only the fresh timber of the scaffold’s legs standing out between the stones, not a single person gathered there. The old empty stone city, its faint tilt clearly visible beneath where the sun blazed brilliantly overhead, suddenly made Yashiro feel a light, foolish melancholy like holding a cicada’s shed shell in his hand. Before long, Kuji walked down the lively street with eyes swollen as if he had just thrown off his pillow.

“It’s unusually quiet, isn’t it?” The back of Kuji’s rattan chair creaked as he sat down beside Yashiro, the sound resonating sharply in the profound stillness. “The ladies are late, aren’t they? Shiono was waiting here until just a moment ago, but everyone’s already gone. Everyone’s in a frenzy today.” “That’s right.”

With that remark alone, Kuji downed his coffee and salmon. Normally he would have found some way to confront Yashiro, but today he said nothing—silently rubbing his forehead before shaking it slightly sideways. “Was there a clash?” “Hard to say.” Yashiro suddenly noticed a mouse darting beneath the chair. If it tried escaping from this place built of seamless stone, he thought, the creature would have to scurry over four kilometers along the radiating streets to reach the suburbs. Then coffee, salmon, and bread arrived.

“It’s unusually quiet.” “Eerie, isn’t it.”

And again, Kuji looked around and remarked. Amidst a sea of some two hundred empty chairs—their vacant forms cresting like waves—the two sat isolated. Only the coffee steamed quietly.

“If Ms. Chizuko leaves tomorrow, we must hold a farewell party tonight—but where? Shall we go to Lake Bois? Or would Montmartre hilltop be better?” Even as Kuji stared into Yashiro’s eyes as if deciphering his thoughts, Yashiro could not reply at once.

“Anywhere would do.” “What do you mean ‘anywhere’? If you two want privacy, we’ll make ourselves scarce.” “No—that won’t be necessary anymore.”

Yashiro said hurriedly.

“No longer any need?” “I just don’t get it.”

Yashiro found Kuji, who was laughing in an oddly intrusive manner, annoying and fell silent. It was indeed true that Yashiro had wanted to enjoy a day alone with Chizuko in their own world, but having this pointed out by Kuji made him feel the danger of introducing a distortion that would render necessity redundant between them, and so Yashiro remained silent. Then, persistently, Kuji— “But today’s your only day, isn’t it? You should definitely try to keep up appearances somehow.”

he pressed. Yashiro briefly considered what Kuji meant by "posture" and thought of himself as still having established no concrete stance between him and Chizuko. However, this was something he had already considered time and again, and he found it difficult to agree that the foolish endeavor of hastily creating an unnatural facade in a foreign land could be considered wisdom. This was a pain that made Yashiro grit his teeth, but if returning to Japan would sever his current feelings, then he saw no difference between cutting them off now for their sake and letting them fade later. In any case, Yashiro thought that everything happening among them there was an event occurring within a sleepwalker’s trance.

If this dream were an unchangeable fact, he thought it would remain unchanged even upon returning to Japan; with a heart praying that it might at least be reality, he resolved to say nothing and attempt to part from Chizuko—a resolve so strong it felt akin to confronting an empirical test. Even if he feared that returning might lead to being severed from Chizuko as Kuji had said, if he were to lose something irreplaceable, then that would be the corrosion of his own being, he thought—a punishment he deserved to receive.

However, despite having pursued his thoughts to such extremes, Yashiro did not doubt Chizuko at the final moment. With foreign women it might be different—but having placed absolute trust in Chizuko, what need was there now to impose some structure? Yashiro found Kuji irritating because he sensed here an unreasonable attempt to suddenly undermine the careful way he had been nurturing his own heart. "As you say, what proves valid in any country may indeed be logic. But the heart that trusts people beyond logic is more universal." "That matters more."

Thus, Yashiro wanted to assert to Kuji. However, he stopped himself from thinking that even this was now an unnecessary response. And then, “When are you planning to return to Japan?” he asked. “Well, I haven’t thought about that yet.” “But, well—I suppose someone like me might as well try sinking here.”

Kuji removed the small bones from the split-open salmon while,

“This might be from Japan.” “Today’s is ridiculously good.” “Ms. Chizuko said she helped bring salmon into France—I wonder if this is the one.”

Having said that, he looked at Yashiro and laughed. Now that he mentioned it, Yashiro recalled hearing how all the coffee cups and tableware in the cafés throughout this area were exclusively Japanese-made. He gazed across the city's expanse as if seeing it afresh, marveling that these items had managed to spread all the way from what felt like the edge of the earth. After Makiko arrived, Chizuko came a little later. Chizuko appeared with a strained cheerfulness that seemed to suppress escaping sighs,

“When I think about leaving tomorrow, I feel so restless inside.” “And yet there’s nothing left to do.”

Having said that, she tried to lower herself into a seat. Kuji stood up to hail a car, saying they should drive immediately to the avenue where the march was happening. The four of them got into the car with hurried urgency. When they neared the street close to Nation, the car was already immobilized by spectators crowding the road. The marching ranks—each five columns wide with arms linked—displayed banners of varying colors corresponding to their affiliated groups, red and white being most prevalent. This wasn’t limited to labor groups; one could say nearly every cultural organization supporting the left-wing government had joined the mix. Among them were marchers carrying children on their shoulders, with no small number of boys interspersed throughout.

“Oh my, even a photo of Gide has appeared!” Makiko said with a laugh. The crowd of onlookers filled the street layer upon layer, so from where Yashiro and the others stood on the outskirts, the march was not clearly visible; yet among the countless banners advancing like bolts of bleached cloth from a dyer’s shop, many of the interspersed displays showed considerable ingenuity. He couldn’t quite grasp what was so intriguing about these ranks, but whether it was the faces of onlookers peering down from the branches of every street tree like clusters of fruit or the crowds filling the streets, all remained strangely silent, as if holding their breath—an eerie air of anticipation hung over the city, tense with some unspoken expectation. As Yashiro watched this spectacle—which might have been a funeral procession or a triumphal march—pass before his eyes for some time, he found himself wanting to provoke Kuji for no particular reason, but he suppressed the impulse deep within his chest.

The women spectators who could not see the march over people’s shoulders took out mirrors from their handbags, each turned around, and gazed at the procession reflected on the mirror surfaces. Chizuko and Makiko also followed suit, holding up mirrors to the sky. Kuji and Yashiro, having tired themselves from standing on tiptoe, would occasionally meet each other’s gaze; but with strained, desperate expressions too cold to describe, they immediately averted their eyes. Each time, they both sensed lips twitching as if to sneer *"Hmph"* at each other, and a chilling premonition—that a single word might fracture their lives—kept them unabashedly silent.

As revolutionary songs echoed forth from loudspeakers atop tall buildings, the marchers began to fall into step. Yet again it switched to the national anthem, and La Marseillaise was played. The watching crowd reacted the same way to whichever song filled the sky—no one made a sound, quiet as if drilled into this response through rigorous training. “Is something going to happen, I wonder? The people watching don’t even look happy.” Makiko asked Kuji with an uneasy expression.

As the banners of the advancing groups became dominated by red flags at their core, their eyes took on an uncanny murderous glint, and from between their uniformly aligned bodies locked arm-in-arm seeped triumphant, rock-like glares. Since everyone wore navy suits with neckties hanging loose, at first glance they didn’t appear like a mob that had disrupted Bastille Day; yet unlike cultural groups, their tense elastic force visibly pressed forward, pushing through the spectators. Even among these banners, they brazenly held up portraits of founding figures like Stalin, Lenin, and Marx—no trace of French national character remained.

As he watched, Yashiro thought that if one were to translate the appearance of this procession and report it to various countries, the parts that would be universally comprehensible were precisely those where the national character had been lost or stripped away. If parts devoid of national character were so universally comprehensible to other countries, while the traditions constituting the greater part of that nation’s character remained incomprehensible—Yashiro could roughly imagine what would happen next.

“This is troubling. This is a mess.” Yashiro inadvertently muttered in Nakada’s manner, wandering aimlessly alone behind the crowd with his head slightly bowed—if the greater part of a nation’s character, which constitutes life itself, remained mutually incomprehensible, he thought, then politics—meant to preserve the world’s order—would amount to nothing more than superficial formalities in its interactions with other nations. Then this was the terrifying progression of life.— “This is utterly vexing. Isn’t there anything to be done? Anything at all.”

Even as he thought this, the flow of red flags continued to surge onward. The group that marched forth with thrumming, sinewy torsos and oil-glistening strides was immediately recognizable as the day’s central contingent—yet these scenes, like split-open viscera laid bare under the sun, revealed something no longer tradition but identical to the forces now seizing and propelling politics. Moreover, the group of suave police officers who had been controlling this until just the other day had now concealed their own will and, following the government’s orders, were today ensuring the safe progress of this march.

Suddenly, Yashiro thought he saw France’s tradition of safeguarding the law there. If this spirit of legal guardianship were lost, that would mark the moment when freedom too vanished from France. ―As he thought this, he began contemplating the differences between France’s history—which had careened to this point—and that of his own country. “Is it three-thirty on the Champs-Élysées side?” After taking a couple of photographs, Kuji asked Yashiro while checking his watch.

“Hmm, let’s go now.” Yashiro thought that by now the traditionalists would be lying in wait on the Champs-Élysées, but he remained silent as Kuji had Chizuko and Makiko board the car and drove off. “The other day at the Dome, I heard someone say that if social consciousness changes like France’s, musical consciousness will change too—isn’t that what people are saying?” “Then another person said that even Beethoven’s music would no longer be acceptable because of that.” “Is that really true?”

Makiko leaned toward Kuji and asked. “Is that something foreigners are saying?”

“Is that something foreigners are saying?” Kuji asked in return.

“Yes, that’s right. I believe that person was indeed Romanian.”

“In Japan, such things once became an issue too.” “Who was it that said we can’t have distinctions like Marxist astronomy versus bourgeois astronomy? Back then, Japan was in a precarious state too.”

Yashiro laughed, deftly containing the complex problem Makiko had raised within this moment's simplicity. Yet even amidst this, when he suddenly remembered Chizuko would return to Japan tomorrow, everything they were discussing and all the scenes they had witnessed abruptly seemed hollow, and his solitary world came pressing back upon him with suffocating weight.

“There’s this remarkable astronomer among my acquaintances—he once claimed that when observing stars, whether he’d eaten vegetables or meat beforehand would alter the numerical results appearing in his observations.” “If even food can alter the results, then perhaps astronomy isn’t exempt from such distinctions.” Kuji unintentionally blurted out a remark that was disadvantageous to himself and laughed. Yashiro, pulling himself up from the sinking loneliness that was his alone, wanted to cling to the immediate topic at hand; because of this, he forced himself to regain courage and spoke.

“Then isn’t science just about manufacturing fallacies?” “Oh, right.” “Earlier at the Dome—when the People’s Front’s mobilization passed through—Mr. Higashino was there bellowing, ‘Pi won’t divide cleanly at 3.14! Better be careful!’”

As he spoke, Yashiro finally grasped the meaning of Higashino’s words at that time. Yet even these conversations twisted themselves into shapes meant to avoid conflict—and perhaps sensing their clumsiness, Chizuko—

“Oh, they’re dancing over there.” “Today was the first time I’ve seen dancing here.” “What a lonely dance.”

Having said that, she directed everyone’s gaze to the pavement of a certain street corner. That area had already become a deserted and hollow stretch of road. In a corner where there were neither passersby nor anyone turning to look, several pairs danced with steps measured in careful precision. The men and women’s movements—reminiscent of mountain ritual dances—seemed caught in rainfall, spots forming on the stones beneath them.

When they had nearly reached the front of the Dome, a lone customer sat on the terrace gazing blankly at the sky. That was Higashino. “Oh—there’s the geezer alone!” Kuji said nostalgically and tapped on the windowpane, but the procession of cars that had passed before them was already speeding away from the terrace with tremendous force. Here, where rain appeared to have fallen—the pavement was wet, and the suddenly chilled air sent the scent of Chizuko and the others’ perfume swirling back.

“Mr. Higashino, you don’t want to see something like the People’s Front, do you?”

Makiko looked back and said. “That’s not it. He must already be watching.” To this Kuji, Yashiro, “He’s watching that.” “It’s just that he’s plagued by all the noise in his own heart.” “On a day like today, the one having the hardest time might be Shiono.” “When taking photographs, no matter what the subject is, he said you have to strive to become as cold as the lens.” “It’s difficult for that passionate man to become cold.”

Kuji, seeming to want to say something, flashed a faint smile before abruptly shifting his demeanor.

“Well, I’m better at photography then,” he said. “Yes. Because you’re a cold person, I’m sure you’re good at it.” Makiko immediately seized the opening and looked at Kuji. As the car veered away from Les Invalides toward the Seine, the group grew increasingly silent, and Yashiro’s lonely thoughts naturally returned with renewed weight. At the foot of the Champs-Élysées slope, they got out of the car, and the group walked to the immediately visible Triomphe. Here, being the stronghold of the traditionalists, even though now under police suppression, presented a different scene from the streets with marches they had witnessed.

The cafés lining both sides down from the Arc de Triomphe faced the road, their opulent forms spread out like the tiered platforms of a grand theater’s seating. The road itself had become a stage, and from this vantage point, both sides extended as a unified crimson slope of audience seating—no matter where one looked—filled entirely with people. The gentlemen and ladies here, all impeccably dressed as if plucked from a fashion catalog, seemed to have completed their battle preparations. Despite the sweeping grandeur of the vista around them, every face brimmed with electric tension—hands gripping canes thrust forward as they lay in wait for the left-wing forces poised to storm the Arc de Triomphe’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

The desperate resistance, convinced that losing here would mean nothing but the destruction of the world’s culture, manifested in every window of the buildings—even an old woman clutching a massive tricolor flag nearly three meters long was there, waving it vigorously from a high window to cheer on those below in the street.

From the lower part of the street came a group of seventy or eighty students—female students among them—marching up with linked arms as they sang the national anthem. For the homeland The glory of today The day has come. Old and young, men and women Take up your swords. In response to this chorus, from both sides of the street—the cafés and building windows—answering chants rose one after another. The old woman at the window, her face flushed crimson, swung her massive flag ever more vigorously in a motion like washing laundry as she sang. Under skies neither fully clear nor wholly cloudy, rain began to fall.

Police officers wearing iron helmets and shouldering rifles were massed in the side street; these were not government party officers but elite forces directly under the City of Paris, assigned solely to maintain urban order. Government party police officers wearing French-style caps like station workers, when the crowd’s chorus grew louder, earnestly tried to quell it by waving their folded capes side to side—yet with expressions that somehow seemed to betray their own desire to join the singing—remaining relaxed as they offered mild admonishments of “Now, now.”

Not long after Yashiro and his group had taken seats at Triomphe, they met up with Shiono, Nakada, and others who had returned from the direction of Bastille.

“Over there’s nothing but red flags now, but this side’s holding strong.”

As Shiono declared this energetically, Kuji—

“At this rate, the left wing might not come after all,” he said, pointing his camera toward the Arc de Triomphe. But Shiono’s view was the opposite—he argued that it was precisely because they knew the left wing would come and were lying in wait that it would arrive. According to his account, at Bastille, they hadn’t allowed anyone but leftists into the square, but when they showed their press cards, they were immediately let in—only to have their shoulders clapped with remarks that Japan was part of the same International as them, and red triangular flags pinned to their chests. There had apparently been some clashes with the right wing, but for all their efforts, they said the photographic haul hadn’t yielded much.

No sooner had the rain begun to fall than it cleared again. The chorus of *La Marseillaise* continued to rise from under the street trees. The police would go toward the crowd and again wave their capes aloft, trying to suppress them. “If we’re not allowed to sing the national anthem, this is a real problem.” “If this were Japan, it would mean even Kimigayo must not be sung.” “When it’s come to this, I simply can’t bear it.”

Nakada, wearing the most tormented expression, muttered to himself and seemed alone in tilting his head pensively. Yashiro thought how the robust legal framework tradition had constructed had now broken free from its foundations and was attempting to bind the very tradition that birthed it—an unprecedented phenomenon unfolding before them.

Shiono stepped out from his chair onto the road and photographed the excited crowd nearby. Beneath the Arc de Triomphe, where faint sunlight now filtered through, a line of mounted police officers on the right side had halted their fifteen or sixteen horses, their bridles aligned in a row. All wore silver helmets with black hair flowing down their backs, their stately figures clad in the magnificent attire of *knights*. The horse chestnut trees at the foot of the slope still retained their lush green foliage, while the sycamore trees above had already shed their leaves forlornly, leaving their branches bare.

Yashiro and Kuji left the women with Nakada and followed Shiono out onto the road. Since they each had press cards pinned to their chests, Shiono and Kuji took advantage of not arousing suspicion and fearlessly took photographs again and again.

“Which country are you from?” A scholarly-looking gentleman asked Yashiro. When he answered that he was a Japanese journalist, “Ah, I see. “Japan is healthy—how admirable. “France is now sick as you can see, but this illness will soon be cured, so please convey that well to the Japanese people. “Well, this is just a minor illness.” With these words, the gentleman gazed at the fountain spraying up from Rampon Forest below the slope.

After saying this, the gentleman gazed at the fountain spouting up from within Rampon Forest at the foot of the slope. The gentleman’s sighing words—“Japan is healthy—how admirable”—sounded to Yashiro like an old man praising a youth who had leapt forward, and he found himself suddenly sheepish as he turned to reflect on his own country. Indeed, even when laws existed, once they grasped their original form, they immediately turned emotions into legislation; when conflicts arose, they would say their piece and settle down with a single natural word. Moreover, each season they would flare up only to sprout fresh buds endlessly from behind—such was Japan, as tenderly vibrant as bean-sprouts.

There was no other country as healthy and fresh as this. ——

However, Yashiro thought, there were now many Japanese who would get angry like Kuji if someone said this. Yet when foreigners said it for them, they would narrow their eyes and rejoice all the more with humility. But no matter what anyone might say, there was no doubt they were healthy. At this moment, Yashiro could not help being struck by a powerful conviction—if not in this vitality, then in what else could one place trust? "What we truly need is natural science—if only we had this—this is what we need," he thought.

When he looked out from the road toward where Chizuko and the others were, even Chizuko—submerged in the tiered rows of the crowd and appearing small—looked his way, gave a faint smile, and raised one hand. Yashiro briefly signaled back with his hand. He now felt certain that even if they were to part tomorrow morning exactly as they were, it would be absolutely fine. This conviction—or rather, a trust so vivid that the joy of imagining their next meeting outweighed all else—felt nearly tangible.

“You—the police hiding over there.” Shiono pointed at the Paris municipal armored police force clustered in the building’s shadowed alleyway and said, “That unit’s made entirely of elite soldiers handpicked from the military.” “They’re the strongest, fairest, bravest.” “Let’s photograph them.” When Shiono and Kuji had crossed halfway through the broad avenue, suddenly from behind Yashiro—

“There it is!” Someone shouted. When Yashiro turned toward the voice, a gentleman in a soft hat was pointing his cane toward Rampon at the slope’s base. From Rampon Forest’s direction came a car speeding forth with a red flag mounted on its front. No sooner had an impact struck a corner of the café and brought it to an abrupt halt than the shockwave sliced through crowds still swaying to *La Marseillaise*’s chorus, before gradually stirring them into motion.

It spread like wildfire through the crowds on both sides of the road—voices surged up one after another from all around Yashiro: “There it is!” or “They’re coming!”—until a young noblewoman in a resplendent navy-blue dress, a silver fox fur wrapped around her neck, dashed out alone from the crowd ahead and rushed straight toward the approaching car. In the blink of an eye, all at once from both sides, a towering white-collar crowd surged toward that single point on the road, ascending like an avalanche at a speed akin to clashing waves. The police force frantically waved their capes to stop the crowd but were instantly overwhelmed by the human tide.

Yashiro used a nearby sycamore street tree as a shield and did not move. As he looked toward Kuji, Shiono and Kuji—tossed about like driftwood in the surging tide of high-collared figures—turned back in a fluster, attempting to retreat. However, by then, another avalanche of the crowd was already surging in from behind. The two of them tilted sideways, sinking and rising. Even so, Shiono seemed to still be pressing the camera’s shutter amidst the turmoil.

From behind the lead car hoisting red flags, two or three more vehicles of the same kind came pouring in one after another. They had likely all completed their march to La Nation and were now dispersing, but every car found itself unable to advance up the slope, all coming to a halt in the middle of the road. Then, the woman in a silver fox fur at the forefront of the crowd raised her fist and leapt alone into the midst of the left-wing youths who had descended from the cars. Then, from behind them, a crowd composed entirely of gentlemen and ladies charged. The figures of two or three men leaping onto the footrest were glimpsed, then in an instant they were dragged down and sank into the crowd. Stomping, kicking, beating—amid that indescribably resplendent and uniquely chaotic human wave concentrated at a single point, the motionless enamel-black car windows, glistening darkly, were swiftly dyed crimson with blood.

The moment someone deemed that fellow suspicious—whether he was right-wing or left-wing—the crowd could no longer distinguish between them. “There, that’s it!” someone shouted, and once again they surged toward them. Amidst the chaos of swaying here and erupting there, the number of left-wing groups willingly throwing themselves into the fray gradually increased. From Yashiro’s position, Kuji’s figure was no longer visible—but even as Shiono was struck sideways while still pressing the shutter, his glasses alone occasionally flashed blue like leaping sparks.

Yashiro tried to rush in that direction, but the frenzied crowd blocked him, and he could no longer control his body. The window panes of every last car lined up were smashed to pieces. There was a man with a red emblem, blood gushing from his torn white shirt, who kept leaping up and charging back into the crowd again and again, no matter how many times he was beaten or stabbed. Then a fresh wave of the crowd surged forward and launched an attack. The young man’s face, now utterly bloodied, rose and sank in the chaos, his features rendered unrecognizable.

The government party police officers were indiscriminately making arrests during that time—all targeting right-wing individuals. A scuffle continued between those trying to wrest them back and the police leading them away. But the crowd had already swollen beyond what even this police force could handle. This was when the rampaging central ring expanded outward and surged downward explosively—as if seeking to cascade endlessly lower.

The rain, which until now had been falling only sporadically, suddenly intensified. Then, as if materializing from nowhere, the city’s direct-control armored police force lined up among the crowd one by one with the unyielding rigidity of driven rivets. Unexpectedly severed from the central turmoil, the crowd kept up its murmuring unrest, yet found itself daunted by the sudden silent ranks of bayonets. Moreover, this unit alone stood as a strictly neutral armored presence that monitored and restrained even the government-aligned officers. Still, for some time, chaos persisted between those surging forward like an avalanche and others scrambling to retreat. Yet simultaneously, in a three-tiered formation, mounted police from both ends of the slope pressed their chestnut horses’ flanks together into a dense mass, steadily tightening their encirclement of the crowd.

The crowd had now clearly split into two—those enclosed within the cross-shaped formation and those outside. Yashiro stood outside this vivid police encirclement, but within that space gradually being tightened by bayonet-wielding officers, he saw Kuji and Shiono. Shiono still raised his camera to aim around, but Kuji pressed a handkerchief to his nose, which bled profusely. As Yashiro watched, wondering what would happen next, the rain began falling even more heavily. It was now a time when both the left wing and right wing outside the police encirclement had retreated, with absolutely no one attempting to approach anymore. Having tightened their encirclement of the crowd as much as possible, the police began slowly arresting the rioters they recognized, plucking them out one by one. Yashiro thought that with this, the center of the world’s culture was now surely crumbling into collapse, and as he stood there in a daze listening to its final splendid groans—

“What’s going to happen? Will they be all right?”

Chizuko and Makiko, who had approached nearby, peered sideways while speaking in a tone of concern about Kuji and Shiono.

“They’ll be fine. Both of them have their cards.”

While Yashiro was saying this, Shiono alone had already been released and let outside the encirclement. When he noticed Kuji was still inside, he pushed his way back into the police again and seemed to spend some time pleading on his behalf; before long, both emerged safely outside together.

“Well, that was a terrible ordeal.” Shiono approached Yashiro and the others with a laugh so hearty it made his nose protrude conspicuously, scratching his head as he drew near, “We pulled through.” Having said this, he absently glanced backward again. “How is it? Does it hurt?”

Yashiro looked at the handkerchief pressed against Kuji’s nose and asked, “Nah, can’t really tell.” With that, Kuji walked ahead sullenly toward the Trionfo chairs. The crowd that had scattered far along both sides of the road vanished, their forms erased by the driving rain. Within the police encirclement, those arrested were led away one by one, leaving emptiness behind—only the remaining bayonet-wielding officers stayed motionless, clumped together in the rain now streaked with blood here and there.

“Well, I was hit—hit hard. It still hurts.” “Still hurts.” Even after settling into a chair, Shiono playfully pressed the side of his head. “But you’re quite remarkable. “You kept clicking the shutter even in that situation, after all.” Yashiro said this, genuinely impressed by Shiono’s bravery.

“The camera nearly got smashed, but I thought ‘This is it!’ and snapped the shot.” “What’s captured will be something to behold tonight!” “We were completely trapped in a pincer attack by pure chance.” “No way to escape at all.” “But you’ve got to admire that armored squad.” “The way they closed in—snug and precise—was downright awe-inspiring.” “Couldn’t budge an inch.” As memories reignited his excitement, Shiono’s face flushed crimson, flecks of spittle flying from his lips.

“There was one formidable figure in the left wing.” “He was rampaging recklessly.”

To Makiko’s words, Shiono, “Yes, there was one.” he nodded.

“But that woman who rushed out first—I was surprised at her too. You see, such people simply don’t exist in Japan. I was on edge watching.” Chizuko, who apparently had been watching in the same way even then, clasped both hands over her chest, her eyes taking on a vivid expression.

“Mr. Nakada, you saw it, didn’t you? This’ll make a fine souvenir for your Berlin trip tomorrow. The best possible memento. Berlin’s different after all.” When Shiono said this, Nakada—who had been sinking deeper into silent contemplation—nodded with a pained expression and murmured “Hmm,” then continued: “What an utterly burdensome souvenir. At any rate... once I reach Berlin’s outskirts... I’ll ponder it properly.” Groaning, Nakada buried his chin further into his collar, folded his arms, and fixed his gaze on the tabletop once more. He resembled a man fatally pierced through some vital spot by a high-caliber round.

On the road like a stage, raindrops dripped from the edges of armor worn by police officers who stood frozen in place.

“I’ll be heading to Sevira in a couple of days.” “I need to get away from Paris for a bit—I’ve somehow become completely disoriented.” As he said this, Kuji took the handbag from Makiko, pulled out a mirror from inside, and examined his slightly swollen cheek.

“Is everyone going somewhere? I’ll be lonely, huh.”

Shiono suddenly lost his earlier vigor and, gazing at the rain-filled sky, let out a sigh. As the sky gradually darkened, almost no human figures could be seen on the street besides the police force.

After finishing dinner that night, the entire Trionfo group returned together to Montparnasse. The rain kept abruptly pouring down and clearing. With Chizuko’s farewell party canceled due to daytime exhaustion, they went to the Dome—more crowded than usual, every room packed full—but managed to find cramped seats and drank tea. It seemed all customers had gone to Place de la Nation or Bastille; there was no talk of anyone having witnessed events on the Champs-Élysées. Among foreigners other than Shiono, there was certainly no one who had risked danger to take photographs that day.

Yashiro wanted to be alone with Chizuko now. Though his fatigue ran deep and there was nothing left to say, when he considered that only this single night remained, he still wanted—just as Kuji had advised—to part from everyone and be with her alone. Whether from the rain’s humidity, the cigarette smoke hung choking thicker than usual, while from every room heated arguments swelled in intensity. Yet Yashiro’s mind kept drifting toward the street beyond. In the darkness of the corner, bayonets of massed police glimmered soundlessly alongside wet armor plating. A painter-like figure—likely escaped from some dance—lumbered past a deserted stone wall in Indian garb, thrusting two or three spears forward before shouting “Hey! Hey!” and dissolving into rainy gloom.

“Well then, I’ll go help Ms. Chizuko with her luggage for a bit.” “Once I’m done, I’ll come over.” “Where will you be?”

Yashiro stood up and asked Kuji.

“Fine.” “Just go as you are.”

At Kuji, who spoke gruffly without laughing, Yashiro blushed and suddenly made a bow that resembled a greeting. “Well then, this is where we part ways. Please take care, everyone.” Chizuko stood up, bent at the waist, and greeted everyone. “Ah, right—it’s tomorrow morning.” Shiono, having seemingly forgotten, blurted out and looked up at Chizuko’s face, but—

“Well then, goodbye. See you tomorrow.” Shiono gave another light nod. Kuji had already stopped looking at Chizuko. Only Makiko alone shook hands with Chizuko, though even that was perfunctory. Though everyone assumed they would properly see her off again in the morning, divorced from such expectations, their farewell that night remained remarkably simple.

Yashiro turned up his collar and walked on through the rain. Chizuko kept close to his side as she followed, but even when the road darkened, the two exchanged no words.

The night was heavy with the scent of leaves, so dark that even when voices of approaching people could be heard, their faces only flickered into view as they passed by. Yashiro looked around with fresh surprise, realizing for the first time how dark this boulevard he always walked had become. Chizuko gazed at the street trees beside him,

“I may never see this city again. This could be it.” She said this, but her voice didn’t sound particularly sad. “If you end up staying in London for a while, please write me letters sometimes—though I imagine I’ll be leaving here soon myself.” “Yes, but I think I’ll have to board the ship right away.” “So I’ll send them from the ship.” “I wonder if your hotel will forward the letters properly—that’s the only strange thing I’ve been worried about lately, you know.”

At Chizuko’s voice—which seemed to laugh as she looked up—Yashiro too burst into laughter. “Don’t worry. By the time you reach New York, I’ll likely be somewhere around Berlin.” “Since it takes us about thirty days to reach Yokohama, if you return via Siberia, you’d arrive ten days earlier. Wouldn’t that be amusing?” As she spoke, Chizuko showed not the slightest regret about tomorrow’s parting. Rather, she seemed to grasp with vivid clarity every nuance of Yashiro’s silent farewell sentiments this time. Even now, Yashiro thought, the circumstances forcing them to return east and west must lie deep within both their hearts. And as long as this remained Japanese custom, they had no choice but to obey—for Japan’s strictness permitted no defiance from either family. He no longer understood why this was so, yet somehow it struck him as a splendid tradition. His reluctance to say “I love you” until receiving both families’ approval—this too, he realized, stemmed from that same inscrutable reason.

Upon arriving at the hotel, the two entered the narrow elevator car and faced each other for the first time under the dim light. Chizuko fiddled with the rain-dampened buttons on Yashiro's chest with her nails, tilting her head slightly with a coquettish smile as her lips moved as if she had something to say—but by then, the elevator had already reached the top floor.

Chizuko's packing was nearly completed already. All that remained was gathering miscellaneous items into the trunk, but even these were women's personal effects that only Chizuko could properly manage. "I came to help, but there's nothing left to do."

Yashiro said idly, still standing. “Just this little bit. That’s quite enough now.” Even so, Yashiro pressed down on the open suitcase lid with his knee to fasten the clasps and packed the old newspapers into a single bundle. Though Chizuko protested that excess baggage fees would be troublesome if it became too heavy for the plane, Yashiro stubbornly insisted they were good keepsakes and made her take them. When he called them mementos, Chizuko responded with a light, cheerful laugh.

When there was nothing left to do, Chizuko had coffee brought up from downstairs. After they sat facing each other on the sofa, she suddenly suggested consulting Yashiro about calling her brother in London. “But if you already know your return time, there’s no need to go through such wasteful trouble.”

Yashiro opposed this as well. “But you know, I’ve told my brother all about you.” “So if you were to talk to him once over the phone, I think it would be better for me later on in various ways.” Having said this, Chizuko looked at Yashiro’s face, but immediately— “It would feel odd if we only heard each other’s voices, don’t you think?” “Let’s not do it.” she denied. Yashiro, whose face had begun to flush as if a flame had been lit, also felt relieved at that. Since it was their last supper after the coffee had arrived, they also took the opportunity to order wine. Yashiro thought he had only about an hour left here, and when he checked his watch, it was already nearly eleven.

“If we set tomorrow morning at ten, arriving here by nine should be fine.” “I’ll bring the car, so let’s take that.”

Yashiro wondered if there remained anything he needed to say, but there was nothing required for the trip. "When I leave London I'll send a telegram, so then you must come to the ship. I'm certain you won't come—that simply won't do, you understand?" This time Chizuko spoke firmly, her smile vanishing as she waited for Yashiro's reply. "I'll send it." Yashiro answered tersely.

The two remained silent without a thread of words to continue, but Yashiro, though settling into the chair’s back, felt as though some vital cord within his body had snapped under the rising excitement. After the wine arrived and the maid went downstairs, Chizuko knelt on the floor behind Yashiro and prayed silently on the bed. When they were in Tyrol, Yashiro had once seen Chizuko pray, but tonight’s prayer struck his heart so intensely that he spent the entire time staring fixedly at Ise’s tall torii to calm his mind.

When Chizuko stood up after a while, Yashiro felt relieved that he detected no troubling contradiction in her having prayed in the Catholic manner. Chizuko’s smile now differed from before, growing animated as she poured wine into glasses and arranged two of them side by side. Both drank their wine in silence, though Yashiro secretly believed their current actions signified an engagement and cautiously tilted his glass. The way Chizuko’s eyes drank it down in one breath—along with her reverently solemn expression—seemed to him a kindness attuned to his own heart, deepening his delight.

“Well, since tomorrow will be tiring, perhaps we should say goodnight here.” Yashiro had no confidence he could actually bring himself to leave, but seizing the momentary clarity in his mood, he let out a low groan and pressed down on the chair’s armrest with all his resolve to sever these tangled emotions. “But just tonight... I want to talk more. I do.” Chizuko kept her expression unchanged as she looked up at him, her bewilderment at his abrupt decision to leave struggling to surface through her composed features.

“But the flight will be exhausting. Is that acceptable?”

“But it’s only three hours, you know. I don’t need to sleep. To Croydon, it’s an hour and a half.” Yashiro, seeing the gleam that had risen in Chizuko’s eye, sat down again, but the moment he did so, Chizuko poured wine into a glass and fell silent for a moment. “Since many people will be coming tomorrow, we won’t be able to talk anymore. It would be nice if we could go all the way to Bourget together by car, but since it would be inconsiderate to those who are coming, I think we should just go to Hikōkan instead.”

However, if Yashiro stayed any longer, the parting would only grow more painful. In the room where no one was watching, waiting together for what might be a final token of affection before parting felt more restlessly painful today than usual.

“I too have many things I want to discuss, but being abroad, I don’t know how to say them—there are just too many mistakes in what I say and do.” “But when I return, I will certainly meet you.” “I don’t think I’m making any mistakes myself, but since I don’t know what might trouble you, I ended up believing it best to refrain from this much at least.” Then, suddenly, Chizuko’s complexion changed as though she couldn’t bring herself to speak, and she fell silent. Yashiro felt his words had transformed into something entirely different from his intent—phrases that seemed to imply even Chizuko’s resolve was mistaken—and he involuntarily swallowed his words, realizing he had uttered something grave. For Chizuko, who believed her determination to marry would never waver regardless of country, this dangerous truth—now laid bare for the first time—would surely make her hesitate more than ever before if she noticed it.

“But do you truly believe such things?” “Do you think I would be the one to make a mistake?” As he watched Chizuko speak these words with downcast eyes and a sorrowful expression, Yashiro felt a wave of relief pass through him at the thought that she still hadn’t noticed. Yet if he had to answer earnestly now, the conversation only kept cutting open fresh wounds where none had been expected.

"When I say there's no mistake, I'm speaking about myself, you know." Having said this, Yashiro masked himself with laughter while trying to summon greater force from that ambiguous energy that might erase the dark shadow he'd cast all at once—

“In other words, it’s you who tends to make mistakes.” “Somehow I can’t quite grasp it.” “Everyone thinks this is wrong?” “Such a—” Yashiro felt Chizuko’s deepening doubts flow like water seeking lower ground, each surge driving a nail deeper into his chest. This was surely the inevitable reckoning for always approaching Chizuko with such guarded thoughts—that this moment had to arrive at least once—and Yashiro could only grow still, closing his eyes in resigned acceptance.

“Even though we’re parting tomorrow morning, it’s a problem that things have turned out like this, ah.” Though Yashiro laughed weakly as he spoke, he thought this was truly a sense of utter helplessness, and that it might already be impossible to completely return to how things were before. Chizuko kept her gaze fixed on a single point on the table and remained desolate, but— “When I was leaving, why did you say such a thing again?” “I feel somehow... unpleasant knowing you were always thinking such things.” “Even though every day was so enjoyable—”

“So isn’t that exactly where the problem lies? “I’m the same way myself.”

Now that things had come to this, Yashiro too resolved that the time had come to say everything he had been thinking. “I’ve always been on edge, worrying whether you’d notice such things.” “I don’t think in the slightest that you and I are doing anything particularly wrong for the two of us.” “But no matter what you say, we’re in a foreign country.” “So both you and I are like two people who’ve been banished to an island—even at its broadest, the number of people our hearts truly connect with would be three or four at most.” “If that’s the case, then being kind or quarreling is only natural—like friends in a cage—so when they each return to Japan and become free, I don’t think they’ll remain with the same hearts they had when banished to an island.” “Even if we were to treasure this time when we’re practically forced into exile on an island, once we return, the people around us won’t just leave things as they are.” “So when I think about that—if I don’t leave you more free—a time will surely come when you resent me. In truth, well… imagining only times when you’d be troubled, I ended up speaking of ill-omened things.”

As Yashiro spoke these words, Chizuko's face had already melted into a beaming smile as she listened. "Such things—oh, what a cautious person you are." "I'm truly impressed." "But you are frightening."

As if encountering him anew, Chizuko fell silent once more and pondered for some time before—

“I can’t possibly think like you do.” “I don’t believe I was wrong, but if you truly feel that way, then perhaps nothing I say would make any difference.”

Then, Chizuko—who seemed to have suddenly realized once more that what Yashiro had said was true—remained with dreamlike downcast eyes,

“If you’re always thinking such things, that’s why you’ve become like this.” “But I consider those things in a much simpler way.” “No matter how deeply you ponder them, I think it’s ultimately futile.” “What happened here and what I felt—those are the things I believe will never change most of all.” “I truly believe that.”

“That’s because you’re Catholic.” “That’s where we differ, ah.”

Yashiro, inwardly startled by this new fact that had struck him to the core for the first time, blurted out. However, even this unnecessary act of reigniting the conflict that had begun to subside—he resolved to simply get it over with. “You use Europe as your frame of reference when considering things.” “However, I still use Japan as my frame of reference when considering things.” “I think that’s just something there’s no helping.”

“Then after returning to Japan, what will be different is that you’ll still be the one to change, won’t you?” “My current way of thinking is correct.” “I’m absolutely the one who’s right.” “Even if you change, I don’t think I will.” “I’m certain you’ll be the one to change.” “Anyway, all those things we’ve said are just matters that won’t lead anywhere.” “That’s it.” “The reason I’m being so cautious—”

Even as he said this, to Yashiro their quarrel now seemed a pleasant thing, but when he thought that the woman who had shown him such kindness was none other than Chizuko, his fears about their return home grew all the more worrisome. When considering even that day's events—the struggle between traditionalists and leftists on the Champs-Élysées—it seemed a bloody clash of spirits comparable to Catholicism's conflict with science. He pondered endlessly—if such conflicts arose in the life he and Chizuko might share hereafter, where could they anchor their connected hearts to endure a lifetime together? The more he dwelled on it, the deeper dread took root within him. If their current parting of body and soul were truly final, he thought he might at least indulge fully in whatever enjoyment remained.

Yet Yashiro thought that the reason he now harbored such unnecessary fears was precisely because he found himself in this West, where thoughts like these pressed constantly and relentlessly upon his mind—and one part of it might also stem from the unease lingering immediately after witnessing the events on the Champs-Élysées that afternoon. Or perhaps if one were to return to Japan, whether Catholic or Hokke Buddhist, they would not be considered different at all—with a carefree, unreserved attitude like that of a spirited "Heave-ho!", matters might safely blend into harmony. Then, the most sacred thing for the two of them must also lie in Japan.

“Well, you should go back ahead of me, please.” “It’s not that I doubted you at all—it’s just that I tried to confide a concern we had to address once for our sake. Staying silent would have been riskier than voicing it, wouldn’t you agree?” “I suppose that’s true.” “I still think it was better that you spoke rather than keeping silent.”

Chizuko’s expressions still flowed along with Yashiro’s words, yet even so, her former brightness was gradually fading from her. Chizuko’s listless demeanor—which could also be interpreted as having averted misfortune beforehand rather than being assailed by it later—now began to worry Yashiro as well. Moreover, into Chizuko’s mind, the life lying in wait in Japan—the life they were about to return to—must have already come surging up like a wave. However, no matter what one might say, both would return to our lives, Yashiro thought. Whether it would bring misfortune or happiness—what was there to fear now? As for dreaming—hadn’t we already dreamed all we could here? In that case, those who could return should just hurry back and do so.—

As he thought this, Yashiro too suddenly felt an urge to push Chizuko forward and—

“Come on, I should be going now.” “I can’t keep this up.”

With that, he downed the remaining wine in his glass in one gulp. He stood up and shook Chizuko’s hand firmly, requesting that if he overslept, she wake him with a phone call, “Goodbye.” he said. Chizuko kept her hand extended without returning the grasp and silently watched Yashiro’s face, but when she saw him truly leaving, she hurriedly stood up from behind and—

“Well, goodbye.”

she said simply.

Yashiro stepped out into the dark corridor and came to the elevator. As he waited for the ascending car, Chizuko followed him from behind and stood silently by his side with a pale face. “You’re truly going back, then.” “I’m leaving.”

Yashiro said, watching the movement of the lit elevator indicator’s needle. When the needle approached the fifth floor, Chizuko hunched her shoulders as if cold, “Is it still raining?”

With that, she began to peer outside the windowless corridor for a moment, then looked back at Yashiro. When the elevator car stopped, Yashiro pushed Chizuko’s shoulder.

“You can stop here now. Well, see you.” While gazing at Chizuko’s large eyes glowing in the darkness, Yashiro formed a faint smile and descended. He felt a strangely buoyant sensation—almost maddeningly light—as though something resembling a miracle raged violently within him. Even after leaving the hotel, he walked through the waning drizzle toward Luxembourg Gardens. When he looked up, thinking the light in Chizuko’s fifth-floor window had already gone out, he found it long open with Chizuko peering down at the street below. Yashiro made a hand-pillow gesture meaning “Go to sleep early,” but Chizuko’s shadow-like figure—

“What do you mean by that?” she answered with a tilt of her head that seemed puzzled. To Yashiro, Chizuko’s demeanor appeared to betray a seductive distress, and for a moment he was struck by a paralyzing sensation in his legs—yet through some mechanism he couldn’t comprehend, he broke free of it and turned the street corner while continuing to walk. When Chizuko’s shadow vanished from view for the first time, Yashiro felt a dull ache from severe fatigue spreading from his nape to half his back. As he walked, he experienced an illusion that his right foot stepped forward when it was actually his left, and occasionally switching his footing this way, he made his way to the park’s edge where he leaned against a bench there.

The next morning, Yashiro woke up early but went back to sleep. And then, after dozing off, when he looked at the clock, it was already nearly nine o’clock. Without even drinking coffee, he immediately took a car to Chizuko’s hotel, left the car waiting below, and went up to the fifth floor. Having finished her light makeup, Chizuko was merely waiting for him to arrive.

“I did wake up early, but it was far too early, so I ended up falling back asleep. My apologies.” Yashiro said with a laugh. As if last night’s agonizing decision had been made in anticipation of this morning’s cheerfulness, they shared harmonious, pleasant smiles. Chizuko mentioned having just settled the hotel bill and rejoiced that the weather would likely mean less turbulence over the Dover Strait—amid this flurry of activity, there was not the slightest trace of sorrow left in her. Yashiro went to the window beside the dimly visible Panthéon above a forest veiled in thin mist and pointed to the car below.

“That's the car we've had waiting, so—” “There's still an hour left—what should we do? Shall we go now?” “Let's go.” “We mustn't keep everyone waiting.”

After saying this, Chizuko peered into the wardrobe and checked her reflection in the mirror. Yashiro came out into the hallway with two suitcases in both hands, and the maid rushed over, took them, and descended the stairs with familiar speed. When the two of them had descended to the bottom, the hotel owner greeted Chizuko, wishing her a safe journey and to take care of herself. After starting the car toward the Grands Boulevards, Yashiro—

“How about it? Is there anywhere you’d like to see again? I’ll have the car go that way,” he ventured.

Chizuko answered that she didn’t want to see anywhere other than Luxembourg. As the car began circling along the park’s outer perimeter, Yashiro suddenly felt a loneliness akin to parting from a dying patient he would never see again—his chest tightened. Chizuko too had remained silent during this time, but soon the car emerged onto the slope of Saint-Michel.

“What lovely weather this is.” “I’ve always been lucky, you know.” “The day I arrived was like this too—and today must be the same.” Chizuko laughed and gazed brightly at the mist-veiled streets.

“I hear Parisians don’t do farewells, but we Japanese sure love them. Sending people off, welcoming them back…” “That’s right.” The two of them felt compelled to seek out such meaningless words; otherwise, they would be crushed by the unbearable weight of their emotions, and so they naturally began to guard themselves with unspoken vigilance.

When the car crossed the Seine River, they had already drawn near to the flight hall. At the flight hall, Makiko, Kuji, and Higashino—the three of them—had already arrived and were waiting. “I thought about calling you last night, but after that I went to see a movie.” “You feeling okay?” Kuji asked Yashiro as he stepped out of the car. Despite his expressionless face, there lingered an air of stubborn pride—as if excuses might yet preserve his dignity—and Yashiro, finding no words, stayed silent. As everyone stood chatting with the relief of having reached the flight hall, Higashino—who had detached himself from the group—

“Luggage.” “Luggage.” Higashino reminded Yashiro about the luggage. While carrying the suitcases to the inspection area, Yashiro thought this was more of a pain—and just as he was having them weighed, Shiono arrived. When he saw Higashino, even before greeting everyone,

“I had a rough time yesterday. There was a clash between right-wing and left-wing groups on the Champs-Élysées—I got caught in between, was beaten over and over, and my head still aches,” he recounted, his face flushing crimson in youthful agitation as he told the whole story. Even while speaking, Shiono—as if spotting new subject matter—turned his camera toward the parked bus and Chizuko. When the luggage too had been loaded into the bottom of the airport-bound bus, Kuji said to Chizuko.

“Since this will be your last look at Paris, take it in properly. They say everyone cries when leaving here—have you already cried?” “Me? I’m not crying. I’m Catholic, you know.” Chizuko laughed lightly in a defiant tone that hinted at her innocence from the previous night, then turned hesitantly toward Makiko standing beside her. “It feels like just yesterday we arrived in Marseille with everyone, yet how quickly time passes. But truly—will I never see this place again?”

Chizuko looked around at the surrounding streets. “That depends entirely on your resolve.” And Kuji, unrelenting, jabbed at Chizuko once more.

“Well then, I’ll come again. Once you’ve come once, it somehow feels like you can come again without any difficulty. Once I board the ship’s ladder in Kobe, that will be sufficient.” Makiko and Kuji laughed as if in agreement, but Makiko alone gazed at the sky as though longing to return home, then urged Kuji: “Let’s check the route to Spain on our way back today.” When Shiono approached the three of them, he told Chizuko the airport-bound bus was full and those seeing her off couldn’t board, so he would take his leave there today. He added that when he went to London, he would send his regards to her brother.

“Well, that’s a problem. Then let’s just send Yashiro alone—if it’s one person, there should be space.”

With that, Kuji went over to where the bus driver was. When he returned, he asked Yashiro, "Since they say one person can manage, please go to Bourget as our representative." Yashiro silently checked his watch; it was nearly time for the bus to depart. Passengers who had been unseen until now, wherever they had been, had somehow gathered, and gradually more and more were boarding the bus. "Has Mr. Nakada already departed for Berlin?"

Chizuko asked Shiono.

“He should’ve left early this morning.” “It was too early for me to see him off, but he’d already been weakening since last night after that incident.” “That’s what happens when you’re such a serious scholar.” At Shiono’s casually uttered words, Yashiro and Kuji fell silent for a moment, feeling as though a coalesced sphere had abruptly burst and scattered them apart. Higashino, who had apparently been listening to Shiono’s story from behind, approached Kuji with a laugh and—

“You were beaten up yesterday, I hear?” Higashino asked. Kuji looked at Higashino with an irritated expression but raised his usual competitive, sharp eyebrows. “What? Just a bit,” he said reluctantly. “But he had a nosebleed. A terrible one,” Makiko interjected from beside them, oblivious to Kuji’s discomfort. At that moment—as the standing conversation took on an unexpected pallor from Kuji’s anguished tension, perceptible only to Yashiro—

“Well then, shall we board?”

Yashiro urged Chizuko to hurry.

“Well then, everyone—thank you very much indeed.” Chizuko bowed to everyone. She bowed again to those gathered at the bus entrance calling “Goodbye” in unison, then boarded. Yashiro followed. He took a seat away from the window and turned his face aside, but the lingering image of Kuji and Makiko’s petty disagreement made him vaguely think that before long, those two would part ways. Soon the bus began moving, leaving the group behind. The two sat silent for a time, swaying with the motion, until—

“It’s nice that Mrs. Makiko and the others are going to Spain, isn’t it?”

Chizuko suddenly seemed to notice Yashiro beside her and turned toward him to say, Yashiro nodded, thinking he too would like to go to Spain.

“With Kuji being what he is—he’s never left Paris before, you see. Since he’s convinced leaving Paris would mean losing out, this Spain trip might actually be good for him.” After saying this, Yashiro was about to comment that even Makiko and Kuji’s seemingly smooth affair wasn’t truly simple when it suddenly struck him that he and Chizuko themselves still hadn’t figured out where they stood. As the urban landscape transitioned to suburbs and the sky stretched wide ahead, the thin haze gradually lifted. To Yashiro, the sky felt unnervingly different today—a desolate expanse offering no support. This was the same cherished sky that had faithfully followed his gaze through all his distant travels, yet now it appeared dyed in a profound, muted hue that silenced all sound—an abyss impossible to measure, threatening to plunge him down at any moment.

“Even now, some horse chestnut trees are shedding their leaves, but by the time we return to Japan, the ears of rice will already be drooping.” “That’s true, but please don’t stay in Berlin too long.”

“I don’t really want to stay abroad anymore.” “Even if it were a truly wonderful place, I would still find myself thinking about it.” Airport buses everywhere were weighed down by a kind of leaden silence among passengers—perhaps compounded by the trepidation of abandoning human instinct to take flight into the sky—and Chizuko too would speak a word and fall silent, then murmur something as if suddenly remembering only to lapse into quiet again. Yashiro thought that since he was the only one returning today, he must be feeling rather carefree and detached from the other guests now—yet even so, considering that Chizuko had come by plane from London and now proposed to return the same way, he wondered if this might stem from Catholics’ inherent longing for heaven, and found himself pondering again the inscrutable fastidiousness she always displayed.

When they arrived at Bourget, there was still thirty minutes until departure time. Compared to when Yashiro had come to pick up Chizuko last time—perhaps because the lawn’s green had deepened—the house’s eggshell color appeared even more vivid. Yashiro bought a sandwich and chocolate, had Chizuko hold them, then stood before the wall-mounted route map. “When I came to pick you up before, seeing this suddenly made me want to return to Japan,” he said. “It only takes a week to fly to Annam now.”

After saying this, as Yashiro thought about perhaps taking a plane to Berlin himself and imagined himself unexpectedly returning to Japan before Chizuko, a plane that seemed to have come from London landed on the lawn. “Oh, right! I almost forgot.” “You bought a camera in Tyrol, didn’t you?” “Since that was what you promised to give me when we parted, I’ve already put it away in my luggage.” “Please give me that, won’t you?”

Chizuko blushed and tilted her head slightly in a pleading manner. “Ah, such a thing did happen.” Yashiro laughed. On the night they crossed the Tyrolean glacier, when they slept in the deep hay of a mountain hut, Yashiro recalled the sleepless discomfort of that night—how Chizuko, lying awake, would shift her body, sending tremors through the hay to where he lay apart from her, swaying and creaking until he awoke. Such things would never happen again. And thinking this, he felt that his youth too might now be taking flight for the last time at this very moment, and suddenly, as he watched the figures of people coming and going hurriedly around him, he came to keenly feel the swiftness of time’s passing.

“It must be time.”

When Yashiro looked up at his watch and spoke, Chizuko also, as if startled,

“Is that right?” She looked up at the wall. Passengers could be seen descending to the lawn. Because the well-wishers could not leave the waiting room, the two were still standing facing each other. The passengers’ luggage also seemed to be in the process of being loaded onto the airplane. While suppressing her distracted demeanor as she stood to leave, Chizuko— “My brother told me to go to Florence, but I couldn’t go in the end.” “But with such a short time, it’s impossible—I just end up not wanting to go anywhere.”

While they were saying such things, the door of the silver Air France-marked plane opened, and upon seeing the passengers already boarding inside, Chizuko suddenly changed her complexion and tucked her handbag under her arm. Staring into Yashiro’s eyes, “Well, I’ll be going now. Farewell.”

she said. “Goodbye.” Caught off guard by the abrupt farewell, Yashiro could only manage a faint “Goodbye” in return. After shaking hands, Chizuko walked off toward the lawn, but upon turning back once more, she resumed her usual smile and walked with light steps. When the three propellers began spinning one after another, Chizuko stepped onto the plane’s foothold and waved toward Yashiro again. Yashiro felt a dazzling sensation that seemed to constrict toward the doorway in an instant, and as Chizuko disappeared inside, the aircraft—now taking shape clearly within the lawn—came into view for the first time as a single bird. Chizuko was waving something like a glove while peering out from the window near the top of the wing, but both the window and her face appeared no more than tiny specks. Yashiro’s tension slackened as he raised his hand with a hollow lack of resistance.

The aircraft suddenly spewed milky smoke onto the grass. And as a tremendous roar sounded and the door closed, Yashiro kept waving his hand vigorously, feeling blood surge violently to his head.

And then almost immediately, the aircraft glided along the ground and soared upward. Chizuko kept waving only her yellow glove from the window for what felt like an eternity. Yet in the blink of an eye, it changed direction and climbed high into the sky—the moment it became a mere speck, all that remained for Yashiro was an empty expanse of sky quietly turning blue.

“Is that truly all there is to that sky?”

After staring blankly for a while—as much as he’d thought—Yashiro found the sky lying still in its vividly French emptiness. With the sensation of endlessly hearing aimless bubbles dissolve, he sat alone on a café chair in the corner of the waiting room and waited for his coffee to arrive.

In Paris, where people seemed customarily to scatter abruptly to summer retreats once Bastille Day ended, their numbers had indeed visibly dwindled. Two days after Chizuko's return, Kuji and Makiko too departed for Spain via Marseille. Left alone, Yashiro wandered all day through the Bois de Boulogne from morning onward, unable to handle his idle hours. At times like some carefree drifter, he would go about viewing carvings on gateposts of renowned old buildings or inspecting paintings he had previously missed. Even during these wanderings, should he chance to look up at the sky, he would suddenly remember Chizuko and feel such loneliness as though his very breath were being sucked into that void—yet upon reminding himself all things belonged to the past now, he would resume his clattering walk between stones. Before long, whether the sculptures he examined were masterful or the paintings exquisite, he found himself feeling no interest whatsoever. On one such occasion when his fingers idly turned an armrest dial they'd brushed against in the car, Bach's concerto suddenly began playing. Yashiro kept driving until the music ceased throughout which time he felt Chizuko vividly beside him—whispering animatedly then drawing near with endless caresses and laughter that only deepened his surrounding desolation.

One Sunday evening, Yashiro, exhausted from walking, returned toward the dining area. Then, he encountered Higashino sitting alone on a bench in the deserted street, gazing fixedly at the temple ahead. As he gradually approached, behind Higashino, four or five boys straddled the back of the bench—one leg draped from his shoulder to chest—racing toy cars along the brim of Higashino’s hat while—

“Red, go! Black, go!” they kept saying as they raced them around. Higashino held a child’s side with one hand to keep them from falling, yet remained motionless, continuing to gaze at the stream of elderly women in black clothes emerging from the temple gate. When Yashiro stood watching silently for a while, he noticed the miniature cars the children were spinning were Japanese-made ones commonly seen at Ginza night stalls. “Where are they from? This child.” Yashiro suddenly asked and sat down beside Higashino.

“Where are these children from? Since they seem about the same age as my own kid back home, I tried playing with them—but these brats seem to be laughing at me like I’m some sort of savage.” “They haven’t even seen my face yet.” Higashino said this with a laugh, grabbing the child’s leg that dangled over his chest. He wrapped one hand from between the child’s thighs to their back, pressing with his fingertips as if testing a cut of beef— “This child’s flesh is remarkably tough.” “If things keep up like this, I tell you, France will still be just fine.”

he said. The children did not even try to look at the two men and continued racing their cars atop Higashino’s head.

“Red, go! There, go!”

and continued saying things like that while diligently spinning the toy cars around. The procession of elderly women emerging from the temple ahead still continued, but not a single one of those returning home through the twilight had a smiling face.

After a while, Yashiro felt hungry and tried inviting Higashino to eat. Higashino didn’t move, seeming reluctant to let the children’s racetrack on his head fall apart. “Boys, it’s time for dinner. Come down now, alright?” he said in fatherly Japanese from below. But the children, apparently not hearing him, kept pressing down on Higashino’s head with one hand in their absorption. When Yashiro suddenly turned to look behind him, his eyes met those of a woman who seemed to be the children’s mother standing at the alley entrance, watching them intently. The woman, who appeared to have been hesitating since earlier about whether to call her children, continued standing there with a modest, beautiful smile while gazing toward Higashino.

“Alright, let’s go.” “Up we go.” After Higashino lifted the child and set them down, “Summer in Paris is nice when it’s filled with nothing but poor people, isn’t it? You can stretch out freely and take your time. It’s a Pure Land paradise.” While saying this, he gazed around at the twilight scenery with evident pleasure and walked side by side with Yashiro toward the dining area.

Around the time when they were about to reach the border town of Manzhouli in three or four hours, Yashiro grew slightly drowsy. Having prepared to disembark from the train at any moment and now dressed only in his removed jacket, he climbed back onto the berth. The berth in this train was so high that it felt like climbing up. There had been times in the middle of the night when he woke up, nearly thrown off by the vibrations. It had been a journey of roughly ten days traveling through Siberia. Ten days of life inside a train moving ceaselessly in the same direction had brought not so much boredom as a complete distortion of time’s normal flow—a prolonged paralysis, as though some aberrant entity that had taken root in his mind was now draining his bodily sensations, growing fat on them. No sooner had he thought he had just woken up in the morning than the evening sun was already streaming through the window. While he was lost in thought, convinced this couldn’t be right, outside the window had turned dark. Even when he took out his watch, the clocks in this area remained set to Moscow time—nine in the morning on the dial actually corresponded to around four in the afternoon in reality. Constantly calculating this discrepancy between fact and clock only made his weary head ache even more, which was thoroughly bothersome.

Even so, Yashiro would sometimes make an effort to recall the ten days of his Siberian journey. Then, strangely enough, though there was nothing one could call an impression, he found himself surprised again. Only a vast expanse of grass bathed in sunlight stretched before him—a horizon running straight as an ocean’s surface, continuing all the way from Poland. This was not what one could call scenery. They were days that seemed to trace some infinite line drawn by God’s hand—something like the Earth’s very torso. In the beginning, Yashiro had repeatedly exclaimed in awe at heaven and earth’s eternal visage, but after crossing the Urals, their growing monotony gradually became unbearable; he left that realm entirely to nature’s course while humans began craving willful antics of their own.

“Ah, whether it’s vast or not—it’s not even worth discussing.”

Yashiro’s roommate Minami, a good-natured trade merchant, having apparently run out of things to say, would occasionally make such remarks. When Yashiro considered that this sigh came from Minami—who had long resided in Argentina and should have known the vastness of the Americas—he felt his own intense astonishment had been thoroughly justified. In the neighboring compartment was a French antique dealer heading from Paris to Beijing; next to that were two Nazi diplomats traveling from Berlin to Tokyo; following them was a Chinese youth around twenty years old and his French mother—these were the ones who always formed a group chatting in the corridor, naturally becoming train companions. Separate from these groups was a pair of American newlyweds who carried themselves as if wanting to inhabit another world, remaining aloof from conversations and making no effort to join others. However, due to the abrupt transition from Western cultural cities into the vast plains’ monotony, everyone—Yashiro included—seemed at a loss for how to comport themselves. Minami, accustomed to foreigners, would chatter amiably among these bored companions with an ingratiating smile, heedless of social distinctions, then return to reticent Yashiro’s side to regale him with tales of their backgrounds—so even without particular interest, Yashiro gradually learned everyone’s travel purposes. Though a merchant by trade, Minami carried an air of valuing gentlemanly conduct above all else—he himself seemed to have spent years mastering etiquette to avoid being outdone—yet his innate Oriental carelessness peeked through propriety’s seams, endowing him with an unburdened cheerfulness whose perpetually exposed edges went unnoticed. This very quality lulled foreigners into complacency while sparking laughter, thus naturally smothering the plains’ tedium.

“I passed through here once about ten years ago.” “It was snowing at the time.” “Back then I had some twenty trunks with me, so changing trains was a real ordeal—a real ordeal.” Even when saying such things, Minami didn’t appear troubled; rather, the comical aspect came through first, making Yashiro laugh despite himself. “So even though you’d been through here before, you still found it astonishing now?”

"I’ve already forgotten about that time, you know." "Back then it was nothing but snow—I never even looked outside." "But this time, I was properly astonished, I tell you." At a time when anyone who’d passed through here once should’ve found it impossible to forget such vast scenery in their lifetime, Yashiro could no longer fathom what filled Minami’s mind. During ten years abroad, something had become so chaotically crammed inside him that even Siberia had been pushed out—Yashiro felt certain this turmoil now swarmed thick within Minami’s thoughts.

But come to think of it, even Yashiro was now in a state of disarray. He no longer had any energy left to think, barely managing to bear the weight of all he had witnessed. He left Paris at the end of July, and during the month he spent in Berlin afterward, he also flew to Italy for various reasons. During that time, Chizuko—who was traveling around America—sent about three letters, but Yashiro had no way to send letters back to her while her lodgings remained unsettled. In Berlin, he became acquainted with many new Japanese people. In time, there were not a few occasions when he encountered those who had come on the same ship as far as Marseille. As new acquaintances formed, the faces of those he had known in Paris grew distant—a reality before his eyes that echoed the adage “out of sight, out of mind.” Yet Chizuko, Kuji, and Makiko alone remained vivid to Yashiro with the intimacy of those who had shared meals from the same hearth; when he lay down to sleep, their images often surfaced in his mind. However, generally speaking, even the events in Paris came to feel more like things of days gone by as his journey progressed. It was like a natural force that no human effort could withstand. The power of forgetfulness that a year of estrangement in Japan had held now became a merciless natural force occurring here in two or three days—piercing through his flesh and accumulating an unknowable fatigue in both body and mind. And before that fatigue could heal, the next wave of exhaustion would already strike—so it went until before he knew it, fatigue begot fatigue, and the initial accumulated weariness was forgotten, leaving him stiff and hardened. It was at such a time that Minami—a jovial man past fifty—appeared as Yashiro’s last acquaintance abroad, leading him to consider this final journey assigned by chance a stroke of luck.

“I may be this sort of person, but since I’ll be returning to Japan for good now, please be kind—after all, it’s just the two of us Japanese here, you see.” “Well then, after I put away my luggage, we can take our time—after all, it’s a long journey.” At the very moment Yashiro’s international train began moving from Berlin’s Zoo Station, Minami knocked on the door and entered without introduction, suddenly beaming as he spoke these words—his first greeting to Yashiro. When abroad, one becomes most anxious about initial greetings, and there are constant instances of glaring at each other over trivial matters—so intense that those back home cannot possibly imagine.

What an amusing fellow has shown up, Yashiro thought at that moment. And he too began handling the luggage he would need for the long ten-odd days of train life ahead. When the luggage had been organized, Minami came to Yashiro’s room again. This time, in a relaxed manner, he started talking unprompted about everything—from South American stories to his return to Japan to visit his sick child. However, mid-conversation, Minami suddenly made a puzzled face and said.

“Well, something strange has happened. Yesterday, I was asked by T Agency to take a film reel back to Japan, so I said ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ and accepted the task.” “But when I looked at what had been brought to my room just now, it wasn’t T Agency’s—it was A Agency’s.” “Even though I’ve never been asked by A Agency, I’m wondering how this happened.” “Hmm, that’s strange.”

Before even hearing half of it, Yashiro thought Minami’s bewilderment was entirely justified. In fact, Yashiro had also been entrusted with a film by T Agency—which sat on the shelf—so it turned out he was actually holding the physical reel Minami had been asked to carry.

“The one from T Agency is with me,” Yashiro said with a laugh. “Huh, you’re—then what on earth is mine?”

Since it was a day when four days still remained in the Berlin Olympic Games—a time when no one would be returning to Japan midway—the news agencies were all desperately vying to entrust passengers on the Siberia route with premiere film reels bound for Japan. Particularly as the film Yashiro carried captured the marathon, it was the most crucial one. Moreover, since the race to premiere these films first was generally seen as demonstrating each agency's capabilities, passengers too found themselves swayed by the newspapers' zeal and inevitably pulled into the two rival agencies' fierce competition. Thus before they knew it, Yashiro and Minami had both been cast as adversaries aboard the same train.

“However, I was indeed asked by T Agency.” “Because I even received a letter, it should be T Agency’s.” Minami tilted his head slightly with a puzzled look and sank into thought. “Then they must have brought it in seeing you as the only Japanese person available.” “That might be the case.” “Ah well, whatever.” “I’ll take it back for them.”

After saying this casually, Minami suddenly thrust his head toward Yashiro and lowered his voice. “How about it? “Let’s secretly swap your film with mine.” “Huh?” “This’ll be fun!” “Then...”

Because the jest seemed too crude for Minami's character, Yashiro silently looked up at him, whereupon Minami thrust his head forward again. "Hey, let's swap them." "Wouldn't that be more interesting?" His expression showed unexpected eagerness for a mere joke. "There's no way we could actually do that."

“Why is that?” Appearing to sense doubt in Yashiro’s failure to agree, Minami’s expression turned serious for an instant.

“Why? There’s no particular reason.” Yashiro merely laughed, thinking it would only lead to futile efforts and subsequent complications, but this man seemed so determined to carry the film he had been entrusted with that his belief in being T Agency’s courier persisted throughout the entire train journey.

Until they entered the Soviet Union from Poland, the two of them had separate rooms and thus had not grown particularly close. However, once they changed trains at the Soviet border and boarded the Siberia-bound train, they became roommates—sleeping and waking together, sharing meals, and engaging in constant conversation in identical fashion. Even during their four-hour stopover in Moscow, Minami unhesitatingly boarded the sightseeing car sent by T Agency and toured the city with natural ease, as if it were only expected. Yashiro refrained from formally introducing Minami to the T Agency correspondent who had come to meet them, instead acting alongside him as another courier entrusted with the agency’s film. Moreover, the correspondent’s wife—a kind woman—rose from her sickbed despite suffering a cold and even prepared sushi specifically for them to eat on the train.

The kindness received during travels was something a traveler found hard to forget, but even Minami, having been treated so generously, seemed reluctant to let others learn the nature of the film he carried. In truth, sensing Minami’s inner conflict as he transported something contrary to his own intentions, Yashiro couldn’t help but sympathize with his troubled air. Yet whenever he saw the A Agency film lying like an abandoned child, that too weighed on him—Minami appeared determined to nurture it until its claimant appeared. Whenever boredom struck, he would take the film from its round canister and hold it up to the window, peering through it,

“Hmm, this is quite interesting.” “Here, take a look at this.” “It’s really quite something, you know.” With that, he urged Yashiro to take a look together.

“I saw the Olympics too, you know. Competition is just... Even that film—once we reach Manchuria Station, it’ll be another race against T Agency from there. Everything’s a competition these days.” Yashiro was by nature someone who disliked competition regardless of what it was about. Even regarding the marathon film he had been entrusted with by T Agency，the thought that it was a competition with A Agency brought him no joy；yet since even in Siberia there was effectively no competition，he wanted to escape the rivalry，if only for this current period when there was no need for it. Yashiro’s aversion to competition was such that even during a certain incident in Paris that nearly arose between him and Kuji over Chizuko，he had voluntarily withdrawn himself. The only time he had ever engaged in anything resembling competition abroad was the memory of when he and Kuji had circled around Chizuko.

At any rate, if only for these ten days in Siberia, Yashiro wanted to forget everything else as much as he possibly could. At such times, when he awoke abruptly in the morning and noticed the competition film on the shelf, the breath of reality would suddenly strike his face from that corner, and he hurriedly averted his gaze. In reality, Yashiro was now trying hard to forget even Chizuko. It was not just Chizuko alone—he wanted to erase everything he had seen in Europe from his mind as well, if possible. He himself didn’t quite understand why this was, but upon reflection, it seemed to stem from Japan beginning to appear as an island that was far too small. Whenever he thought of Japan and it began to appear so small, Yashiro—careful not to be overheard by anyone—whispered softly to himself in the depths of his heart: homeland. Then, from around his torso, a trembling excitement faintly ran down his back.

However, once again he—after returning to Japan and standing before others— homeland.

He immediately sensed that if he carelessly referred to Japan with such grand appellations, people would instantly brand him a fool and attack him as a matter of custom. Nor was it just others—he felt he himself had once been such a person. But when on earth had it happened, and who could have made it so? Yashiro faced the Soviet plain visible from the window and whispered inwardly at such times. "Hey you—you know that all too well." "Who's the one who made it this way?" "I believe that before long, people of every nation—just as I tell you—will inevitably speak out, every last one of them." "What have you done with my country's fine traditions?" "You can't just leave it unsaid, can you?"

There, from the Polish border onward, passengers had been prohibited from taking photographs all along. At night, they were not permitted to raise the blinds lowered over the windows to look outside, and an attendant was especially stationed as a monitor in front of Yashiro and his companions' room where the Japanese were staying, keeping his ears pricked all night to what was happening inside. However, even such things had ceased to feel bothersome to Yashiro and his companions. The sole hope became wanting to catch the scent of Japan as soon as possible, and when he thought that this too was now looming right before his eyes, he found he could endure any boredom or confinement. In contrast, he could clearly see that as Japan drew nearer, the foreigners' expressions grew more forlorn and their energy waned day by day. When traveling by ship, it had been a crowd of foreigners whose vigor increased as they approached Marseille; now, seeing them instead grow weaker, Yashiro recalled how the Japanese travelers had similarly withered and waned back when they had first entered the Mediterranean.

Minami saw the thin leather briefcase—about two shaku in size—that the Nazi diplomat always carried with him without fail, even taking it along when walking to the dining car,

“What is that?” he had once asked. “This is something precious, precious for Japan.” One of the diplomats answered with a laugh. A rope-like hope that sought to connect and move nations—though he couldn’t tell in which direction or how strongly it was being pulled—seeing something like this briefcase simply coming and going as it pleased gave Yashiro a peculiar sensation. Precisely because every country was desperate to glimpse the aspirations contained within that briefcase, whenever it brushed against trousers while passing through the narrow corridor, Yashiro instinctively tensed. In the neighboring room, even at night, the two diplomats took turns—one sleeping while the other kept watch over the briefcase. Their painstaking vigil made the secret’s gravity all too apparent. Given this was a rope binding Germany and Japan across Soviet territory, the progress of this single train car must have been a source of constricting anxiety for the Soviets. Yet he thought humans were no different—all moved by the desire to fulfill hope. Even if it should end as illusion.

—— That Yashiro had thought this way was partly because hopes and illusions had intermingled and assailed him as well. When he thought about all the things he needed to do after returning to Japan—studying, carrying out plans, and so on—the things he wanted to do kept endlessly welling up without cease. However, among all these, the one thing that made him anxious was the prospect of marrying Chizuko. This anxiety had clung to him without release even when he was in Paris with Chizuko, and now it only grew deeper with each passing day.

“After returning to Japan, it’s definitely you who will change.” “Even if you change, I don’t think I will.” “I’m certain it’s you who will change.” After their parting, Yashiro would often murmur those very words Chizuko had spoken. Yet even that voice which had resonated with such earnestness during their farewell now carried an empty current. It was the sort of poetic sentiment anyone might casually utter once while adopting an expression brimming with vow-bound pathos—yet being spoken aloud more often bred suffering than joy. This did not mean Yashiro had ceased trusting Chizuko. Nor did the letter from her that had arrived via America betray the expression she had worn at their parting. The stationery—patterned with two lobster-hued lions entwined, likely brought from a Normandy cabin—bore cheerful accounts of New York’s dockscapes, shipboard acquaintances, and idle travel observations, yet contained nothing specifically disheartening. If anything, the brightness suffusing its text struck him as superficial; were he to voice his greed, he might have wished for just a tinge more sorrow. But Yashiro thought this way precisely because her parents’ opposition to their marriage seemed nine-tenths certain—visibly clear. The prospect of returning home to stage an inquisition-like reunion—seizing those floating words spoken by a daughter’s heart under foreign skies and pressing them into vows—proved unbearable. By certain reckonings, it would cease being about affection altogether—a reunion verging on coercion that might transform into callousness.

“When you’re in a foreign country, after all, there are so many mistakes in what you say and do.”

And Yashiro had admonished Chizuko then as well: “Everyone calling this a mistake—that sort of thing—you always thinking that way… somehow, it feels so unpleasant.” “Every day was so much fun—” Chizuko had answered him and then suddenly grown subdued—this too Yashiro found himself recalling. The subdued Chizuko of that time must have surely thought—even when finally meeting him after returning—with downcast eyelids shadowed just as they had been then. Nor was it unthinkable to Yashiro now—the words of caution her mother might have given her daughter more than once, observing with a discerning eye from the sidelines as numerous marriage prospects far better than himself pursued Chizuko. However, if preserving the illusion of how they had felt while they were here was what mattered, he thought it would be better for both of them not to meet upon returning rather than to reunite. To return into the unyielding facts shaping Japan’s core—status, social standing, wealth, lineage, family traditions—and still continue concealing and sustaining their shared illusion, they would need to change nimbly now, for not meeting would preserve constancy more than reuniting. ——If they were to honor their promise and boldly meet again——by then it would no longer be a foreign land; like Urashima Taro with awakened eyes, they would gaze upon each other’s forms and surely wonder: Were these truly the two who had been in Paris?

——

This line of thought always tormented Yashiro. That change was constancy, and that constancy was change—this preparation of mind, as Japan drew nearer, making such philosophical preparations at least once was in fact necessary for Yashiro in this situation. Whether he could do so or not was beside the point—waiting for the day when they would come to pity each other was unpleasant. When he actually considered why they would end up pitying each other—when he thought how this irrationality too would cruelly strike them—it made it all the more vexing for Yashiro. When this vexation grew more intense, even during his time in Berlin, on such nights he found sleep impossible.

However, no matter what he might say, Chizuko must have already arrived in Japan. Even counting on his fingers, Chizuko’s ship had likely reached Yokohama some ten days earlier.

“I can’t seem to fall asleep.”

Yashiro peered down from the upper berth at Minami’s face lying on the lower berth that extended at a right angle and tried to speak. “There’s no time left to sleep.” “We’ll reach the border soon.” Minami, lying deep below, answered with a smile. When he thought that he would soon breathe Japanese air, Yashiro felt unease rising in his chest. The train crossing the plains—which had always seemed to him perpetually halted, never moving from the same spot day after day—had in fact been traveling at considerable speed all along, he finally felt he understood only now. Feeling a rapid palpitation as if he had drunk strong tea on an empty stomach, Yashiro sat up repeatedly. Yet helplessly, he fell back onto his back each time.

If he crossed the border into Japan, he would become a Japanese of unparalleled sincerity—Yashiro found himself abruptly thinking this. He momentarily considered what he must do to achieve this, but it quickly ceased to be a concern, replaced by an intense urge to slip across to the other side of the border as soon as possible. The faces of Kuji, Higashino, and Shiono kept surfacing and vanishing. They were all people who were supposed to return to Japan around the same time as him, yet for some reason he now felt no desire to meet even these acquaintances.

“When I think it’s finally happening, I feel a bit strange.”

Yashiro said to Minami after a pause. “This border crossing is the most troublesome.” “Once we cross here, it’s just an hour to Manchuria, so we’ll be fine.” Yashiro had crossed many borders before, but this time he found himself resembling a horse kept under strict surveillance—its eyes blindfolded—and wondered whether there was any transgression he had wearily forgotten. If there was even a single mistake—especially given the rumors he had heard about people being taken to unknown places—the darkness beyond the dim room appeared as countless watchful eyes. With an oppressive weight that immobilized him, a quiet eeriness—as if death itself wandered nearby—seeped through the door. Yashiro thought that if he were someone with ideological ties to the Soviets, he might instead feel the opposite. Letting his body be carried by the train as though lying in a hearse, he realized nothing revealed one’s true self more than this border with his homeland, relentlessly approaching. It was like light striking a prism’s surface—only through refraction does one finally discern where their own light originates. Lying there, Yashiro thought he resembled such refracted light. And he felt keenly that he was now returning toward that source.

Perhaps because this sensation was so strong, he naturally recalled the figure of Chizuko, the Catholic, offering a prayer when they parted. The figure of Chizuko had surfaced in his thoughts countless times before, but now her praying form struck him with an inexplicable dissonance—like gears clashing and grating—leaving Yashiro troubled.

“What I thought and did there is what I believe will remain most unchanged.” “I truly believe that.” It had been an offhand remark Chizuko made at the time, but Yashiro grew unsettled by her voice—filled with a light different from the luminous source he sought. Things he had previously dismissed without much thought now suddenly lodged themselves in his mind as he neared the border, accompanied by a swelling premonition that left him troubled.

“That’s because you’re Catholic.” “That’s where I differ from you, huh.” Yashiro recalled having said those same words to Chizuko back then and tried now, too, to laugh them off as he had then—but as the anxiety swelled with something fierce that laughter could not placate, and as the dense, swirling smoke of doubts he had unwittingly whirled up billowed around him, he found himself wanting to wave both hands to suppress it all and strove instead to fix his mind upon the singular point of the border. However, merely ensuring his body passed safely through the border was not enough—the urge to have his spirit pass through as well restlessly persisted without cease.

Ah, difficult things had come. And yet they were all things that came every day—Yashiro thought, and once more, the image of the grand torii of Ise that he would conjure up in times of trouble naturally rose before his eyes.

“This train’s running about ten hours late, so by now everyone in Manchuria must’ve grown weary from waiting,” Minami said with a laugh, perhaps recalling the film’s recipient.

“The joints of an international train really do shift significantly, don’t they. Ten hours…” “Ten hours…” “Since we’re experiencing two instances of the same date around here, Mr. Yashiro, if you don’t adjust the dates properly now, you’ll end up making mistakes with the telegrams in Manchuria.”

It was only after being cautioned by Minami that Yashiro first gave thought to the matter of the date. He, with his habitual forgetfulness of dates, had never considered the possibility of the same day occurring twice—yet even so, he found himself impressed by how quintessentially Japanese it was for Minami, who appeared so carefree and casual, to remember only what was necessary.

Perhaps Japanese people were just fine as they were. Though the way of speaking was fumbling and awkward, Yashiro thought that with Minami there, even all the foreigners in the train car had settled down peacefully. There was nothing particularly attention-grabbing about it, nor anything rational or vivid in his gestures.

He was short, with protruding teeth and a slightly plump build; his thick lips were always parted and wet with saliva. Despite this, he had a fatherly balance about him, and with only his gentle, round eyes filled with laughter, Minami—more reliably than anyone else—filled the gaps that arose among the gathered people as he flowed along with the train.

Even while lying down, Yashiro found Minami’s gentle ordinariness—which had always been present below—suddenly becoming interesting from this moment on. If borders were like Minami, they wouldn’t appear particularly strict, and people would likely be allowed to pass through just as they were. Before long, the train came to a stop without any indication of when it would halt. The darkness was so profound that one could scarcely imagine there being a station anywhere nearby. When Yashiro and Minami still had not gotten down from their berths, a porter came, knocked on the door, and said they had arrived at the border and should take their luggage to disembark. Yashiro felt all his previous fantasies crumble before the severity of the impending reality. After finishing his preparations and stepping out into the corridor, he saw the foreigners from the neighboring compartment—all with sleepy faces—descending from the car one by one, their luggage in hand. A low wooden roof stood alone in a depression beside the rails. As they descended the slope, looking down as if stepping on that roof, the white breaths exhaled from everyone’s mouths already stood out conspicuously.

The quiet Soviet officers from the same car who had often faced Yashiro in the dining car adjusted their waist pistols with tense expressions of having finally reached their deployment site and disappeared from the station into darkness. When he realized all their duties here were being performed to defend against Japan, Yashiro recalled anew how conscientiously upright these officers had always behaved in the dining car.

After descending to the waiting room, the passengers placed their luggage on a crude table worn smooth with only its grain raised and were made to line up in a row. From the sparsely populated waiting room, only the darkness outside could be seen, and a thin mist swirled around the dim electric light. The luggage inspection showed no sign of starting anytime soon. From the cold that made him want to turn up his collar, Yashiro occasionally shuddered. With hemp ropes unraveled and tangled over floors stained black with oil, the waiting room—which at first glance resembled a factory office—maintained a simplicity befitting the Soviets.

As it was late at night，an inspector—who seemed to have been sleeping somewhere—appeared belatedly while exhaling white breath，and at last the luggage inspection began．The two young inspectors，who appeared to have just graduated middle school，bore the look of honest，good-natured men．Yet their manner—striving to maintain dignity through silence—stood out youthfully tense amid the detached expressions of the adult passengers lining up．The passed luggage was marked with a strong cross in white chalk．When entering the Soviet Union at that border，prohibited items had been submitted and sealed，but inspecting whether passengers had opened and used them en route proved time-consuming．Then，from Minami’s luggage，one unsealed pair of binoculars flew out．

“What’s this?” The inspector’s examination halted abruptly there. The two lenses of the seized binoculars surveyed the surroundings with an eerie glow. This was not merely about losing the binoculars—it was what might lead to Minami being taken away. Amid the uncanny tension that silenced everyone, Minami’s expression transformed into one of utter fluster, completely unanticipated. Then, in halting English that refused to flow smoothly, “Oh—I just forgot about this! I’d put it at the bottom of my luggage... It’s a souvenir I bought in Berlin.”

He stammered out an explanation. The oversight of having forgotten to seal the binoculars—the most suspicious piece of equipment in anyone’s eyes—was far too reckless as an error. However, in the end, Minami’s bumbling blunder—having forgotten something so obvious anyone might notice—seemed instead to have dispelled the inspector’s suspicions. The inspector softened his expression, returned even the binoculars to Minami, and effortlessly let the luggage through. “Thank you, thank you.”

Beside Minami, who was flusteredly stuffing his disheveled luggage into his suitcase with a relaxed expression, it became Yashiro’s turn next. His was cleared without any issues. Next was a Nazi diplomat. This time, his luggage was cleared, but when he showed the money from his inner pocket, he presented two Japanese 100-yen notes not listed in his passport. “I’ll keep this in custody.” The inspector casually confiscated the paper currency. At this, the German also seemed surprised; after being dazed for a moment, he became flustered,

“That’s money I’ll require immediately upon reaching Tokyo. Please return it,” he said, extending his hand. “But it hasn’t been declared,” replied the inspector. “Regulations prohibit returning undeclared funds.” Without so much as glancing at the German’s face, the inspector briskly turned to examine the next piece of luggage.

“Since it’s Japanese currency, I thought there was no need to declare it, so I stored it away very carefully.” “Please return it.” “Please, please.”

The diplomat gradually extended his hand toward the banknotes and pleaded in a gentle voice. “Not permitted.” “Please, please,” the German repeated and pressed.

“How many days will you stay in Tokyo?” asked the inspector. “Two weeks.” “Then I’ll return it when you pass through here on your way back.” The diplomat’s pleading demeanor gradually hardened into a severe expression before falling silent. Then, suddenly arching his chest back, he slammed his clenched fist onto the table with a thud. “Then I don’t want it anymore! You’d better remember this. I’ll repay this favor without fail.”

The German spat out his words in a high-pitched, insistent voice that piled one demand upon another, but the young inspector appeared to no longer be paying him any mind. It was a time when diplomatic relations between the Soviet Union and Germany had become strained. Even though the inspector who followed the regulations was correct, the German’s anger—having honestly disclosed money that could have stayed hidden only to have it confiscated—was also justified.

The dispute arising from insufficient consideration of the emotional context of the time and circumstances was undoubtedly ceasing to be a personal matter from that point onward.

As those who had completed the inspection began entering the train one after another, luggage in hand, Yashiro returned to his compartment with Minami. "Oh man, what an ordeal," "I never imagined the binoculars would jump out from there like that." "I was careless." Minami reopened his luggage and pulled out the binoculars, fiddling with them while wearing an expression that seemed to say, "So you're what caused all that commotion."

“But it’s remarkable they let it pass.” “Your face told the whole story then.” “That moment was something else.” Yashiro felt a faint urge to tease him as he said this, peering through the binoculars. The lenses that had cast a sinister gleam while surveying their surroundings were now just ordinary binoculars. “Well, just one more hour left now.”

Minami took off his jacket again and lay down on the berth. Yashiro felt his head spinning wildly from fatigue. He did not climb up to the upper berth and remained below smoking, but once he realized all his worries had now vanished, his hips refused to move.

Around the time when the foreigners had returned to their respective rooms, it appeared that all luggage had been unloaded, and the train began moving again. Yashiro felt the buoyant pleasure of keeping pace with the rhythm grow even stronger. Yet even if they were to reach Manchuria in another hour, that interim stretch belonged to no country. An hour amounted to roughly five ri—but this nameless five-ri span of earth was a place he had never once contemplated before. That a train could traverse it unhindered was precisely because it was an international train. This rarest of vacuum-like states—an international train embodying the abstraction of belonging to no nation, running through land that itself belonged to none—likely existed nowhere else on Earth beyond these five ri. It was destined to be an hour in darkness brimming with hints and portents.

“This somehow resembles Christ.”

And again, Yashiro vaguely thought. He recalled how he had been terribly startled upon landing in Marseille and stepping into the temple garden on the hill, where he encountered a sculpture of Christ lying with blood gushing from its mouth. Though all people have their own countries, one could also consider that there are races continuing to live amidst the disparities in how nations interact. This spread like a mesh-like web across every country except Japan, and considering how it might trigger vomiting and diarrhea—even this five-ri space between borders seemed poised to become a similar locus where future vortices would swirl into existence.

“Right, I can’t keep up this carefree attitude any longer.”

Having said this, Minami sat up. Then, he straightened his necktie, put on his jacket, and stuffed his toiletries into his luggage. Recalling the inconveniences of the train journey and deciding to give all their remaining sugar cubes brought from Berlin to the porter there, they bundled them together without fussing over the amount and called for him. The porter, who until now had shown not a single smile and remained solely vigilant, only this time broke into a smile, promptly hid the sugar beneath his coat, and in a voice so small it was nearly inaudible, uttered a single “Thank you,” before hurriedly vanishing as if pursued by fear. Having heard that porters were most pleased by sugar cubes, they had made sugar their token of gratitude; the smile at parting was, as always, heartening no matter where one was.

In the neighboring room, the foreigners too seemed unable to settle; they came out into the corridor and began chatting while standing. Yashiro saw the train gradually swelling before his eyes and felt a dizziness as though his body were being sucked into a tremendous vortex and swept away. Despite the ceaseless sound resembling distant surf that reached them from afar, the surroundings were truly quiet. But no matter what one might say, they would soon arrive—Yashiro was unbearably happy. Turning toward Japan and leaning back so that the back of his head pressed against the board behind him, he tried with utmost care to remain composed, but a smile kept breaking through uncontrollably.

Japan was a good country. Truly a good country.

He thought this was the very moment he kept proclaiming to himself while rushing forward. But regardless of what anyone might say, they would soon arrive. His hand flew ahead first, then his leg flew, his head shot out—until only his chest remained behind, or so it seemed. Yashiro thought the moment one emerges into the world to see daylight might feel exactly like this. The roar of rushing water filled his chest, and though Minami appeared to be speaking, he couldn't properly discern the words. A lingering warmth resembling encroaching heat began pressing against his face from some indeterminate direction. It was an indescribable flurry—then suddenly, as stifling air rushed into the room from the narrow corridor, a crowd of Japanese people came clattering down the hallway in formation. Before he realized it, the train had reached Manchuria and come to a stop.

Yashiro could not get up. He remained motionless for a while, facing the crowded, hazy-looking corridor, looking utterly bewildered. Then he heard a voice that seemed to be calling his name loudly while checking each room.

“Is Mr. Yashiro Koichiro here? — Mr. Yashiro Koichiro—” As the voice drew nearer to Yashiro, a round-faced young man with puffy eyes and a sturdy build peered into the room from the entrance and called again. “It’s me,” Yashiro replied. “So it’s you, Mr. Yashiro? Do you have the film?” Abruptly, the youth pressed him with a sullen expression and demanded, His heart still pounding with newborn anticipation, Yashiro found himself disarmed by the young man’s brusque manner,

“I have it,” he replied curtly. “Well then, let’s have that.” Promptly, the youth spoke brusquely and reached out his hand. When Yashiro suddenly thought—*Was this the first Japanese person he had encountered?*—the joy that had filled him abruptly transformed into unbearable sadness. “My film is an important entrusted item, so I can’t hand it over to you.” “Who are you?” Yashiro had already decided he would absolutely not hand over the film to this man. He grew reluctant to even get off the train and did not rise from his seat. Then, pushing aside that youth’s shoulder, a slender, large-eyed, handsome young man appeared from behind and bowed respectfully to Yashiro.

“I’m with T Agency in Hailar. This gentleman here is someone I enlisted to assist today,” “You’ve endured quite an arduous journey from afar.” “Due to today’s heavy rains, our plane from Hailar couldn’t depart—hence why I had to rely on him.” “Might I trouble you for the film?” This was precisely the sort of Japanese man he had envisioned, Yashiro realized. His spirits lifted abruptly once more.

“Ah, I see. So it was the rain... Since I still feel like the train’s moving—well then, here you go.” Yashiro handed the cylindrical film canister that had been set beside him to the youth. In such turbulent times that no one could keep track of others’ actions, when Yashiro thought to check on Minami and looked over, he saw him being escorted out into the corridor by someone from Company A.

Carrying his luggage and escorted by the young man with the film as he descended to the platform, Yashiro nevertheless felt a pang of pity when he caught sight of the round-faced young man from before. Because there was a luggage inspection even in the waiting room, he had to wait until the inspection began. It was said there were still eight hours until the departure of the next train bound for Dalian. Unlike the Soviet border station, this waiting room had high ceilings and a modern feel with its concrete solidity, but what first struck one as distinctly Eastern—lethargic compared to Europe—was the sight of flies swarming up from among crowds of Chinese people sleeping while clutching large bundles and circling the electric lights. Yashiro stood watching the spacious waiting room until the inspection began. The foreigners who had come on the same train had weary expressions from lack of sleep. Even so, when Yashiro considered that these crowds—clutching their dirty bundles and sleeping amidst flies—filled the greater part of the earth, he was struck anew by how many races across the world were fated to be plagued by flies. That was how it was for almost all countries in the Orient.

Yashiro thought that even just the effort to drive away flies from all these countries would require tremendous strength from people in their future roles.

“I’m from the police. What will you be doing tonight?” A tall plainclothes Japanese man wearing glasses presented Yashiro with a business card bearing the name Imai and inquired. Yashiro answered that he had no particular destination in mind and would simply wait for the train. “There’s still eight hours left. If you’d like, I could arrange for an inn where you might rest. You could get some sleep if you’re staying on.” Yashiro couldn’t bring himself to consider Imai’s professional motives as part of the Special Higher Police at that moment. More than anything else, seeing Japanese people who addressed him filled him with indiscriminate nostalgia, making him keenly aware of how occupational barriers dissolved in the direct human connection.

“Then please arrange an inn. I’d be grateful if I can sleep even for an hour.” “You should do that. There aren’t any good inns here, but there are plenty if you just need to rest.” While they were having this exchange, the luggage inspection began. They didn’t examine cash holdings here, but the inspection of baggage contents was stricter and more time-consuming than on the Soviet side. Minami stood far from Yashiro, surrounded by people from Company A as he recounted events from the journey. Only Imai from the Special Higher Police remained by Yashiro’s side.

By the time they finished the inspection and stepped outside, dawn had already broken. Yashiro narrowed his eyes against the morning sunlight and stepped over the railroad tracks. It felt as refreshing as seeing daylight for the first time. He walked while taking deep breaths and gazing at his surroundings. The treeless plain rolled in undulations like wave crests across its expanse, bright as though sunlight were rising from every fold of those heightened wine-colored ridges. The short grass seemed to be causing halation with their backs. Enveloped in the unobstructed brightness of the plain, the town still slept behind closed doors. Detective Imai insisted on carrying Yashiro’s luggage despite his refusal. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said, seizing the heavier piece as if snatching it away. Dragging his cane along the ground, he took the lead down the deserted street.

“This is truly a beautiful place.”

And Yashiro would occasionally stop, look at the waves of the surrounding plain, and mutter. Imai, who had been walking ahead, would return to Yashiro’s side each time and, seemingly pleased to have been praised, he too would stand alongside him and gaze at the plain. The undulations of the land, resembling a series of rising breasts, maintained a bashful expression toward the sky as they frolicked playfully in lively coquetry—the more he looked, the more the plain’s beauty intensified.

“When you see it every day, you don’t notice—but I suppose it’s not entirely worthless,” Imai said humbly before taking the lead again.

“No—it truly is a beautiful place. There’s nothing quite like it.” Yashiro forgot his weariness and felt it almost a shame to go to the lodgings. Moreover, no matter where he looked around him, the beauty remained unchanged. With a delicate softness that seemed the pinnacle of artifice—reaching to infinity’s farthest edge—the land’s entire countenance held a sorrow akin to prayer; yet as he gazed upon it, those lines also appeared as unrestrained joy, transforming into the brightness of a world yielding itself, filled with pure hope. Yashiro pointed toward the border area where a pale blue haze hung faintly,

“So that area over there is the border, isn’t it?” Yashiro asked. “Well, it’s called a border, but…” “No one can tell where exactly it begins and ends.” “And what do you make of this? Many people commit suicide here—strange, isn’t it?” Imai lamented in a lowered voice that even after long years living there, this alone remained unclear. Indeed—with such beauty that made death seem natural—Yashiro nodded as he was guided into the lodging hotel. The maid who appeared at the entrance neatly arranged slippers before Yashiro. Though not particularly remarkable, she was the first Japanese woman in a kimono he had seen since returning. Observing the delicate beauty of her skin—a refined quality absent in foreigners—spreading from her collarline, Yashiro instinctively caught his breath.

Minami and Yashiro parted ways at Harbin Station. He had come all the way to Dalian intending to fly from there to Fukuoka, but when he reached Pyongyang, heavy rain ahead forced an emergency landing, making him switch to a train midway to cross the strait. He had wanted to see the inland areas by daylight, but it was around one o'clock at night when he arrived in Shimonoseki. With still an hour and a half before the Tokyo-bound train's departure, he sent a telegram to his Tokyo home while resting at the Sanyo Hotel. As he drank tea, he briefly considered sending one to Chizuko too, but ultimately held back from that alone.

The lights on both sides of the Kanmon Strait bore down on the sea with a ferocity that made the area seem overbrimming with people. Amid the vitality of things he saw ceaselessly leaping about, Yashiro felt himself being jostled by others and realized a certain sluggishness—one struggling to respond—had unwittingly taken root within him. This was a self woefully out of step with the times; rust seemed to ooze from this self that couldn’t keep pace with urgency. Yet it remained certain that he had, after all, safely returned to Japan. Now content with that fact alone—convinced he could endure whatever trials might follow—he surveyed his surroundings with a relaxed feeling akin to laughter blossoming in his chest.

Many people were wearing Western clothes, but none of them looked like Western clothes. The men all had piercing gazes, and amidst an atmosphere where they might suddenly swarm, the women walked without a trace of fear, appearing strangely like alluringly elegant fish swimming—a sight that seemed delightful.

Even after boarding the upbound train, he entered the crowded dining car to observe. The diners wielded knives and forks with sword-like swiftness, skillfully spearing meat and bringing it to their mouths even as the narrow car tilted and rocked. Though the whole scene teemed with hurried movements and jostling bodies, every action flowed seamlessly without error—an intensity so breathtaking it hollowed one's chest to watch. This was neither Western nor Eastern anymore. He thought it truly resembled nothing else in the world—a peculiar form of life's very pulsation itself.

That night, worn out from accumulated sleep deprivation, Yashiro quickly grew drowsy, but having forgotten to reserve a sleeper berth, he dozed off right there in the observation car chair. Beside him sat two young men returning from Manila who kept exclaiming it had been ten years as they eagerly watched their hometown's scenery unfold along the railway line. The pair facing each other seemed too excited to settle down, constantly looking left and right without sleeping. They eventually turned to Yashiro, telling him about Manila's situation while asking where he'd come from and where he was headed. When Yashiro replied he'd returned from Siberia, they pressed him about which part of Siberia. But when he answered he'd boarded from Berlin, their faces abruptly stiffened into coldly formal expressions as they turned toward the window, ceasing all conversation. Yashiro took this opportunity to stretch out and sleep.

When he opened his eyes, it was already morning. Under the window, the sea spread out, and numerous figures in yukata were walking here and there on the sandy beach. As oleander flowers bloomed profusely under the morning sun over the sea, Yashiro experienced a shock so sudden it felt like his eyes had been jolted awake when he saw a portly gentleman walking by with a Shikishima cigarette clamped in his mouth, puffing out smoke in quick bursts.

An island resembling Awaji loomed hazily through the thin mist. The undulating forms of stout pine trunks streamed vigorously past the train window. Yashiro saw Japan’s morning sunlight for the first time. Leaning out from the window, he thought at first glance his country appeared the world’s most nonchalantly smiling, seemingly carefree nation. Gradually, the lightweight clothing he had entirely forgotten since Siberia grew warm in the summer heat.

Whenever Yashiro's journey neared its destination, night would fall. It was no different when approaching Tokyo Station. The sense of having returned home had been absorbed into memories of the train ascending from the San'yō Line to the Tōkaidō, until now he found himself utterly exhausted in both body and mind. No actual sounds reached him through the ringing in his ears, but the straw packing bundles on the platform glimpsed amid fleeting patterns of passing lights drew nearer, bringing with them the increasingly familiar scent of everyday things. Even if made to wear an undershirt riddled with patches, it wouldn't have troubled him; this fatigue felt pleasant like that of a child returning home.

The train came to a halt, and Yashiro stepped down onto the platform. Near a pillar at the crowd's edge away from the last car, his short-statured father in a summer haori immediately caught his eye. His father didn't notice Yashiro at first, but when Yashiro raised a hand and walked toward him, Father opened his mouth with an "Ah—" and approached expressionlessly. From behind him, Mother—unseen until then—came hurrying after with quick steps. Yashiro silently bowed once before Father. He had meant to make a deeply respectful bow, yet ended up merely lowering his head slightly without bending at the waist.

“I must have caused you both so much worry,” Yashiro said, looking at his mother behind his father. “Welcome back.” Without looking at Yashiro’s face, his mother had only spoken those words shyly and stood there with her hands folded in a shrinking posture. Father and Mother seemed not to know what to do next and did not move, but Yashiro likewise remained as he was. All the while, the sight of Tokyo Station gradually emerged with its familiar liveliness from the thin mist. After the Redcaps carried the luggage away, the three left the platform. Yashiro should have been walking firmly in his shoes, yet it seemed as though his feet were lifting off the ground and his body was constantly bounding along. In the liberated feeling that all barriers had been cast off, he saw himself as resembling a fluttering butterfly, and while gazing at the various lights that caught his eye and the illumination of the square, he waited for a taxi again.

"I get it now." "I just… I understand."

And he muttered to himself. Even so, he hadn’t considered what exactly he had come to understand, but without needing to think further—with a lightness akin to having stepped away from a completed exam paper—he felt no desire whatsoever to look back. “I want to eat something, you know.” “I really want to eat sushi.” “Could you go home ahead of me for a bit, Mother?”

After saying this to his mother, Yashiro got into a taxi intending to get off alone in Ginza midway. In the car that began moving toward Ginza, he thought his current self—now able to act as freely as a child—was a happiness beyond compare. He leaned back as if bracing himself against his mother’s summer figure, her shrunken collar enveloping her with crisp austerity, when it suddenly struck him that what he had long forgotten was his parents’ toil—yet even this now felt no different from his own bodily weariness.

“It’ll cool down soon enough, but the heat’s still got some bite left.” Father, who had been silent all along, made a single remark to no one in particular.

“That’s right. It really is still summer,” Yashiro murmured as if to himself. Then, realizing he had completely forgotten about the seasons, he laughed for the first time. “Aren’t you hot in those summer clothes?” his mother said, looking at him. To this, Yashiro replied, “I just can’t make sense of anything anymore,” while thinking how even spring, summer, fall, and winter differed depending on where one was, and recalling how he had told friends in Paris that before returning to Tokyo—or anywhere else—he first wanted to visit a hot spring. Yet now that he was back like this, he found Tokyo more dear than any other place. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly appealed to him about Tokyo, but simply knowing this land was undeniably Tokyo made his heart settle into calm. When the car arrived before the Imperial Hotel, his father—

“They say it’s better to stay at a hotel the night you return from your Western journey, but can you really go straight home?” he asked.

When Father spoke of a "Western journey," Yashiro suddenly felt a shame that made him want to shrink away.

“A Western journey—it wasn’t such a grand thing, mine.” Yashiro fell silent for a moment. No matter what he might say, everything now seemed like things that could convey no meaning. It was a feeling both sad and glad, one that would remain unchanged no matter which way it tumbled—a light, buoyant sensation.

“Father, what’s called a ‘Western journey’—that’s a term from the Meiji era.” He suddenly said that again, but now, more than such matters, he wanted to see the city. Rather than wanting to see any particular part of it, he found himself wanting to see all the places he had always seen—there and here—in that way, and above all else, he first thought of wanting to eat sushi. “Sachiko has improved quite a bit.” “She said she wanted to come tonight too, but we were worried she might take a turn for the worse again.”

And Mother spoke about Yashiro’s sister’s condition. “That’s good.” “I’ve been so worried about that.” “Once my fatigue eases, I’ll go to the hospital.”

“Please do that. She’ll be delighted.”

“But somehow, I want to visit the Takigawa house once.” “I want to see the Tōhoku region most of all.” Yashiro said. This was because seeing the Tōhoku region where his mother’s family home—the Takigawa house—stood seemed to him like the first step of the plan he should undertake upon returning. Yet even while talking with his mother about such things, he became aware of his own attitude that seemed to abandon his father there—though in truth it should not have been that way—and found there were various things he ought to say yet struggled to voice to his father, for no particular reason.

To his Meiji-era father, who seemed to take pride in his child’s Western journey, Yashiro suddenly thought about how he might convey his feelings—but from earlier on, Father had merely been saying “Hmm, hmm,” silently gazing out the window. Long ago, Father used to say like a mantra that once he made money, he would absolutely go on a Western journey, even if just once. That sole wish of his father’s from his youth had now been fulfilled by his son Yashiro, who had returned after accomplishing that will in his father’s place. Since what this son had begun saying strayed so strangely from his father’s aspirations, it was only natural that Father could not comprehend it.

“After all, eras exist without being contested,” he said. “That’s how it is.” Yashiro obscured his meaning with ambiguous words, yet compared to himself—the one who had undertaken this Western journey—his father’s mediocrity seemed a far nobler deed. This father had devoted himself solely to enabling his child’s journey, living prudently and subsisting on lifelong savings. Yet he felt an inexplicable pity for the man. This was something he no longer wished to voice—one of those matters he wanted to keep silent about for life. In that instant, he felt at his core the shame of having failed to meet his father’s expectations—but then resigned himself anew and kept watching the city lights.

“Ah, but what on earth have I been doing all this time?”

From time to time, he would abruptly think like that. And as he groped through the luggage he had acquired—no—there was nothing, the bag was empty—from the depths of his urge to hurl it at his feet, the long-forgotten thought of Chizuko came skimming through his mind.

In the backstreets of Ginza, Yashiro left the car behind and walked alone toward a sushi restaurant. There was no oppressive closeness from the streets or towering city buildings. Even while passing through dark back alleys damp from water sprinkled to settle dust, he felt himself reduced to simply pursuing food. He entered a sushi shop with brown noren curtains favored by Danjuro, sat in a garden corner, and saw the light bulb's shade reflected on the black-lacquered sushi counter. It suddenly came back to him that "Japan" in English meant lacquer. His gaze stayed fixed on the tuna's vivid wet color gleaming against black lacquer, and only when leaning against the table did he think this was precisely the hue he'd always wanted to let rest upon his tongue.

When the tuna was served, he wanted to pick it up with his fingers rather than chopsticks, continuously putting several pieces into his mouth and changing plates again. The weight of sushi accumulating deep within his body gave him a visceral satisfaction in his gut—uncontested flesh and blood becoming his own. Looking down, he found water sprinkled here too, enough to wet even his shoes. "Haha—water," he said.

He recalled that Japan was the only country where clear water was sprinkled in inner courtyards. And imagining the purity permeating every corner through abundant waters flowing from mountains and valleys, he could instantly grasp how the physical forms, architectural styles, and culinary preferences born naturally from this land had been refined through a meticulous sensibility unlike those of other nations. But now Yashiro made no particular effort to dwell on such thoughts.

The town had grown late, so there were few pedestrians, and the streetlights were dim. After leaving the sushi restaurant, he walked toward his regular oden shop. He had wanted to walk his usual course again—the one he had always taken before departing Japan—but as he walked, he thought that from now on, day after day, he might spend his entire life walking the same place like this. Then Yashiro, completely changed from before, suddenly swayed with sadness. Throughout his past travels, even when he arrived in a city, he never looked at it again, thinking he would depart tomorrow—but now that was not the case. This marked the end of his travels; from tomorrow onward, he would not leave here. Here was the land where he had been born, a place of graves, he thought, and before he knew it, people were unknowingly searching so fervently for the place to bury their own corpses. Even the musings on days gone by—if one were to stop and consider them—from that point of stillness, the days would cycle again, no doubt. When he thought this, even a trampled scrap of paper in the damp back alley where the wind had died seemed to resemble the joy of something that had met his gaze with a start.

Indeed, every single thing now held meaning for Yashiro. When he reached the oden shop, he instinctively pulled back his foot that had been about to casually step over the threshold. On the earthen ground at the entrance lay a cone-shaped pile of salt, its vivid form perfectly intact. "Oh—this was here all along," he thought. This salt had always been stepped over and trampled by passersby. Now it emerged from the darkness to greet him like hands clasped in prayer. In that silent, pristine comfort, he finally felt moved by having completed his long journey. Straightening his collar, he bowed wordlessly and crossed the threshold. As he stepped over, pure white vapor rose from his trouser crotch to his chest, and with solemn reverence, Yashiro felt his nostrils clear up to the crown of his head. The unexpected purification dissolved all lingering stickiness from his body. After entering, even as he leaned against the cedar-paneled wall, he now perceived both the severity of time etched into the wood's straight grain—like that of temple timber—and its gradual softening. Unaware though others were, this marked a return to no ordinary land—so much so that for some time, he found himself unable to request a sake flask from the familiar proprietress.

Apart from Yashiro, there were no more than two customers. The two customers were separate individuals: one was a regular who had often been seen here before, while the other remained seated, hunched over toward the floor, in a pained posture as if about to vomit. Under the dim electric light, the hunched customer occasionally uttered a guttural sound.

Even as he watched them, Yashiro was not particularly concerned by the two figures. On the wooden wall, traces of oil from where people had leaned formed darkened silhouettes that lingered. He felt his own oil had seeped into at least one of them. With a pang of nostalgia, he thought these might be the marks left by his days of anguish and torment before departing Japan. He gently stroked the oil stains with his fingertip.

Before long, another new customer appeared, parting the shimenawa-like rope noren curtain with his forehead, and called out to Yashiro, “Well, aren’t you a rare sight.” That person too was one of the regular customers—an art critic acquaintance of Yashiro’s named Tamura. “How was Paris?”

Leaning against a nearby chair while offering consolation, Tamura was someone to whom Yashiro could not immediately respond. “I can’t really make sense of it,” he said. “I just found it too difficult there.” Yashiro ordered a sake cup for Tamura. Among the many Francophiles, Tamura was someone who went a bit too far—indeed, surpassing even Kuji—so Yashiro did not want to disrupt the mood of the evening with a careless reply. “But it must have been interesting,” Tamura pressed. “You did well to go.”

“I’m not very good at French, you see.” “What’s interesting to me was out of reach.” Yashiro had honestly regretted his poor French before departure and knew that his acquaintances secretly pitied him for those struggles, so even the polite concession to highlight Tamura’s skilled French had to be made as a social courtesy over drinks. “Anyway, without a foundation in French culture,” “Even if you go to France, it won’t be interesting.”

He also recalled an honest acquaintance who had said this to him face-to-face. And he imagined that regarding his travels abroad, things must have occurred in unseen corners where any mockery would have remained hidden; yet now, as each subsequent event had come to satisfy those very circumstances, he agonized over what expression to use to reveal his innermost thoughts. "I've become the person you all detest most, you know. There's no use asking me anymore."

In truth, he had wanted to say this much to everyone. However, knowing such expressions no longer helped explain himself, he felt the sorrow of silently filling Tamura’s cup with sake. “When I was in France, they laughed themselves sick at me for being infatuated with Japan.” “This love for Japan has become such a nuisance.” “The intellectuals there don’t consider domestic Japanese intellectuals part of the educated class at all.” “Funny how once you’re seen that way, you stop thinking of yourself as educated too.”

Tamura started to say something but, from behind his glasses, merely made his eyes glint finely and fell silent. Suddenly, when Yashiro looked at Tamura, his Western attire began to resemble that of a Shinto priest learning French.

“It’s truly strange.” “Well, everyone keeps spouting logic this, logic that even when they’re meant to be enjoying themselves.” “I might as well have gone sightseeing through landscapes of logic.” “If humanity worldwide becomes like this, mark my words—something will erupt soon.” “Well, having never seen France myself, I can’t speak definitively.” “Though I suppose that’s how it must be.” “Seeing it wouldn’t help me explain.—In any case, I didn’t go infatuated with any nation, nor particularly wanting to see France. It’s rather like I went to test whether the Earth truly curves.” “Yet I must admit—the Earth did feel vaguely round after all.”

Yashiro had not spoken like this out of any particular modesty or desire to explain himself. The natural words that arose as he reflected on his travels emerged in this weakened manner, along with mounting fatigue. It felt unsatisfyingly lonely upon reflection, but even so, if he were to say in front of Tamura—who could not be satisfied unless France occupied both night and day—that the wood grain of this little diner here now appeared to him akin to the beauty of temple wood grain, he made a single-minded effort to suppress and restrain what he wanted to say, imagining how this Tamura would go around spreading such words.

“Did you see the paintings?” Tamura asked again, with an air of wanting to say that this was what he desired most of all.

“I saw them,” Yashiro said curtly and fell silent. “How were the paintings?” “I was surprised by how many unexpectedly poor paintings there were.” “I suppose that’s how it is.” Tamura—his words implying “if it were about you”—started to say “if it were me,” but masking his frustration with a forced smile, he raised his sake cup to his lips. Yashiro vividly felt that everyone he would meet hereafter would show him sympathy like Tamura did, and he intuitively realized that his greatest challenge would be these priests within Japan who studied foreign languages. And after all, that too was not someone else’s concern but his own. Ah, this is about me—all of it. This is difficult—truly, excruciatingly difficult—and I realized I too had finally returned to the clamorous world of real life.

When he looked out the window, beyond a canal where thick methane gas drifted like gathered bubbles, rows of perilously leaning wooden houses—their frames slumped against one another—showed here and there the blue of mosquito nets filtering lamplight, lingering traces of summer. Suddenly, Yashiro recalled the marble-encircled canals of Venice and imagined the water flowing between the Seine’s imposing parapets. And as he drifted between thoughts of that river and this water—now envisioning seaports, now Lausanne, now Florence—the lamplights flickering across their surfaces began to shimmer like phantoms before him. With this, he felt his own body adrift, still unable to shed the lingering scent of foreign lands, and lamented whether this travel weariness would only deepen within him as he journeyed onward—whether it had become something he could never rid himself of.

That night, Yashiro felt compelled to detour to Chizuko’s house in the taxi on his way back. The shop was in Nihonbashi and he had heard the main residence was in Meguro, so if it lay in Meguro’s direction, the detour would not be excessively long. Yet in the car, he felt lonely confronting this self that could not refrain from seeing Chizuko—whom he had resolved never to meet again—on this very night of his arrival. Though it seemed reasonable to wait until tomorrow or beyond if someday became unbearable, he found it desolate to think there would be no tomorrow unless he acted this night. And then the murmured words of an ancient poet who had agonized—“Pursued yet unrelenting phantoms”—naturally escaped his lips.

As the address he had given the driver drew near, the speed also slackened. In the mansion-lined street where large trees stood in rows, every house had closed its gate, leaving only dim lights. After winding through many similar narrow lanes, there was a police box. When he had the driver ask there about the name “Usami” for Chizuko’s house, the residence they were seeking was already quite near. He had the car wait at the corner and walked. A large chinquapin tree, split into two from the middle of its trunk, stood alone in the center of the road; turning there, the path narrowed between long stretches of plastered walls on both sides, and the surroundings grew even darker. From within the walls of every house, large trees peered out, and the scent of the trees pierced through his nostrils. Yashiro felt the unease he had experienced upon getting out of the car gradually fade as he walked through the darkness. Even if he found Chizuko’s house, circumstances would prevent him from entering at this hour, but he thought it would suffice for now to simply see it. As he followed with his eyes as instructed, on the left side he saw a gate lined with a tastefully thick Kenninji-style fence. There, on the gateplate, the name Usami unmistakably stood out to his eyes. He stood in the center of the deserted road, shielding his eyes from the light, and gazed for a while at the closed single-plank zelkova gate. A chinquapin with fine leaves and a large camellia tree were growing thickly behind the gate, and from there to the entrance, there appeared to be a garden of considerable distance. When he peered through the gap in the sliding door, the garden’s expanse of white sand had drawn in the night air, sturdily guarding the slumbering entrance. Yashiro could immediately see that Chizuko’s Catholic upbringing was evident in that monotonous severity. The lingering gentleness appeared to stem from that very severity. There was also an orderly discipline. When Yashiro thought that this was the house where his dreams had been born and raised, even the lingering dreamlike haze from his travels—still untouched by reality—suddenly grew cold and clear within him. If Chizuko were to appear here now, he thought, even the figure of her that had wandered foreign lands with him would surely look like a different person. He stood motionless for a time, as though confronting the reality emerging from beneath his fading dream, but what he thought now stood between himself and Chizuko—uncontested—was the family tradition sternly manifested in this zelkova gate.

He returned to the car he had left waiting. Even in the car, he recalled the startling transformation that had occurred in a single day—the moment they disembarked in Marseille, when the men who had been on the same ship abruptly cast Chizuko from their minds. In stark contrast to that day in Europe when Chizuko’s charm had utterly vanished the moment they disembarked, what on earth was this change that now made even meeting her impossible? As Yashiro watched the houses illuminated and then fading away in the car’s headlights, as he considered the distinct family traditions embodied in each one, he could imagine the difficulties his own parents would face arising from the impossibility of marrying Chizuko. It meant constantly making his own parents bow their heads to Chizuko’s household.

“When returning from traveling abroad, they say it’s better to stay at a hotel that night—” To become a child who would forever make his father—a man harboring such anxieties and modest pride—bow his head was, so to speak, a tragedy born solely from having traveled abroad. From the moment they began leaving Japan by ship, all distinctions of status, wealth, and honor were blown from people’s minds, allowing them to exist as equal travelers. Yet this habit required no orders upon return—it was a calmness that swiftly reverted to its original self with a naturalness long suppressed. That said, even this—the self that had slept equally with others at the summit’s peak, heedless of status—resembled, upon awakening, a dazed stillness akin to plummeting downward in frenzy. Yashiro had imagined all these things, but that they would transform so quickly into the loneliness of seeing his former self—

“Once you return to Japan, you and Ms. Chizuko will surely never meet again.” “So do it now.” Yashiro recalled those days when Kuji had urged him so insistently. Yet if this was his natural state, he thought it just as well to have awakened early from the dream. True, his association with Chizuko had been real enough, but when he considered how his country had changed—how even that now seemed akin to a dream—he understood. And at the same time, it was a change within himself as well. He didn’t know what had wrought this transformation. Even while clinging to the same feelings he’d harbored in Paris, like water turning imperceptibly to ice, he had settled into an altered self before he knew it. Was this ice or water? He couldn’t tell which he was—

From Shibuya onward, the streets grew darker, but amid the headlights, Yashiro recognized clusters of foliage and shop signs he had known before. All had grown shabbier during his absence. Still pressing his forehead to the window glass, he strained not to miss a single sight greeting him. These fleeting scenes—appearing only to vanish—seemed like bashful creatures hiding their faces as they fled. Where summer grass spilled over a ditch onto the road in a tangled mass, Yashiro stepped from the car. His home’s gate stood just up ahead.

He pulled open the gate’s handle in a manner that—after being away for some time—had forgotten its proper measure and ended up making a loud noise.

His mother was still up alone. After repeating his homecoming greetings to her in the inner room, he looked around at the sliding doors and ceiling for the first time. A faint smell of fertilizer drifted in from the corridor. Suddenly he recalled childhood memories long forgotten. The hand-polished stains on pillars and nail marks on earthen walls felt like discarded shells that had once encased him, while the tatami seams he gazed down at with growing fatigue resembled weightless thoughts - as insubstantial as if they weren’t there at all. He could only gulp down the tea his mother had served.

“Strange, huh? That the tea tastes so delicious. Could I have another cup?” Yashiro said this to his mother, yet he thought he hadn’t been intending to say such things. But why did he feel so sad and lonely? He should have been brimming with joy—so why this crushing loneliness? It defied explanation, but even if he confided in someone about this fleeting lightness or lament, he felt it would instantly dissolve into an aimless emptiness. He rallied himself and stood up to change into a yukata.

After taking a bath, he sat down sideways before his mother and finally began to feel somewhat relaxed, as if he were truly in his own home. “Here. Tea.” As she said this, the heat of the second tea his mother served felt for the first time as though it were washing through his body. He felt relieved that his mother did not ask a single question about foreign matters. She spoke only of his sister Sachiko’s condition and changes among relatives when he inquired, yet during this conversation with his mother alone, he felt the surroundings softly filled with light—a carefree moment that seemed to rest tinged with a halo-like radiance. He thought that he too must have once been curled so roundly within his mother’s womb. He likened that time to this room, then thought again of how he had changed after crossing distant seas and circling lands—but these musings of his, having returned to his old nest with the scenes of the world he had seen floating in his mind, seemed to consist of nothing but things his mother would never understand even if told. But even so—what exactly was he troubled by? What did he ceaselessly desire? And what of this loneliness that felt like closed eyes? It was a loneliness that would not depart, no matter how much one chased it.

“Did you have enough money?” “I sent about three thousand yen recently, but it seems you haven’t received it.” When his mother said this, Yashiro snapped back to himself. He recalled that same brightness from when he had gripped money in a foreign land and emerged from the bank—the very brightness he had known in France. “I don’t know about that.” “When was it?”

“About a month ago.” “Then it’s no use.” Yashiro felt disappointed, thinking everything belonged to days long past. Though the money would surely return to Japan, the value of the same amount used abroad versus domestically differed completely—not through exchange rates, but in their very essence. If this held true even for money, how much more so for a living woman like Chizuko. Even if her heart and body remained unchanged, Yashiro could do nothing about this inexplicable transformation of her very worth—a complete shift in essence—and once again resting his elbow on a pillow, he lowered his eyes to the tatami seams, considering it all a matter of bygone days. It was neither anyone’s doing nor time’s work—neither others’ nor his own—but the most dreadful of earthly phenomena, yet also an utterly mundane fact. But who could comprehend this now? Even those who had never journeyed abroad were ceaselessly assailed by this everyday occurrence. ——

“I see.” “But that was a failure, huh.” After another moment, Yashiro said and brushed a hand over his smile. He thought that if he could have continued traveling like Kuji and Tamura—constantly murmuring “Europe, Europe” in idle talk whether asleep or awake—what a blissful journey that would have been.

Many who return from the West, upon seeing Kobe from aboard ship, would burst into tears of sorrow—there existed this maddeningly shameful spectacle. This was something that always occurred, Yashiro thought, but how many times had such scenes been enacted even aboard ships carrying Tang envoys during the Tenpyō and Heian eras—by youths like Kuji? Those men too—unable to speak the language yet enduring colleagues' humiliations through interpreters—had returned home to accomplish great work. By contrast, the fact that many linguistically adept men had buried themselves in their homeland's grasses out of despair, dying as mere sighs, seemed yet another act of travel-weariness unchanged since antiquity—no different from today's. Thinking this, Yashiro felt he too must endure whatever humiliations awaited him; from within the tea's aroma searing his lips rose a blazing resolve to fortify his will.

“I’ve had my fill of going abroad.” “Those who go might be fine, but the worry of those staying home is immense.” “I’d wonder whether you still had money, or imagine you must be wandering around helplessly in places where you couldn’t speak the language—it was truly such a worry.” Seeing that Yashiro seemed to have regained his vigor, his mother let slip something akin to a complaint for the first time. “When I had no money, that was a problem, but as for language, Japanese worked just fine.” “It works anywhere.” “In fact, being skilled in foreign languages earns respect in Japan, but more often than not, you end up being mocked by foreigners, you know.”

With that, Yashiro—wanting to give even a little credit to his own poor language skills—said. It was tantamount to an excuse, but.

“Oh, is that how it is?” “Well, there’s nothing better than using foreign languages, but—how should I put it—I do have some pride myself, you see.” “It’s strange—when you’re abroad, your own country’s language becomes terribly precious.” “So even though using Japanese makes Japanese people laugh at me, well—you end up wanting to try that sort of thing at least once.” To tell the truth, the main point of contention among many Japanese abroad—apart from truly capable individuals—was whether one could speak the host country’s language; even those who could would argue over pronunciation or reading ability, while proficient speakers would habitually dispute—curiously enough—which particular skill one should master.

At first, Yashiro had considered these matters natural and even respected them without much thought, but after discovering the ugliness—how everywhere he went, this behavior appeared as a primary cause for contempt among their own kind—even if it was study, he felt infuriated by the complete lack of character in such discipline, and the foreign languages he did know became things he no longer wished to use before their very eyes. And so from then on, he persisted in his defiant rebellion of stubbornly using only Japanese to manage his affairs, but whenever he reflected on how even his utterly incomprehensible Japanese had allowed him to achieve his purposes with minimal inconvenience wherever he went—and sensed the calculations and resourcefulness of Westerners who did not speak even the Japanese they knew—he found himself frowning more deeply at the conflicts among his fellow Japanese.

“Since it’s already late, let’s leave the souvenirs for tomorrow. Tonight, Mother, we should rest.”

In his suitcase were items he had collected, and there were also rare souvenirs that would arrive later by ship—still lingering remnants of the journey that made Yashiro wait for tomorrow.

After staying at home for two or three days, Yashiro decided to go recuperate at the hot springs in his mother's hometown. It was common for those returning from abroad who stayed home without delay to develop persistent fevers of unknown origin, facing hospitalization risks. Yashiro wanted not only to work out his accumulated fatigue but also to properly revisit his mother's Tōhoku hometown on this occasion.

“I’d like to visit Sachiko at the hospital too, but if she’s doing better, I suppose I’ll go after returning from the hot spring. I want to rid myself of this traveler’s mindset and thoroughly cleanse my body.”

Having said this, Yashiro convinced his mother to postpone visiting his sister. Mother also seemed pleased that the child had chosen the hot spring in her hometown on this occasion.

“You’d think Hakone would be better than that place.” “What’s so interesting about it?” “Such a place.” “That’s precisely why it’s interesting.” “I’m thoroughly sick of seeing Western-like places—it’s nothing but exhausting.” Even as he spoke, Yashiro recalled a day when he had asked a favor of a woman who once worked as a maid at his mother’s family home. Owing to her husband—now a carpenter in Tokyo—being connected to the woman’s marital household, within the prompt reply to Yashiro’s letter requesting repairs for his house’s damaged sections,

"Because today my child was struck by a car and died, I am overcome with grief and disarray." "I do not know whether my husband will be able to come immediately, but I humbly beg your forgiveness for any delay." This was written in clumsy yet painstaking characters. On the very day her child had died so suddenly, Yashiro—who loathed writing replies—found himself stunned by this woman’s terrifyingly dutiful spirit that compelled her to pen a response without delay. That he wished to visit her shared maternal hometown was partly to chastise his own indolent heart.

His mother’s hometown was located in the Tōhoku region, a full ten hours from Tokyo, facing the Sea of Japan. The hot spring resort Yashiro visited was particularly rustic even for that region and renowned across Japan for its old-fashioned charm as a therapeutic retreat, but in the desolate mountain gorge where all summer visitors had completely departed, autumn rain had already begun to fall following the typhoon winds. At a glance, there were almost none among the customs and temperament of this area that had received any unusual Western influence. Yashiro rested his body by soaking in a jet-black thick wooden bath and, at his leisure, studying the history of the area.

The town, densely packed with over a hundred houses, was like a single wooden structure enveloped in hot spring steam. From the waters of a river teeming with kajika frogs flowing along the town’s southern edge, steam rose while beneath sarusuberi blossoms, a foaming swift current glittered in sunlight. The undulating mountains encircling the area—richly varied in form and displaying intricate growths of trees—never ceased to hold Yashiro’s fascination. “We do not lose the spirit of mountain people.”

Recalling Bashō’s words spoken upon viewing mountains like these, Yashiro climbed the mountain as well. In autumn’s tranquil sunlit hollows nestled within the mountain’s embrace, swelling chestnut burs—still green with opulent promise—lay beneath his downward gaze. When he saw freight trains crawling forth one after another from a distant coastal tunnel, he somehow recalled a tobacco-stained jester from provincial theater. And resting elbows on knees while peering below, he grew absorbed in contemplation—wondering if this represented Japan’s first true encounter with Western form—as memories of Europe surfaced and dissolved.

The freight train, spewing smoke, appeared like a snake; passing through rice fields with their heavy ears of grain, it laboriously puffed out more smoke and vanished from view.

As he gazed at this unadorned landscape from afar, Yashiro naturally recalled his father’s younger days. His father had been a man who in his youth received the teachings of Yukichi Fukuzawa and devoted himself to Europeanism. When Yashiro thought of those youthful days—how his father, driven solely by Fukuzawa’s doctrine of refusing to be bested by the West, had tunneled through remote mountains without firsthand knowledge of Europe, convinced culture would spring from those rock-piercing passages—he could not help confronting his own present thoughts, so divergent from his father’s.

“Foreign travel—that was something people talked about in the Meiji era, Father.” In our generation—we who had spoken those words to Father—the term “foreign travel” had imperceptibly shifted to “crossing over” as we faced the West. Yet in adopting Westernized postures for this confrontation, before we knew it, even our very souls had become Westernized, ushering in an era for young people where only the deepening sorrow of rootless wandering grew without end. “When I first sent trains through the tunnel, I couldn’t sleep at night,” Father said. “Because it was my own tunnel.” “There was no telling what flaw might make it collapse. I’d rise quietly after dark, hide in the grassy fields, and watch the trains emerge.” “When they came through safely, I’d think ‘Thank heavens,’ return home, and finally sleep.”

Gazing down at the semicircular tunnel mouth that displayed a single point of geometric precision in his field of vision, Yashiro thought that arc must have embodied his father’s early Meiji struggles. Though his father now worked at the People’s Bank, that he had raised him and even sent him all the way to the West was ultimately due to this very arc he now surveyed. And not only himself—when Yashiro considered how many things had passed through his father’s tunnels to reap their benefits, he found himself comparing his father’s face—now deeply lined with age yet having left behind such tangible good—to his own. Yet he—still gazing at the tunnel’s mouth—thought himself merely deepening the sorrow of a journey with no soil to alight upon.

“We do not lose the spirit of mountain people.” To Yashiro, Bashō’s awareness of village life now seemed like a receding echo, while the semicircular tunnel his father had painstakingly carved still stretched its tracks along the coast in a silent imperative—as though urging, “You must keep journeying onward.” The rustle of hems brushing through heavily drooping rice ears carried a crisp freshness. Though Yashiro knew nothing of the toil required to cultivate these fields, immersing himself in endless waves of ripened grain filled him with grateful joy that someone still labored diligently through the seasons. He resolved never to forget this awareness. Sometimes he would walk seaward with the innkeeper’s child, guiding a bamboo snake toy’s blue tail through the stalks in playful undulations. Along fig-ripened coastal paths tracing the horizon, among wave-washed pampas grass where solitary grave markers stood, he gradually attuned himself to the mountain village’s essence. All the while, the northern sea’s weather grew more volatile—autumn rains lashing through fitful alternations of sun and cloud.

Yashiro occasionally visited the Takigawa family home, his mother’s ancestral house. In that region, it was said there were no more than two houses of its kind, and though he had been told it was a house they took pride in—meticulously crafted with exquisite taste—it was only recently that he had finally come to understand its beauty. Not a single piece of lumber used throughout the house had a knot, and despite eighty years of exposure to wind and snow, there was not a trace of warping or cracking. All those fine timbers were discreetly coated with shibu tannin to avoid ostentation, this considerate effort to both attenuate and conceal the dignity exuded by the natural wood differing from the sensibilities of the capital. Instead, Yashiro thought that the ivy-shaped metal emblems driven into the nageshi pillars and beams—serving as admonitions to never let the ancestral spirit fade even in daily life—were evidence of a samurai lineage distinct from his own family’s.

Once before, Mother had spoken to Yashiro about her father of the Takigawa family in this way.

"My father was a very strict man," she said. "When I was to marry into the Yashiro family, they refused at first—they wouldn’t give their daughter to commoners like the Yashiros. But after investigating, they discovered that even though we were commoners now, our ancestors had been daimyo during the Warring States period. Only then did they grant permission." Yashiro had heard these murmurs from his mother since childhood, though their meaning eluded him then. As he grew older, he came to recognize that even within their apparent harmony, the occasional friction between his parents stemmed from differences in their families’ traditions. It remained unclear why Father—whose roots lay in distant Kyushu—had married into the staunchly conservative Takigawa clan of this region. He could only surmise that some connection had formed during her eldest brother’s student days in Tokyo, though his parents never spoke of it. Yet whenever talk turned to the Warring States era, Yashiro detected in his father’s eager accounts of their lineage a faint melancholy—almost like vengeance withheld.

“Then why isn’t this household part of the samurai class?” Yashiro sometimes recalled those words of dissatisfied inquiry his mother had directed at his father—phrases that emerged from charged exchanges between their expressions. His mother, who appeared calm on the surface yet possessed a formidable disposition, seemed to resent any perceived inferiority regarding family lineage; moreover, her bushido-respecting mindset had grown ever more pronounced over the years. Because of this, Yashiro would remember—each time he visited her ancestral home—those days when he had suffered standing between his father and mother.

The reason Yashiro first began to take an interest in history was rooted in this very difference between his parents’ lineages; however, it later became clear that his commoner father’s secret pride in his own status—even as he revered the samurai traditions of his wife’s family—had another, more particular cause. The ancestors of the Takigawa family, his mother’s lineage, were of the samurai class—though not Tokugawa-affiliated hereditary daimyo—but rather retainers of Mogami Yoshiaki from an earlier era. When the Mogami clan was destroyed by Uesugi Kenshin at Murakami, their branch castle, and their retainers, the Takigawa family, had gone into hiding in the wilds, the Tokugawa era began. And as a means to pacify the land—given that the Takigawa family had risen again as retainers to a new feudal lord—ever since then, in this region, the consciousness of pride between the Tokugawa-affiliated hereditary samurai and the former samurai of the Mogami era—each asserting the antiquity of their traditions rooted in the soil—still manifested more intensely here than in any other place. Throughout the Tokugawa era, the retainers of the Mogami family—former samurai who had been constantly oppressed by the hereditary samurai—regained their power with the advent of the Meiji period and proactively positioned themselves at the vanguard of civilization’s progress. As a result, the city council of this region ceaselessly depicted the whirlpool of influence between the two samurai clans, continuing even into the Taisho and Showa periods—a tradition of boundless conservatism.

The fact that within this persistent consciousness flowing through the hearts of people in this land celebrated as Japan's most conservative there existed the Takigawa family proved fortunate for the Yashiro family. The reason lay in Yashiro's own ancestors from Kyushu, contemporaries of Mogami Yoshiaki, whose castle had been destroyed by Ōtomo Sōrin—the Catholic warlord who deployed Japan's first cannon called Kunikuzushi ("Province Destroyer"). Yet even after their downfall forced them into wilderness exile as castle lords bound by fate, the Yashiro clan could never have resolved to become vassals under new lords like the Takigawa. Nevertheless, through some twist of fate in the Meiji era, this Yashiro family—who like the Mogami had endured generations of hermit-like concealment through the Tokugawa period—became joined with a daughter of the Takigawa, retainers who themselves were products of the Mogami clan's prolonged sorrow.

This fact proved advantageous in eradicating certain futile and pernicious notions that arose when viewing the Takigawa family as samurai-class and the Yashiro family as commoners through a hierarchical lens. Moreover, given that the Takigawa family—in this land which prized conservatism above all else, unlike other regions—took pride in their former samurai status, and since the Yashiro family occupied a position analogous to that of their former lords, the Mogami clan whom they were naturally obliged to revere, their own family’s samurai standing could situate them in a position where certain perceptions might inversely develop toward the commoner Yashiro lineage.

“Then why isn’t the Yashiro family part of the samurai class?” Even during that incident when Yashiro’s mother had voiced her dissatisfaction to her husband without success, Father could have highlighted the darkness contrasting that transient ascendancy—a time when her family’s household, which should have perished alongside their former Mogami clan lords, had instead risen fleetingly. Yet undoubtedly, he must have restrained himself, likely out of concern for his son Yashiro’s circumstances.

All these matters, though coincidental for these two families, always carried within those coincidences a necessity imbued with an element of mystery.

That such awareness arose might perhaps be found not in Yashiro himself but within the silent toil of his father, who had devoted himself to boring tunnels through mountains.

Yashiro’s return to Tokyo had already passed into October. The next morning, upon waking, he immediately went out to the garden. In the garden bathed in morning light hung pomegranates fully split open. He plucked the nearest dangling fruit, licked the fissure to draw out its juice, and resolved to visit his sister Sachiko that day. Though his job in the reorganization department of the architectural firm—his uncle’s company—allowed him to leave his vacation notice untouched for now, removing any urgency to report to work, he wanted urgently to see his sister who was said to have much improved from her illness. In the letter Yashiro had received from Sachiko in Paris,

“I envy that you’ve found Tokyo to be your homeland, but I don’t know where my own homeland is.” “I think that is sad.” Recalling she had written words to this effect, he wanted above all to console Sachiko’s wilted spirits, but how could he persuade a heart refusing to accept Tokyo as homeland—a sister born and raised here without ever leaving—that her homeland was indeed this Tokyo? This too had been one of his persistent concerns since Paris. He needed to clearly explain to his sister the differences in their parents’ lineages and speak of how their ancestors’ suffering and lamentations had been transmitted through their very flesh by what yearnings.

As the pomegranate branch he was pulling down hung slightly too high, Yashiro stretched up on his toes, occasionally losing his balance. But then, he yanked the branch lower again and pried open the split in the pomegranate’s skin with his hand. When a few burst seeds slipped from his collar into his chest and their coldness trickled down to his stomach, he reflexively hunched forward and laughed. Even so, after wrenching the fruit from the branch, he made no move to eat it. The sourness of biting into the fruit still clinging to the tree, the dampness around his mouth—this, he felt, was truly one of the flavors of home, and it filled him with delight.

Each pale red seed, reflecting the morning sun, became like the lenses of compound eyes swarming densely. When he felt the fruit’s weight—sensing the tactile impression of holding precious pottery—Yashiro, unsatisfied with just one, immediately reached for another branch. The branches hung down in clusters under the weight of fruits gathered in vivid profusion. The vivid sky was streaked with cirrocumulus clouds trailing like fishtails. As Yashiro tilted his head back to gaze at the sky visible through gaps in the pomegranate while biting into the fruit, a resplendent morning light—abundant and vivid—cascaded down upon him.

“Ah, delicious!” Yashiro trembled as he exclaimed, now fully returned to the raw sensation of bare skin. He suddenly recalled how his chest had throbbed when seeing Notre-Dame’s towers in Paris—their forms a composite of delicately intricate ridges. Yet this refreshing shudder of his primitive self now became the biblical lament that Solomon in all his glory could not surpass the lilies of the field—a meaning that pierced through him with special intensity, accompanied by profound emotion.

“The bread has finished baking.”

Mother said to Yashiro as he returned from the garden. Perhaps his mother had considered the hardship of abruptly switching breakfast to Japanese fare; when she asked him about it, his usual morning craving for bread surfaced, and he carelessly answered “bread.” Now even this became a seed of self-reproach—he thought his conservatism, so fiercely single-minded in leaning toward Japanese traditions, still remained incomplete.

“Bread, is it?” Even as he sat at the table tearing at his toast, Yashiro found himself strangely conflicted within. It felt precisely like chewing and crushing seeds of discord before swallowing them—yet he resisted this self-reproach, thinking how unbearable it would be to start agonizing over every morsel he ate from now on. When he imagined meeting Chizuko—Catholic Chizuko—again, he foresaw them discovering unexpected differences unlike their encounters abroad, differences that might only drive them further apart, deepening his anguish all the more. Moreover, when he thought of his ancestors’ castle destroyed by Ōtomo Sōrin, the Catholic warlord—

In his letters, Yashiro had often comforted his sister, but even after boarding the train, he could not shake a regretful feeling about having delayed visiting her. When he thought of Sachiko—whose advancing age for marriage was something he had scarcely noted until now—a sudden chill would assail him without warning. Even when trying to avoid dwelling on how improper it would be to marry before his sister did, he found himself inexplicably unable to free his mind from thoughts of her fading eligibility.

"No—I won't take a bride." Such feelings too existed within Yashiro. Though he had felt even less desire to marry anyone else since meeting Chizuko, when considering family matters, even this resolve was not without fragile aspects that seemed likely to prove futile. Moreover, were he to meet his sister today, he could easily imagine Sachiko's labored efforts—conveying their mother's intentions while subtly recommending marriage candidates for him—being undoubtedly true.

At the hospital building on a hill facing the sea, Yashiro met Sachiko for the first time. At first glance, his sister showed no signs of being a patient. With her round face and those quick, darting eyes that always seemed to slip past her brother’s thoughts and wander off into their own whimsical paths, Yashiro had naturally developed a habit of speaking evasively—but only with his sister.

“I do want to go home, but I’m afraid rushing things might make me worse again, so I plan to stay put for now.” After saying this, Sachiko told him how she would gaze at the sea from there every day and imagine Yashiro, finding pleasure in it. Taking into her hands the souvenirs Yashiro had produced—a leather handbag bought in Milan, a wallet from Paris, a shawl from Venice—his sister’s face revealed joy. Yashiro spoke at length about hot spring resorts in Tōhoku and matters concerning the Tachikawa family, but showed little inclination to broach topics related to foreign countries.

“When you come here after seeing the Japan Sea, you truly appreciate how bright the Pacific Ocean is. “The autumn rains are already severe up north.”

“Where did you like best?” She seemed to want to ask about foreign countries above all else rather than things about Tōhoku she already knew. Sachiko’s gaze held a light that seemed ready to pounce on something. Yashiro found this unpleasant and somewhat repellent, but thinking it might be the unavoidable joy of an invalid, “Hmm,” he said, looking down from the window at the fishing village below as a European scene momentarily floated into his mind. “There are places that feel good when you’re there and places that grow better when remembered later. It’s not something that can be summed up in a word.”

“Well, *our* interesting parts—Paris is nice, isn’t it?” “Hmm,” Yashiro muttered under his breath in a low voice, giving a bitter smile.

Sachiko, quick to notice the clouding of her brother’s expression, fell silent for a moment with a suspicious look. “Ah, it’s just like that,” Yashiro said, his face reddening as he turned away from Sachiko. “You’re acting strange.” “What?” “So was it boring—going there?” Yashiro now wanted to fend off Sachiko’s gaze, which seemed intent on persistently chasing every shift in his expression. “We’ll get to all that in due time—what matters now is you focus on getting better. People who get sick like Sachiko do so because their attitude isn’t proper enough.”

“If you say so, I suppose that’s that.” “But Mother is worried, you know.” “She says you seem terribly down and wonders what’s wrong.” “There’s no need for such concern.” “You went all the way to Paris—” “There isn’t.” Yashiro simply said that and laughed again. However, when he thought this might reveal some part of him still lacking vitality—even if Sachiko didn’t realize the cause lay with Chizuko—it occurred to Yashiro that her persistent scrutiny of his expression from earlier must have stemmed from suspicions rooted in her certainty that she could imagine the sorts of things that happen among men abroad.

“Though I suppose when the excitement wears off, I do lose some vigor, you know.” After saying all that in his eagerness to divert his sister’s thoughts to other matters as quickly as possible, Yashiro conveniently recalled the story of the courtesan he had met when they made an emergency landing in Pyongyang and proceeded to tell it to her. Moreover, the story that the courtesan had confided to him was what had interested Yashiro most when he had landed in Pyongyang, exhausted. On the night when the plane that was supposed to fly directly from Dalian to Fukuoka had stopped in Pyongyang due to storms ahead, Yashiro recalled being told that this was the birthplace of courtesans, and thinking this was just the time to hear Korean songs, he went out to a restaurant. It was a first-class restaurant, and below the window flowed the Taedong River. The room had only brown paper spread on the floor, but in the equally dark adjacent room, he could hear nothing but a few loud voices whose conversations he couldn’t make out. Perhaps because it was a night without lamplight on the river, the voices sounded like drunken murmurs sunken into a cave, and to Yashiro—who had just returned from Europe—the entire scene appeared as a comfort within the desolate darkness, yet he grew terribly lonely. When the courtesan entered in pure white garments, she knelt on one knee beside Yashiro and sat down. He had requested someone skilled in singing, so the courtesan’s song, surpassing the drunken voices from the neighboring room, resonated for a while in a strikingly beautiful tone. He forgot the courtesan’s name, but as she spoke of having gone to Tokyo to record an album and having returned only three days prior, she listlessly picked at the wrinkles of her skirt with an air of dejection.

“Was it your first time going to Tokyo?” Yashiro, having himself just returned from abroad that same night, felt an interest in this chance encounter with a courtesan who too seemed newly returned from Tokyo, and so he asked.

“It was my first time. I saw quite a variety of places this time—Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. But Kobe was my favorite.” “I wondered if such a beautiful place could exist in this world—I was utterly entranced.”

“Kobe?” Yashiro asked back with a hint of surprise. “Yes, I was completely taken with Kobe.” “So even if I went back to Pyongyang, once I realized I’d have to spend my whole life there, I lost all my spirit.” “I’ve resolved to save up quickly and live out my days secluded in the countryside.” When he asked her age, the courtesan said she was twenty. What in Kobe—Yashiro wondered then—had planted such despair in this twenty-year-old virtuoso who carried forward Goryeo’s cultural legacy? It was the same port where young men returning from Europe would gaze upon Kobe’s poverty from their ships until tears welled up unbidden—the very place from which this courtesan now returned, her lament a sorrow secretly shed.

“In other words, everyone’s forgotten the beauty of their own homelands.” “Heartless business.”

After everyone had finished speaking, Yashiro felt it all the more fortunate that the words he had intended to admonish her with had emerged so effortlessly, and he said: “Once you’re better, instead of lazing about here, you should tour around places like Nara or Kyoto.” “I plan to go myself someday.” “My journey is only just beginning in earnest.” Yashiro thought that Sachiko, who was not exactly foolish, would likely discern the depth of her brother’s concern in this situation. Sachiko, who until then had been silently gazing at the sea, suddenly stood up and turned her back to him, peering into the mirror at her shoulder draped in a Venetian shawl.

“It’s lovely.” “This.” “Once I get better, I want to hurry off somewhere too.” From beyond the shawl with its white Greek patterns embossed upon it came his sister’s voice—a sigh that seemed to overflow with resignation—and Yashiro realized Sachiko was indeed still a patient. When it suddenly occurred to him that she might be feigning health to spare him worry, he compared her state to Chizuko’s robust vitality as she had once walked freely with him through foreign lands, and just like that, he found himself pitying his sister—especially on the night they had stayed in the mountains of Tyrol,

“Is it really alright for me to be this happy? Can something like this last forever?” Yashiro remembered that sigh of Chizuko’s—the one she had released when she murmured with eyes gone pale and brimming with terror. Yet compared to the profound sigh now lingering in Sachiko’s breath, what a stark difference it was—he found himself pitying his sister now. The autumn light striking the white roses by the sickbed seemed like the faint respiration of something long forgotten, constricting Yashiro’s chest ever tighter.

“In time, you’ll be able to go anywhere. In life, things will turn out well as long as your attitude is right.” “That’s something I can’t do.” Stepping back from the mirror, still wearing the shawl and holding the souvenir handbag with the thick clasp of her wallet snapped shut, Sachiko walked listlessly along the wall past her brother, gauging his reaction. And,

“How’s this?” she asked, turning around with a laugh. Yashiro found himself laughing along with her.

A letter from Kuji arrived at Yashiro’s hands shortly after he had returned from Tohoku. Yashiro was glad, for he had indeed been waiting for a letter from him. According to the letter, Kuji had been on his way to Spain when a rebellion broke out, forcing him to turn back; he then traveled from Switzerland to Italy and had only just returned to Paris. Moreover, the letter stated that after Shiono had already departed for Japan and Higashino had crossed over to England, in Paris there were now few acquaintances left; autumn had arrived with horse chestnut leaves falling noisily day by day, and only loneliness and quietness grew—and at the very end,

“From what I hear, you too have managed to return alive, but I’ve grown increasingly uncertain.” “O enviable paragon.” Kuji had not forgotten to include even such sarcasm. This sardonic note carried the weight of Kuji’s struggles within it, and though Yashiro smiled wryly, he promptly wrote back, feeling compelled to direct once more—from his Tokyo home—the ceaseless debates they had waged in Paris. In truth, Yashiro found that with Kuji alone he could write things he could never bring himself to say to others, and for that alone, he contended in gratitude for Kuji’s magnanimity.

“There is the tale of the mummy hunter becoming a mummy—and I want you to understand my own sorrow in waiting for you to return in such a state.” Even as Yashiro wrote these words, he recalled Montparnasse streets steeped in the harsh western sun where Kuji had once narrowed his eyes against the light while muttering: “Oh, my mind swirls with bullets. I can only despair.”

As he muttered those words, he recalled Kuji’s gaze—eyes narrowed while repeatedly shielding them from the sunlight.

“Will either of us even make it back alive?” Yashiro thought he had responded with those words, but Kuji—seemingly recalling how they had been at that time—had honed the sarcasm in his letter to a razor’s edge. Yet as Yashiro contemplated the day he would go to receive Kuji’s mummified remains, he became convinced that the ship bearing him into port must be laden with countless living mummies just like Kuji. And imagining these spectral mummies scattering into Japan’s heartland, he could picture the vivid hues of plants that would sprout and bloom from soil fertilized by their corpses—plants that would undoubtedly take on a peculiar luster.

As he wrote to Kuji with such retaliatory sarcasm that he could not help but respond in kind, Yashiro came to envision with growing intensity the violent waves of the West that had first assaulted Japan. That was the ferocity of Catholicism, which had surged like waves from the Sengoku period through the Azuchi-Momoyama era. This spiritual wave had invaded the minds of nearly all of Japan’s intellectual class within a mere dozen years. In 1582, during the first month of Tenshō 10—the year Nobunaga was killed—the envoys of Kyushu’s Christian daimyōs departed for Rome for the first time; the speed with which devotional texts produced by the printing press they brought back eight years later spread across the land—and then, forty years later in Kan’ei 9, the storm of persecution that struck Christians nationwide and the grandeur of the great martyrdom that resisted it—

Yashiro considered Japan's great suppression of that era—comparable to the Roman Empire's persecution of Christianity—and as he contemplated the fate of those countless extinguished lives, he found himself inevitably envisioning Catholicism's flourishing form in the present day three hundred years later. Moreover, since Ōtomo Sōrin—a Catholic—had destroyed Yashiro's ancestral castle, and since Chizuko—the woman Yashiro had met in Europe who now tormented him and at times robbed him of all judgment—was likewise Catholic, this vision pressed upon him with particular force.

“To prosper, people may have to be killed by something—like you.” Even as he wrote these words in his letter to Kuji, Yashiro thought Catholicism’s renewed prosperity might stem from an indomitable will—summoned by martyrs slaughtered long ago. “I don’t know whether history repeats or progresses, but I hope and pray your lifeless sorrow may yet serve some purpose when its day comes. Since returning to Japan, my persistent thought has been simply to believe history doesn’t repeat—that it only moves forward. Yet history—coiling like human entrails—will likely never heed our prayers. But I worry no longer. Neither you nor I can become refined ‘barbarians’ nor transparent ‘intellectuals.’ Thus we are comrades who belong at the very bottom; those healthy enough to draw this ‘bottom’ lottery must realize truth thrives most richly here. For ultimately, we at the bottom bear humanity’s world. And from this awareness I intend to set out joyfully. Here lies our morality—I believe.”

Three days after Yashiro had sent that letter to Kuji, Shiono suddenly came to visit. When his mother, who had answered the door, handed him the business card, Yashiro exclaimed “Ah!” and immediately stood up. It wasn’t that a person had come—he felt a disquieting premonition, as though Paris itself had appeared in human form without warning. Tightening his loosened sash, he went out to the entrance.

“Oh, it’s been a while,” Shiono said to Yashiro, turning his energetically animated face upward while maintaining proper posture with both feet together. “I arrived the day before yesterday. I trust you’ve been well?” After Yashiro had shown Shiono into the reception room, they exchanged greetings as though reuniting after a long separation. Though neither had used honorifics during their time in Paris, they now stiffened unnaturally, the formal words flowing between them like those of strangers meeting for the first time. Yashiro sensed that trying to break through this formality would only heighten the awkwardness; his welling emotions constrained by decorum, he unwittingly settled into an emotionless, quiet expression.

"But anyway... It's good we could meet again." When they had fallen silent, somehow exhausted by the vague joy, Yashiro suddenly murmured these words as if to himself. Shiono—who had been gazing absently through the window at the pomegranate tree in the garden—nodded with a "Hmm," as though wanting to say he felt the same. Truly, this moment when they found themselves facing each other here again like this now seemed tinged with wonder. And indeed, here they were—just like this. Though he occasionally felt an impulse to embrace Shiono, Yashiro kept on smoking cigarettes as if at a loss for anything better to do.

“How has Mr. Higashino been? He should be arriving in Japan around now, but according to Kuji’s letter from a few days ago, he went to England. Have you met him since then?” “I did meet him. After that, there was a lecture by Mr. Higashino. I went to listen, but it wasn’t particularly interesting. He started saying such peculiar things that it left me rather uneasy. Still, when lecturing to the French, I suppose there was no alternative but to take that approach.”

“That must have been nerve-wracking.” Yashiro laughed as he recalled Higashino’s distinctively Eastern and dogmatic manner of speaking. “However, Mr. Sato—the director of the Committee for Intellectual Cooperation—told me afterward that it had been a success.” “That finally put my mind at ease.” “What sort of lecture did Mr. Higashino give?” Yashiro pressed again.

“Well, I’ve mostly forgotten the details, but he said something like—for the people of the world to love society, first each nation’s people must reassess their own history and geography anew.” “In any case, he argued that through this process, human affection would gradually transform into something more noble.” “Well, Mr. Higashino certainly made quite the grand statement.”

Yashiro laughed together with Shiono. But Yashiro thought that if Japanese people were compelled to speak before Europeans, there was currently no suitable and composed topic other than voicing the kind of things Higashino had said. In truth, during his time in the West, Yashiro had been no less impressed than others by countless things—yet he had always felt an inexplicable irritation simmering beneath. Shiono, however, was different; single-mindedly channeling his consciousness through the lens of a single camera, he persisted in studying his subjects. Moreover, he seemed to have kept directing his focus particularly toward Notre Dame—where physical form, centered on Christ’s spirit, had crystallized most beautifully of all.

“When you were in Europe, you were quite something,” Yashiro said, averting his gaze from Shiono as he spoke quietly. “Compared to Kuji and Mr. Higashino, I was most impressed by you. Truly, you were remarkable.” “There’s nothing remarkable about it,” Shiono replied, circling both hands behind his head with a laugh. “Unlike others, I was poor—there was simply no other way.” “Ah, but that’s precisely it.” Even as he spoke these words, Yashiro recalled Shiono’s bravery during the Paris Festival—how he had kept pressing his camera’s shutter despite being caught between traditionalist groups on the Champs-Élysées slope and waves of attacking leftists, all while being struck repeatedly.

“During that Paris Festival, the photos you took while being beaten—what happened to them?” “Ah yes, those came out quite well.” “I’ll develop them and send them over.” “At that time, I stumbled upon a completely chance opportunity, but in exchange, it felt like my head would split.” “Ouch, ouch.” Whenever talk turned to the Paris Festival, Shiono’s habit of flushing crimson across his entire face would begin to manifest—but just as one noticed this, he would abruptly change the subject, his eyes suddenly assuming an overly familiar, faintly derisive smirk.

“If you need photographs of glaciers, I have some.” “After parting from you, I went to Tyrol again.” “Because I couldn’t forget that glacier you crossed, I thought I must go once more before returning to Japan, and finally went there again.” “Ah, that place is wonderful.”

“Did you go?” Yashiro, caught off guard, found his heart continuing to race strangely. For a while, with the premonition of a flush threatening to rise to his face, he envisioned the glacier’s massive stratified layers before his eyes. “As for that shepherd’s song from there—since I managed to obtain that record too, I’ll bring it next time.” “I went with Ōishi, but afterward he was transferred to the Swiss embassy and remains there.” “Ms. Chizuko’s older brother also wants that song’s record from there, so I must bring it to him.” “―Did you meet her after that?”

“No, not yet.” “Has she returned safely?”

Yashiro asked in a weak, small voice. “She has returned.” “I only tried calling her yesterday, but let’s go see her now.”

“Hmm.” Yashiro gave a noncommittal response. His desire to go was overwhelming. Ever since the glacier had been mentioned, Chizuko’s name had swelled and loomed over him completely, but when Shiono casually broached the subject, he suddenly found himself at a loss for words, unable to reply immediately due to an indescribable bitterness. Shiono, while observing Yashiro’s expression, fell silent for a moment with vacant eyes that seemed equally perplexed.

“Instead, how about dinner somewhere? It’s been a while, after all.” Finally having said this, Yashiro brushed away his own anguish. “It really has been a long time—Ms. Chizuko—shall we invite her to dinner? She’ll be delighted.”

When Shiono, lost in the joy of their reunion, pressed him again like this, even Yashiro could no longer resist. This too was Shiono's misunderstanding—for if summoning Chizuko had been the goal, he might rather have gone out to meet her; instead, he had mistaken Yashiro's reluctance to visit her home directly as mere reserve. Yashiro felt a twofold desolate darkness toward himself for being unable to simply accept this joy at face value, and amid an impatience he couldn't express even to him, he sank into a strange silence.

“Meeting Ms. Chizuko would be nice, but I just…” Yashiro masked his feelings with laughter, his gaze as he looked at Shiono—uncontested—already steeped far more deeply in nostalgia for Paris from the very beginning. Whenever he became aware of himself merely superimposing Shiono against that backdrop, he was reminded that Shiono must be viewing him in precisely the same way—when suddenly, a loneliness that seemed to peer inward flowed past like a chill, eerily faint shadow. Moreover, were he to meet Chizuko now as things stood, he could almost see the shadow of Paris—poised only to spread further still—flicking up its ominous tail-like premonition with a sneer as it streamed by.

“But really, travel is such a strange thing, isn’t it? When you go, you’re just swept along—but you’ll find it grows painful before long. I never thought it would hurt this much. It’s good to see you and Ms. Chizuko now, but what a pity—if only I’d met you once before going abroad, it would’ve been better.”

“Ah yes, I understand that.”

Shiono too raised his eyes to the sky and spoke. The foreign phantasmagoria reflected in that uplifted air—pavilions layered upon pavilions forming a resplendent brocade of light—naturally mirrored itself in Yashiro's mind as well, and he found himself gazing at Shiono. For a time, while these phantoms watched phantoms, beyond the window the late autumn light gradually inclined toward dusk, deepening the shadows of every tree's withered leaf-tips. Beneath the garden's persimmon tree, from the skin of a long-crushed ripe fruit, white mold resembling hair stood erect and grew thickly.

“Anyway, we’re having our minds stolen more than our legs.” “It’s beyond control.” “—Let’s muster some spirit.” Yashiro shifted his gaze to the riotously blooming azaleas—a solitary burst of vitality in the garden—as he spoke, but the piercing clarity of the late autumn dusk seeped deeper into his core. After leaving the house, the two descended the sloping path. At the foot of the slope, Shiono spotted an automatic telephone booth and stepped inside, leaving Yashiro outside. Whether calling a restaurant or Chizuko himself, he had merely said “Just a moment”—yet through the glass, his face displayed an easy smile that seemed meant for Chizuko’s brother.

Yashiro glanced only once at Shiono inside the booth, and precisely because he was concerned about who might answer the call, he now had no desire to listen to the conversation's content. He entered a nearby tobacco shop he conveniently found there and bought extra cigarettes. Despite having so fervently promised Chizuko in Paris that they would meet immediately upon returning, over a month had now passed, and when he thought of the magnanimity of finally trying to see her only through Shiono's mediation, it also seemed that even she would hardly come so readily at his mere summons. Moreover, it was all but certain that Chizuko, having considered matters as thoroughly as he himself had contemplated, was now tormented by having to reconsider various special circumstances she felt obliged to consider as a woman.

“In other words, that was the crux of it.” He was the one who had failed to meet her.

As Yashiro exited the tobacco shop, the words nearly escaped his lips. Yet he thought—if she too had considered his perspective and pondered these matters—surely she would understand, were she to reflect with magnanimity, that there were circumstances preventing their meeting that stemmed not from malice or deliberate avoidance. But even so, what struck Yashiro as strange was this: though his own feelings—that single-minded desire to meet her, to see her—remained unchanged, the fact that something restrained those feelings was, he believed, some unknowable matter he alone could not fathom within his heart. That something—not born of his own intentions but lurking solely between them—would likely remain incomprehensible even if they were to meet. And since all such things could only arise between men and women who had met in foreign lands, there remained no path forward but to entrust their fate to heaven and proceed.

Even as he thought this, Yashiro stood at a distance, still afraid of the booth. The small white lighthouse-shaped box, unfriendly and pointed amidst the withered grass, stood alone like an antenna judging fate, ominous in appearance, and even the voice it carried seemed not merely scientific but rather like a mysterious glow. Then Shiono emerged from inside the box—wearing a well-tailored double-breasted suit likely made in Paris—and walked toward Yashiro with a grin that looked utterly absurd and out of place against the surroundings.

“Ms. Chizuko—she says she’ll come.” “Though she did say something rather odd at first.” “She went on about, ‘If I go, wouldn’t it trouble you, Mr. Yashiro?’” “That’s a bit strange too, isn’t it?” As he spoke, Shiono rummaged through his trouser pocket for cigarettes. Yet when it became clear Chizuko would indeed come, Yashiro suddenly brightened and nearly launched into voluble speech.

“Well, you’ve only just returned, so everyone’s acting strange. Before long, you’ll be the same way—if you’re not careful, you’ll end up hospitalized.”

“Hmm, I wonder if I’ll end up hospitalized.”

Shiono pushed up his glasses with a thoughtful air. “In any case, whether I end up hospitalized or not, something strange will inevitably come.” “Something incomprehensible will recklessly knock me down and come straddling me.” “Hmm, will it come?” Shiono tilted his head slightly, then let out a soft “ha” and laughed. The two came to just before the bus stop and stopped.

Yashiro, as he had done every time he came to this bus stop, naturally looked up at the great zelkova tree before his eyes—the same one he had gazed at countless times—and as always, marveled at the splendid sight of its trunk skillfully parting ways to become individual branches. The simple beauty of parting when reaching the point of parting, and the form of those separated branches continuing to uphold the sky, seized him and would not let go. “We’ve been struck by divine punishment.” “There’s nothing we can do.” “Let us resolutely accept our punishment and be done with it.”

For some reason wanting to speak to the zelkova tree, Yashiro found that before he could address Shiono, a bus heading in a different direction arrived and stopped before them. A gust of wind struck the zelkova, and dead leaves came cascading down in unison. The female bus conductor stepped out, planted one foot on the step, and gazed up at the falling leaves. “A day for falling leaves? Awfully sentimental, isn’t it? All right.” With hands spread toward the driver in a dancer-like gesture, she fluttered back inside. Shiono began to chuckle softly as he watched the departing bus. The dead leaves rustled down onto the shoulders of the laughing pair.

Since they wanted a place near Chizuko’s house, Yashiro and the others chose a traditional restaurant in Meguro, and from there, Shiono again informed Chizuko by phone. At this time, it was said that Chizuko’s brother would also be coming in addition to her. The ryotei here, though surrounded by large trees and thus dimly lit, did not feel gloomy despite the depth of its thicket owing to its location on elevated ground. It was said to have been remodeled from a former hatamoto residence—partly why its corridors and layout retained spear-practice spaciousness while preserving the study’s pristine simplicity. The painstaking wood joints and walls compensated for excessively high ceilings, creating a comfortable atmosphere.

“I’ve come here occasionally on company business, but before that, this place was connected to an acquaintance of mine.” After saying this to Shiono, Yashiro pointed to an artificial hill about four ken high in the corner of the garden. “This is called Meguro Fuji, you know. Even this was painted by Hiroshige.” “It seems Kondo Isami often came here too, but ever since returning to Japan, whenever I catch myself wandering aimlessly, I end up roaming through history like this.” “If there were no Hiroshige or Isami in this abandoned site, then we’re just about to have our meal here, aren’t we?”

“When you put it that way, it does feel rather fortunate.” “And the meal as well.” Shiono put on garden clogs, crossed the stepping stones, and approached Meguro Fuji. The entire triangular mound, lurking in the dim light, was covered with cedars. The expanse of their thicket surpassed the hill itself in scale, rendering even Meguro Fuji’s painstakingly crafted form as no more than an ordinary forest. Yet Yashiro, standing in the corridor while watching Shiono’s back, found himself unable to gaze calmly at the garden when he suddenly thought of Chizuko’s imminent arrival. What Chizuko had brought back—after their Paris farewell, her Atlantic crossing, her American journey—now erected a fresh illusion like an unseen sea breeze sweeping in, while even the tranquil stillness of Hiroshige’s upright cedars at Meguro Fuji seemed poised to cast a momentary flash upon the history he carried within.

Before long, as fires were lit in the stone lanterns' chambers throughout the garden and the room's lamplight began tinging the bases of the bamboo grove, Chizuko and her brother came walking along the corridor accompanied by a maid.

Standing beside her generously proportioned, tall brother, Chizuko’s cream-colored dress adorned with hawthorn blossoms cast a hazy ring of light across the eggshell-colored fusuma. From within that resplendent hue illuminated by lamplight, Chizuko drew her neck in slightly, glanced at Yashiro, then lowered her eyes. It was a beauty far surpassing what he had seen in Paris. There, Shiono casually approached the two and exchanged a practiced, vigorous handshake. Yashiro also moved toward Chizuko’s side following Shiono, but refrained from shaking hands and—as if by unspoken mutual consent—knelt on the tatami.

“It’s been a while.” When he said this, Chizuko faintly replied, “I’m glad you’re safe,” and immediately turned her slightly flushed eyes toward her brother. “This is my brother. Please treat him kindly.” The brother Chizuko had mentioned sat down with an air of discomfort, folding his rounded knees. Without bowing, he retrieved a business card from his pocket and delivered a composed greeting befitting a first meeting. Yashiro bowed twice with inexplicable awkwardness. Without properly registering the characters spelling Usami Yuki, he produced his own business card, feeling his stiffening emotions abruptly dissipate midway. Following their order of arrival, Yuki was naturally seated before the alcove, with Chizuko sitting beside him.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you too, Shiono.” Yuki looked up at the Daitoku-ji ichigyo-mono alcove scroll, then swept his gaze around the surroundings with an imperious gesture as he spoke to Shiono. His grandiose mannerisms didn’t appear arrogant; rather, the perpetual playful smile playing about him bestowed such carefree dignity that it paradoxically relaxed those facing him with remarkable effect. “How was America?” Shiono asked Yuki. “Well, it’s strangely vast—but then again, its gaps feel just as wide.”

Yuki answered in that manner and then, leaving the two waiting, did not attempt to say anything further.

“What? Is that all?” As Shiono was laughing, sake arrived, invigorating the gathering; naturally, the conversation shifted to America, and the sake cups began to move.

“How is Ōishi?” From Yuki’s question, talk of Ōishi surfaced briefly between Shiono and him before giving way to nostalgic recollections of their mutual acquaintances who had shuttled between Paris and London. These companions were all names from Japan’s upper class residing in Paris’s “16th arrondissement”—a world Yashiro knew little of, leaving him to listen passively as the two conversed. “I was meant to return sooner,” Yuki continued, “but the Marquis insisted we travel together, so I postponed my departure. Yet when we reached New York, there were crossties waiting. I’ve no idea how they got there—the son-in-law came along too.”

As Yuki talked while packing cut tobacco into his Dunhill pipe from a beautiful rosin-colored rubber silk pouch, Yashiro listened with the sensation of catching whiffs of Chizuko’s life since their parting. In Yuki’s stories, the custom of referring to people merely as “the Marquis” or “the Baron” without using their names appeared entirely natural to Shiono, who responded by laughing and interjecting sarcastic remarks toward Yuki.

Even so, Yashiro now couldn’t help but find it strangely peculiar—this incongruous period in Paris when Chizuko, who had immersed herself among these friends of Shiono and Yuki who had shed their Japaneseness, had approached him. However, though he could no longer discern exactly what had changed, everything now felt somehow different from before. “When did you return?” The very reason Yashiro had been afraid of meeting Chizuko’s gaze until now was that this alone felt difficult to ask her about, but loosened somewhat by alcohol, he finally looked at her face and inquired.

“I arrived on August 21st.”

Chizuko answered and immediately lowered her eyes to the table. Yashiro noticed her timid expression as she desperately tried to fend off something scattering away from her head, “So my guess was right.” “I returned on September 2nd, so we’re just ten days apart.” “After that, I stayed secluded in the Tōhoku countryside for a short while.” “How about one?” “One for you.” Chizuko, to whom Yashiro had turned the sake bottle, lightly touched the rim of the cup to her lips and immediately set it down; then, suddenly fixing her gaze straight at him without blinking, she remained silent.

“Was it this person... or that one?” Her gaze seemed to begin questioning itself, light welling up from anguish. “That’s how it should be—there’s nothing to grieve over,” Yashiro repeated inwardly to Chizuko, yet his lonely heartache marking the retreat of meaningless illusions grew more desolate with each passing moment. With the conversation’s opening now loosened, he gained momentum and began to speak—driven solely by the sensation of his own verbosity—about innocuous topics like the Siberian plains and the absurdity of being caught up in newspaper rivalries. All the while, Chizuko moved her chopsticks with a resentful air, scarcely listening to his words, while Shiono and Yuki, amused by Yashiro’s sudden volubility, leaned forward with “Hmm, hmm,” and burst into laughter. Beneath laughter that seemed to reach him as if from afar, Yashiro would finally muster his energy and talk volubly once more.

“But when you think about it, the Earth wears such a peculiar face,” Yashiro said. “The world is built to generate illusions, you see. Somehow I feel we’ve been charged with wiping away these phantoms that plague humanity—setting aside questions of good and evil. In the end, we’re meant to cherish peace.” Having concluded his speech, Yashiro picked up a freshly served fried shiitake with his chopsticks.

Yuki and Shiono also seemed unable to grasp the meaning of what Yashiro had let slip and remained silent. However, for Yashiro, that alone was something he had particularly wanted to tell Chizuko—and had done so. In truth, from the moment he saw Chizuko that night, Yashiro felt a sense of detachment—as though he began watching a different play on an entirely separate stage from yesterday—and sank into gloom.

And as all these things he could no longer enjoy lay entirely beyond Chizuko’s understanding, and as even every last shred of that night’s inexplicable sorrow and loneliness seemed to him the work of illusions he had witnessed in Europe, Yashiro grew unsettled—wondering whether this same weakened, crumbling heart that made so many young men returning from the West weep uncontrollably at the sight of Kobe from their ships now lurked within him too—and sank only deeper into desolation.

However, apart from Chizuko alone having seemingly detected it—with neither Shiono nor Yuki yet aware—the gathering grew livelier as the number of dishes increased. “By the way, does the Baron intend to return to Japan?” Yuki changed the subject and asked Shiono. Yashiro thought that the “Baron” in question must be Baron Hirao, who had been present when Higashino first introduced him to Shiono at the Triumph on the Champs-Élysées.

“Well, I suppose the Baron can’t return even if he wants to. Though I’m not entirely sure.”

Shiono muddled his words, his manner evading a clear answer. “I see, but why don’t we work to bring him back quickly?” “I’ve already made arrangements with the crossties as well.” “I don’t think there’s any reason to leave a man of his caliber to rot in Paris forever.”

“But it’s no good, ah.” Shiono faced Yuki again with a meaningful laugh. “More than that—I’m worried about you—are the crossties all right?” “No, that’s already been settled.” Whether it was Yuki’s faint smile as he looked down or the peculiar name “crossties,” Yashiro had been made to sense a depth of meaning each time the term came up—and now, from Shiono, who must have felt it too,

“You see, Usami was quite favored by the daughter of France’s Crossties King.” “But that young lady had a fiancé—a Count—and since he was the jealous type, it was amusing to watch.”

Despite Yuki trying to stop him with a hand and a “Hey, hey,” Shiono went on explaining the crossties to Yashiro in that manner.

“However, when faced with dire straits, I must say the French show quite admirable qualities.” “When I was in New York and heard the crossties were returning to Paris, I went to see them off at the ship.” “But just as the ship was about to depart, a female friend of the crossties beside me kept insistently urging me to give her a farewell kiss on the deck.” “Since it was a matter of etiquette, I had no choice but to do exactly as I was ordered.” “Then, right beside us, the Count was calmly applauding the whole time he watched.”

“Well, that’s because traces of chivalry still linger there.” Shiono’s glasses glinted as though he were reminiscing about the customs of Parisian high society he had frequented and his own past there.

However, Yashiro alone listened to Yuki’s story with a slight tightness in his heart. Or rather, he found himself unable to comprehend why Yuki had chosen to recount such a scene in the presence of Chizuko and himself.

Even if there were some differences from what Yuki implied, Yashiro could not help comparing his own attitude toward Chizuko with that of Yuki and the Count. Certainly, he thought, his own demeanor might not have been what someone with proper affection should display—or rather, it had not been entirely free of boorishness. Yet this too, he reminded himself, was the very nature of travel. The melancholy that had permeated his journey's joys now felt like a purification surpassing romantic love itself. Had he and Chizuko fallen into some amorous entanglement, he mused, the lingering impressions of his travels would surely have been profoundly different. Even now, he realized with some surprise, he felt no urge to tarnish those travel-stained emotions. Rather, what was this faint pleasure he found in maintaining his current stance? Perhaps the time for declarations had already slipped away between them—yet if so, something newly acceptable was undeniably taking root. In truth, their situation felt wholly fresh tonight—not foreign, but a vivid presence beginning to emerge even as it settled into stillness. Yashiro stole occasional glances at Chizuko's face. This was unmistakably not the Chizuko of before—her features had gained a depth of restrained solemnity laced with private cares, rendering her far more real than ever.

“Lately, I’ve been wanting to travel around Japan so badly I can hardly bear it.” “How about traveling with someone like Mr. Shiono one of these days?”

Yashiro said to Chizuko. “Yes, when that time comes again—”

Just as Chizuko relaxed her brows slightly to speak, Shiono enthusiastically interjected from beside her, “Sounds great! Let’s go, let’s go!” “Once everyone comes flooding back, we’ll all go together.” “As part of my future work, I need to take photos of Japan’s good points and vigorously send them abroad—nothing could be better.” “I really ought to start tomorrow at the latest.”

At Shiono’s words, only Yuki stroked his head briefly and spoke in a disinterested tone, lowering his voice.

“You’re so fortunate.” “By then, I’ll be back in Europe.” “Mine is a matter of orders, so there’s nothing to be done about it.”

As Yashiro realized there were still those who would be going from here on out, he listened with pity to the subdued tone of Yuki’s voice.

“Even though I just got back, hearing about people leaving isn’t exactly thrilling.” Shiono suddenly laughed with a disappointed air.

“However, I found Mr. Yashiro’s earlier story quite interesting.” “It’s said that our fate is to wipe away humanity’s illusions—and I must say, I rather feel the same way.” Observing Yuki—his large face with a pipe clenched between his teeth turned toward the ceiling, speaking while looking down at Shiono with only his eyes—Yashiro thought him a businessman of unexpected sharpness, one who possessed a delicate ability incongruous with his rugged appearance, evident in how abruptly he had shifted the conversation.

“Illusions…” Shiono said and fell silent, but—

“When we were coming here earlier, you said something strange, Yashiro-kun—when the dead leaves began to fall, you said, ‘We’ve been struck by divine punishment.’” “At that moment, I somehow felt a shudder run through me.” Contrary to Shiono’s apparent intention of making it a humorous anecdote, the gathering fell completely silent for a moment. Chizuko stood up from the gathering and went outside alone. Her manner of rising was not particularly disruptive in itself, but since Yashiro had long considered Chizuko’s habit of leaving mid-conversation a flaw, he found himself troubled, thinking it had begun again.

He recalled nights atop the Tyrolean peaks when she had suddenly vanished, and upon searching for her, found her praying alone toward a glacier; now, wondering what place Catholicism held in Chizuko’s heart, he propped his elbows gloomily on the dining table and waited for her return.

Perhaps because Yuki had an interest in ceramics, he picked up each dish that was brought out and turned it over. Such things would not usually catch Yashiro’s attention, but when it occurred to him that this might be a quirk of Chizuko’s brother, he naturally found himself observing closely. When Chizuko returned to the room after fixing her makeup—unlike when she had left—her distinctive dimples brightened her smile. Her gaze now seemed eager to engage Yashiro in conversation about something.

“Have you heard from Makiko since then?” Yashiro asked. “Yes, I received one from Milan.” “It was such a terribly lonely letter.” “And you?” “I got one from Kuji two or three days ago—he’s trying to pick another fight. It seems we’ve become fated Go rivals.” “I received one from Mr. Kuji too.” “He wrote that things aren’t working out with Makiko either—I wonder what he means.”

With a sudden effort to rouse her flagging spirit and sustain herself, Chizuko looked at Yashiro. Yashiro, too, tried to maintain the weary demeanor that had slackened between them since Paris by feigning cheerfulness, but the moment his eyes met Chizuko’s, the discomfort made him swiftly abandon the pretense.

“After all, what I said was correct, wasn’t it? That things felt more suspicious when we were in Paris.” Though he needn’t have voiced it aloud, Yashiro’s attempt to let slip a faint smile—neither truly a smile nor a gesture of concern—proved futile to conceal, for this outcome now laid bare before them pointed undeniably to their shared complicity. All of it was supremely dissatisfying to them both, yet now that this solemn verdict had been rendered, did every action they took amount to nothing more than a diversion?

When he thought this, rather than becoming transparently feigned, Yashiro instead felt indignation toward that ineffable verdict which had reduced them both to such a state, and even found himself wanting to challenge it.

At that moment, Sawa, the master of the house who had been making rounds to greet the guest rooms, entered. With his close-cropped head, squinting his eyes and maintaining his habitual blank expression, he came over to Yashiro’s side and sat down.

“How have you been lately?” “Oh, right! Today we have some excellent whiskey.” “If you’d like, I can have it brought over.” Sawa said this without even a laugh, then brusquely ordered whiskey from the maid. When introducing Yuki and Shiono to Sawa, Yashiro explained that these people had just returned from the homeland of your prized whiskey.

“Well, that’s quite a predicament. However, I won’t take your money, so please drink as much as you’d like.” “Such people weren’t even in London.”

As the gathering suddenly grew lively thanks to Yuki’s quick wit, Sawa scratched his head and said, “I wonder if this will be drinkable.” The moment Yuki caught sight of the liquid in the black square bottle that the maid had brought in, “Oh, this is excellent!” He sat up straight and beamed. While the alcohol did not appear to be affecting him much, it seemed in fact to have taken considerable hold on Yuki; his informal, open-hearted demeanor grew even more pronounced as he snatched the square bottle from the maid’s hands and promptly poured some into his own glass.

“Well, this is like giving a demon an iron club.” After touching his tongue to the glass for a sip, Yuki looked at Sawa. “This is splendid.” “This is excellent.” His eyes—brimming with a smile—shifted sharply; their gleam intensified fiercely in an instant, and as he glanced around, they paradoxically stirred waves of laughter in their wake, conjuring the image of an uncanny cat. While pouring into Sawa’s and Yashiro’s cups, he seemed lost in the depths of his growing intoxication, pondering the circumstances of the woman he had left behind in a foreign land. After drinking two or three cups, Yuki leaned one elbow on the dining table and began to sing in a rhythm as if swaying on a ship.

The things I love In this world, there are two The lamplit streets of Paris nights What lingers in my heart Is homeland of the soul As Yashiro listened to Yuki’s mournful song, he felt an aching resonance in his chest—as if his own life were being sung—and swept away by this drowning emotion, he found himself unable to look toward Chizuko, the persistent urge to resist the lyrics only tightening his pain. Chizuko had at first laughed with faint concern at her brother’s drunken state, but then—perhaps hearing in the hues of Parisian nightlights that now engulfed her the ephemeral echoes of journeys past—she too suddenly crumpled forward and did not raise her face for a long while.

Yashiro found himself recalling one after another the days they had spent together in Paris, and there in the samurai residence where they now sat facing each other, Chizuko’s figure increasingly appeared like that of a stranger. “Chizuko-san, you must be tired.”

Yashiro said. “No.” As Chizuko raised her eyes, a vivid radiance that had flickered to a halt suddenly suffused her face with a faint blush.

"I told Shiono earlier—if you don't take care of yourself, you'll fall ill. Were you all right?" "Yes, but I'm fine now. Though for a while afterward, I did feel strangely tired." From Chizuko's face—where even speaking had seemed somehow fearful—the sorrow vanished with a swiftness like ripples spreading too far.

“Anyway, that time was interesting, wasn’t it.”

Yashiro spoke meaninglessly, not even bothering to consider when "that time" might have been. In truth, he thought it best that whatever enjoyment existed should remain confined to that era. The resignation—that wanting to prolong greater pleasures between them was perhaps mere extravagance—remained unchanged. "Am I permitted such happiness, I wonder." "Could this bliss possibly endure?" Even the sigh Chizuko had exhaled atop the Tyrolean peaks now struck Yashiro as laden with significance. "Amusing at first, but soon turns sorrowful—the cormorant boat." This Bashō verse suddenly surfaced in his mind, its masterful evocation of travel melancholy so precise it felt maliciously crafted, and he found himself staring anew at Chizuko's face.

“Mr. Yashiro, please read my letters.” “I sent them from America.” “I received two letters.” “Wait—three, perhaps.” “Then that’s half of what I sent.” “What could have happened, I wonder.”

“Thank you very much for sending them so often.”

Yashiro gave a slight bow and poured whiskey into Chizuko’s glass. Chizuko paid it no mind, her eyes—as intense as the rising cadence of her breath—fixed unwaveringly on him. “I... “I was certain you’d already returned.” “But you remained silent all this time.” “For days I’ve waited—wondering when I might receive word of your return—I’ve waited for nothing else, but—”

“No—it wasn’t like that at all.” Yashiro said, hanging his head. “But we made such a firm promise—I can’t believe you would forget even that.”

Even the presence of her brother and Shiono nearby no longer made Chizuko feel reserved—she sat perfectly composed. “However, well—it’s true that I was rude—but please try to understand.” “No matter how much I might want to, I can’t remain exactly as I was over there now that I’m here—and I’m sure I told you as much when we parted in Paris. But back then, I hadn’t imagined that the difference between there and here would be this stark, so I ended up being rude without meaning to.”

“Right, right—that sort of thing does happen.” “I’ve had it happen too.” Yuki, who hadn’t been spoken to, nodded alone from the side.

“Such is the way of things, I suppose.”

Chizuko lowered her voice, suddenly fell silent, and sank into thought. “That’s exactly it.” “That’s all.” “Even so, I must say.” “No, no—it’s your mistake.” “Amusing at first, but soon turns sorrowful—the cormorant boat.” In the stillness where the threads of conversation had shattered into fragments without a trace of continuity, Yashiro thought that the disappointment which should have inevitably come someday had merely arrived sooner thanks to Shiono—and paradoxically, he found himself feeling strangely invigorated. In truth, after having said all he could by way of caution to Chizuko before parting in Paris, when faced with this night’s disappointment that had arrived larger than anticipated, he felt as though he had regained vigor precisely in proportion to its magnitude—a strange stability, one might say. While traveling in the West, even if nothing in particular had occurred, for a young man like him, that very fact alone must have been no less than the greatest event since his birth. Yashiro thought that even the intensity of the friendships encountered during that time—and the naturalness with which they dissolved without incident as the journey ended—possessed a beauty of resilience that would be difficult to achieve even if one tried to orchestrate it. Of course, he had not forgotten the friendships he had formed in foreign lands. Rather than merely preserving those friendships as memories, it seemed that only by gladly purging the lingering illusion of foreign lands—a purification necessary even to elevate those bonds—could they be transformed into healthy friendships for the days of ordinary life to come. And indeed, Yashiro, though lonely, was beginning to feel a sense of freedom deep within now.

This seemingly false aspect—whether noticed immediately upon returning or not—is something both parties gradually come to realize in time. Yashiro had wanted to discuss these matters more thoroughly with Chizuko. But thinking it better to wait for a moment when they would be truly alone, he once again resolved to endure the loneliness of that night as it was.

“Let’s meet again soon—what’s over there stays over there, and what’s here stays here. They’re separate matters, after all.” “Well, that’s precisely how it is in the end,” said Yashiro, looking at Chizuko as he let out a light laugh: “Ha ha ha.” “Divine punishment, I suppose.” Chizuko replied with an air of awkwardness and laughed along. Taking advantage of his lightened mood, Yashiro nearly spoke of how he had wandered in a daze to Chizuko’s house that very night he arrived in Tokyo. But still, thinking the natural moment to say it had not yet come, he stopped himself.

After leaving the traditional restaurant, the four of them walked to the government railway station. Along both sides of the dark leaf-strewn path that sloped gently downward, beneath the towering trees, Shiono and Yuki walked ahead while talking, followed a little behind by Yashiro and Chizuko. From Chizuko’s collar—her face unseen—the scent of spices brushed past. It was the same fragrance that had wafted through the air on that rain-cleared night path in Montparnasse where they had walked together before parting.

“Won’t you come visit my house once? “It’s not much to look at, though.” Chizuko said in a voice now devoid of excitement, then recounted how a few nights earlier she had dreamed of being harshly scolded by Yashiro’s mother—whom she had never met—and trembling violently in fear within that dream. Yashiro imagined his mother reprimanding Chizuko—a scene he thought entirely plausible—and briefly wondered where Chizuko, persisting in her Catholicism, might find common ground with a mother whose temperament was that of a steadfast samurai’s daughter devoted to the Hokke sect. But no—he reconsidered—that too was a matter for later.

“You’re welcome to come visit me, but I must warn you—it’s not a house worth boasting about.” “If you say such things, then my place is no different.” As they both walked slowly, trying to put more distance between themselves and Yuki’s group ahead, he thought that after all, unless they were alone, it would be impossible to speak their true minds.

The dark sloping road stretched on interminably. Each time streetlamp light filtered through the trees, the crimson netting of Chizuko's hat would shimmer into view. Hearing Yuki's booming laughter rise from the foot of the slope in the distance, Yashiro thought even the path he and Chizuko walked might somehow seem brighter because of it.

The platform of Ebisu Station was brightly illuminated, as if floating on a sea of light. The view resembled that of a ship entering a harbor; as he felt his hardened heart melting away within him, he was reluctant to board the train.

Days of Chrysanthemum Weather remained crisp and clear for many days, the shrill dark cries of shrikes piercing through the sky. Yashiro had initially intended to conclude his travels with visits to Nara and Kyoto, but if he was to journey at all, he now found himself wanting to wait until spring and venture as far as Kyushu to survey the remnants of his ancestors' castle. Though such thoughts had never occurred to him before, he had lately developed this sudden urge to behold the tranquil forms of ruined things. Even when recalling childhood travels—crushing ferns and pampas grass that grew thick between crumbled stone walls on mountain slopes beneath heedless feet—what had seemed mere decaying fortresses now promised different resonances should he see them anew. His family crest bore two interlocking commas, but when Yashiro discerned its match with the Saionji family's emblem—interpreting "Saionji" itself as meaning "manor of the western country"—the shared design felt strangely inevitable. Each time he connected this crest to his father's village landscape—where a hatchet-cleaved table-like crag stood stark against cloudless skies—he imagined it as the enduring backdrop of ancestral lives never fading from their minds. On moonlit nights, even collapsed fortress stones seemed to glimmer with sentimental phosphorescence. Though he bore no lingering resentment toward Ōtomo Sōrin who had destroyed it all, the Catholicism Ōtomo embraced and the gunpowder it introduced still felt like alien elements from some divergent taxonomy—and this very foreignness now kindled in him a fierce curiosity to trace their origins and workings. That Chizuko too should share Sōrin's Catholic faith through some twist of fate—this realization reverberated from his subconscious depths, awakening in Yashiro an inexplicable attraction. Yet when he attributed this pull to Catholicism's exoticism, his own inadequacies turned sour within him—and with them arose an unforgivable disquiet whenever imagining Chizuko as lover.

When suddenly struck by such feelings, Yashiro would always seek out and imagine from history the hardships of Tadaoki, who had married Hosokawa Gracia. The tragedy of life enacted between Tadaoki—who, in the very era when Yashiro’s ancestors’ castle had been destroyed, was tormented by his Catholic wife and strove night and day to overturn her faith—and Gracia, who resisted him to the end, was even now a fear of the same nature that persisted between himself and Chizuko. Thrusting an unsheathed long sword at Gracia,

“Renounce Christianity. If you cannot renounce it, cut open your belly.” the face of Tadaoki pressing in, and before him, [she] expounded the virtue of the Lord, “Because I love the Lord, I love you.” When Yashiro considered the lives of the two, which had been dominated by Gracia’s unyielding resistance—she who had never ceased to assert her beliefs—he could not help but wonder: had the only thing he brought back from the West been that obstinate Catholicism which had tormented Tadaoki? His heart naturally darkened at the thought. The marital relationship between Hosokawa Tadaoki and Gracia seemed to be the central event of the fresh ideological storm of that time, but to Yashiro, it appeared as a painfully typical point that could not be overlooked. Around May of Tenshō 10 (1582 CE), when Nobunaga was killed by Mitsuhide, Mitsuhide’s daughter Hosokawa Gracia was around twenty years old—an age that could be called the bloom of womanhood—and this too resembled Chizuko. Moreover, the fact that Nobunaga himself had offered to serve as the matchmaker for Gracia and Tadaoki’s marriage was something Yashiro found deeply intriguing. Moreover, he thought that within the tragedy of Mitsuhide—who, two or three years after his daughter’s marriage to Tadaoki, killed Nobunaga, the very man who had served as their matchmaker and the lord who had nurtured his growth—there must surely lie a pain unfathomable to others. As long as that pain remained unfathomable, he thought, even the vigor that drives history must be something not easily understood. Even without such reflections, for Yashiro now, the part of Japanese history that most intrigued him was naturally the Sengoku period in which his ancestors had perished, as well as the movements of curiosity exhibited by the three figures who represented that era: Nobunaga, Mitsuhide, and Hideyoshi. And what these three figures found most intriguing—and troubling—was that it was none other than Catholicism, the foreign element that had shaped the West. —For if the cause of their fascination with Catholicism lay in the gunpowder that had brought cannons, the progenitor of violence, then when faced with natural science—the parent that birthed that gunpowder—Yashiro thought that even now, he still felt the same wonder toward it as Nobunaga and Hideyoshi once had. Moreover, regarding the foreign god that formed the spiritual driving force of Catholicism—this faith that had been entangled in conflict with science for a millennium and now appeared to have even married it—and concerning the essence of Jehovah and His son Christ, whom Chizuko and Hosokawa Gracia had believed in, he could not simply pass by without knowing. Not only that—even what people commonly refer to as world history could, in the end, be viewed as the history of Catholicism and natural science, Yashiro thought. And without even attempting to imagine the ceaseless hopes yearning at the heart of these two forces, he found it equally inconceivable to grasp the myriad sinister flames of malignant thoughts emitted by the writhing sorrows and crumbling forms of laughter within what is called world history—the history of human masses.

Though all was history—what exactly was history? Whenever Yashiro thought this, the vague notion that ultimately surfaced in his mind was the form of Ise’s grand torii and the smile of the Sphinx he had seen in Egypt. When Yashiro saw the face of that Sphinx—which even Nobunaga, Mitsuhide, and Hideyoshi had died without ever seeing—he thought: Ah—so this was it. Having thought this, he realized he had merely been dazed. But as he recalled passing through the dark hollow of the pyramid looming behind that Sphinx, Yashiro also remembered Chizuko’s figure—her hand held by Kuji as she was abruptly pulled up with labored breath. At that thought, he suddenly found himself thinking that Kuji must still be in love with Chizuko even now. He pictured Kuji still in Paris, diligently sending letters to Chizuko. And with the natural associations that followed—as Yashiro likened Chizuko to Gracia—there also came to him the recollection of Takayama Ukon’s sentiments, he who had never ceased preaching Catholicism to Gracia. Yashiro thought that the daily interactions between Gracia, Tadaoki, and their friend Ukon were no different—in other words were just the same—as his and Kuji’s daily interactions with Chizuko caught between them. And should matters proceed such that I were to marry Chizuko—given that Kuji who like Ukon continued yearning for the West might interject Catholic waters between us just as Ukon had done to perpetually confound Tadaoki and Gracia—there seemed no lack of fear that troublesome daily entanglements could arise.

“Abandon your parents, abandon your siblings, abandon your master. And believe only in God.” Gracia, gradually swayed by Ukon’s fervent words in this impassioned tone—and Chizuko, akin to Gracia’s life of faith that had long abandoned hope in this world, continued to worship the Western god at every turn; if her thoughts of her husband—oneself—meant nothing more than clinging to the illusion of Europe, then even in an age not of warring states, his suffering seemed no different in essence from Tadaoki’s tragedy. Moreover, this issue of religious difference might only be something they could truly understand after living together—and depending on how one looked at it, there was also a possibility that Chizuko’s intention to believe in Catholicism was merely a cultural hobby, akin to a modern Japanese woman learning a foreign language as part of her refinement. However, in any case, the difficulty of converting Chizuko was undoubtedly something that would require more effort than his own conversion.

Whenever Yashiro thought about religion—the greatest obstacle to his marriage with Chizuko—Ōtomo Sōrin would drift back into his mind. This Francisco Sōrin would don attire resembling that of kings kneeling to receive crowns from the Pope at foreign coronations, wearing it over his armor as he rode into battle. Upon reading historical accounts describing how Sōrin had employed Catholic rites in all such matters, Yashiro felt a twinge of resentment even toward his own ancestors—those destroyed by that very man. At such times, as these thoughts extended to Chizuko’s circumstances, he had lately come to think this was also because her family’s lineage—and those of other similar intellectual-class households—lacked ancestors who had known the sorrow or suffering of defeat by Catholicism.

However, even having thought this much, Yashiro felt it did not mean he considered Catholicism wrong. Yet when it came to his own family alone, there lingered the fear that it might obstruct their marriage. To make efforts to dispel that fear, he sensed the time had come when he must borrow some other suitable force. And where in the world was he to find this other force? In truth, Yashiro had forgiven Chizuko’s Catholicism—rather, he had wanted a peaceful, magnanimous power behind it that would support her faith instead. But Buddhism would not suffice for this, he thought. Nor would Shinto serve any better. When he considered it thus, within Japan there remained nothing at all for him except ancient Shinto. In this manner, whenever Yashiro found time, he gradually began scouring for and purchasing books on ancient Shinto.

About two weeks after meeting Chizuko in Meguro, a brief express letter arrived from her to Yashiro one day. It stated that Shiono had been admitted to Surugadai Hospital, and since she wished to visit him the following day, she asked that he join her then. So it’s come at last, Yashiro thought. Mere moments had passed since their parting—he having warned her, “You’ll be hospitalized yourself if you’re not careful”—and though he had understood Shiono’s condition from the start, what struck him now was not just the eerie fulfillment of his jest but the inevitability of its arrival. In this inevitability, he found himself reexamining the extraordinary toll exacted by his long journey’s sorrows—a burden no longer ordinary. Medically, it was deemed an obscure ailment afflicting those who returned abruptly from the germ-sparse West to Japan’s humid breeding grounds of bacteria. Yet Yashiro rejected this explanation. To him, it was nature’s purification ritual for chosen pure-hearted souls. Had Kuji been present now, he mused with a bitter smile, this very point would have become their fiercest battleground of debate.

When Yashiro went to Surugadai Hospital, Chizuko had already arrived and was waiting in the reception room. She explained that even after inquiring with the doctor about Shiono’s condition, she had failed to obtain any clear answer—they said there was no method but to keep him sedated. Thinking it better not to disturb the patient, Yashiro and Chizuko left the hospital and chose to enter a coffee shop near Ochanomizu that offered a commanding view. “How is your brother doing?”

In the clear sky，the dome of Nikolai Cathedral was distinctly visible. Looking down at the roof of the government railway train gliding along the moat below，he found himself with nothing left to say as he sat facing Chizuko. “Brother has been quite impressed with you.”

As he watched Chizuko twist her expression bashfully while saying this, Yashiro sensed her taking his side over her brother’s, and before he knew it, he was suddenly struck by a feeling as though they had somehow already married. The idea of them actually proceeding with marriage now seemed to him a calm feeling that even set apart anything unnatural.

“What have you been doing every day?” “Lately?” “Lately I’ve just been drifting… I don’t know why—it feels like I’m losing myself.” “Do you think I might end up like Mr. Shiono?” “It’s a time for purification of sorts.” “Even with Shiono’s hospitalization—I can’t help seeing it that way for us all.” “Then you haven’t yet?” Chizuko asked, her face flushing faintly. “I completed mine in Tōhoku.”

Even as they spoke of such things, Yashiro felt not the intimacy of a married couple but a calm akin to that between the closest of friends who no longer needed formal interaction. Yet it occurred to him that if they were indeed to marry now, he might end up pressuring Chizuko—just as Hosokawa Tadaoki had pressured Gracia—to abandon nothing but her Catholicism. As they were now—mere friends—they had neither the right nor any need to press each other on such matters. Yet when they happened to use words like “purification” between them, the fact that one was Catholic cast a shadow—a peculiar tension that made the other feel a tinge of shame upon acknowledging their own cultural identity. Even when noticed, this could not be wiped away, leaving an irresolvable awkwardness. This too had been no more than a fleeting thought—one that would pass if left unspoken—but once voiced, the very severity inherent in “purification” compelled them to press on until it hardened into habit. Yet he believed without question that this extremity of severity would ultimately lead to tranquility.

“I’ve been thinking lately that I’d like to try performing a true purification ritual once. What you think is another matter, of course.” Yashiro said, laughing. “So you’ve joined the earthy traditionalists now. You too?” Yashiro thought such an expression would surely cloud her smile, but Chizuko kept looking down at the roof of the train gliding along the withered grass at the bottom of the moat, her lips slightly pursed as she maintained a somber expression that seemed to waver with rising thoughts. The clear sunlight shone on the lace of her black dress’s collar, illuminating Chizuko’s deer-like chin, which Yashiro gazed upon with a beauty tinged by the resigned calm of an autumn day.

“Somehow, it feels strange discussing purification with you being Catholic—but still, as a man, I find myself quietly needing to anchor myself in my work.” “You said something similar when we parted in Paris.” “I often think about that time—though I wonder if that’s simply how things are meant to be.” Chizuko lifted her tea with the spoon and let it drip, drip, before sinking back into silence.

“I have no intention of interfering with your thoughts, you know.”

“But to end up like this after returning—” When he failed to respond, Yashiro felt regret that—contrary to their present harmony—a shadow had emerged which remained unchallenged yet still lingered.

“On the night I arrived in Tokyo, I went to your place before returning home.”

“Oh, is that so.” A smile flickered at the corners of Chizuko’s eyes as she gazed at Yashiro with a look of wonder. “But you see—about that place—it was as if my eyes had opened. I realized this wasn’t like when I’d been asleep. That’s all there is to it.” “Is that all?” Chizuko paled again, looking unconvinced, and asked. “In other words, it’s inexpressible.” “But how can we even put such things into words?” “It’s beyond either your or my understanding—whether that strange thing just appeared and vanished or is still lingering here, we can’t tell, you know.” “Well, once the fatigue passes, you’ll understand.” “Even Shiono is actually doing something incomprehensible there right now, isn’t he?”

As Yashiro spoke, the things he wanted to say suddenly surged forth in waves, yet the more he spoke, the more hopelessly tangled they seemed to become. Spotting a yellow chrysanthemum on a distant table, he brought it over to his own and pressed his nose to its cold petals. As he leaned into the scent that pierced his mind for a while, the two-comma crest of his family suddenly floated into view. He wondered what the two intertwined comma shapes resembling fireballs could possibly signify. It resembled two comma-shaped beads, appeared like a condensed nebula, and matched the primordial diagram of sound waves manifested on the kotodama tortoise shell plate in an old book edition he had found the other day. Yet in the end, it began to resemble their present thoughts—clashing and circling like Chizuko and himself returning divided across the globe’s eastern and western surfaces—and even this seemed to continue spinning while rebounding off itself, tail and head forever chasing one another as if flowing away into oblivion. From within the chrysanthemum’s fragrance, Yashiro sought, for a time, to adopt an unconscious feeling—one that might divine their fates.

“There is the phrase ‘now is the past,’ you know.” “We use it so casually, but this phrase—it’s truly terrifying,” he said abruptly, lifting his face from the chrysanthemum to gaze back down into the moat. “You haven’t truly...had something happen to you?” Chizuko asked, her frightened expression suggesting she wanted to say more. “What do you mean by ‘now is the past’?” “That now is essentially the past—that what we’re doing now was also done in antiquity.” “Surely even in our distant past, there were ancestors who returned home just as you and I are doing now.” “Long ago, countless shrines were built across Japan—ones people today dismiss as illicit.” “The essence of those shrines now bears an uncanny resemblance to geometry.” “Not Euclid’s flat-plane geometry from Greece, but something far more sophisticated—akin to spherical non-Euclidean forms.” “In other words, it parallels the very foundation of Einstein’s relativity.” “Yet where Einstein confined his theory to inorganic matter, Japan’s illicit shrines symbolized a four-dimensional realm of sound waves—interpreting their propagation patterns as emblems of human vitality.” “Since these too emerge through mathematical functions, we needn’t claim ancient Japan’s natural sciences reached such heights—merely that they weren’t unscientific.” “How peculiar.” “‘Now is the past,’ you say?”

Chizuko’s complexion changed slightly, and she straightened her posture. She clearly bore an expression that doubted Yashiro’s sanity.

“It’s fine—there’s no need to be so startled.” “I recently read an ancient text called *Kotodama*—these are just my impressions of it.” “What’s fascinating is that in this kotodama book I read, there’s a section where two eminent scholars—one in physics, another in anthropology—receive instruction from an eighty-year-old kotodama researcher named Yagi.” “Yet when these scholars saw sound waves expressed through mathematical functions, they were utterly dumbfounded.” “In other words, these doctors became pioneers more astonished by Japan than anyone else.” “I believe this scholar Yagi was truly remarkable too.” “No one could possibly be surprised even hearing such things.” “It may be rude to say this to you—a Catholic—but isn’t it good to acknowledge such possibilities occasionally?” “They’ve all sneered at it far too much.” “Though admittedly, one can’t exactly lodge complaints about that point with everyone.”

On Chizuko’s face—silently gazing at the moat’s depths without a word—a smile thrashed rebelliously, flickering in and out of existence. Watching the two black train roofs flow past each other at the moat’s bottom, Yashiro found it interesting how this too seemed identical to the diagram of light waves—a function encircling the two-comma pattern manifested on the tortoise shell plate. The curve of the Chuo Line passing through the circular loop of the Yamanote Line was intriguingly similar in shape to the line formed by two connected comma-shaped beads—the tomoe pattern.

“Do you understand now? Do you understand why I want to perform *misogi* once?” he asked Chizuko with a laugh.

Chizuko began to answer, her lips trembling, then fell silent again and gradually turned pale.

“I have no objection to you remaining Catholic.” “That may be so, but there’s more I need to say.” “Not to boast, but my family once possessed a castle.” “Yet it was destroyed by Ōtomo Sōrin, a Catholic daimyō.” “I bear no grudge against Catholicism for this, but strangely—forgive the digression—when I recall my ancestors’ hardships then, the Marquis who accompanied your return from America comes to mind.” “This may seem abrupt and suspect again, but your brother kept repeating ‘the Marquis’ without ever naming him—which Marquis do you mean?” “I must offer my thanks once.”

“Marquis Tanabe,” Chizuko replied in a low voice, her gaze still carrying that provocative glint. Yashiro had never met the Marquis before. Yet the Marquis’s ancestral castle was renowned throughout Japan as a uniquely special fortress—one he himself remembered seeing perhaps twice. When viewed in the rain, its form—a blackish-brown grandeur like rows of arrow fletchings—stood in stark contrast to his homeland’s crumbled castle ruins, evoking at first glance the image of a magnificent kite spreading its wings. Beneath that silhouette, where a great river swollen with rainwater churned and coiled in eddies, stood a fortress of vivid beauty at the zenith of its splendor.

“Could you arrange for me to meet that Marquis once? Somehow, I sense a kite from him—is he not that sort of person?” “A kite?” “Yes—somehow he resembles a kite.” Chizuko, still breathing as if she had jumped from a high cliff, remained silent without smiling for a while, her expression reproachful, then exhaled deeply and looked up at the sky. “I feel dizzy.” “Would you mind finding a car?”

Seeing the sweat on Chizuko’s forehead where her veins protruded, Yashiro went outside at once. While searching for a taxi, he found himself sympathizing with Chizuko, who appeared more shaken than he had expected. Though fully aware that Chizuko took pride in her Catholicism, Yashiro thought the conversation had veered so spitefully because it had been fated—like sound waves expanding outward. Even without deep reflection, he had understood such an occurrence was inevitable eventually. Resolving to accept this unavoidable parting, he stationed himself at the foot of Seibashi and kept watching the thoroughfare. A loneliness sharp enough to pierce his chest seemed to course through his entire being; yet under the glaring autumn sun, his body grew leaden until he stood vacant-minded, thinking nothing at all. Then Chizuko approached from behind and took position slightly apart from him.

“Are you done already? I still don’t look well.”

Yashiro approached Chizuko and asked.

“The air there is stagnant—it’s unbearable.” “It’s better to walk.” Chizuko turned her face away, took the lead, and started to cross Seibashi, but suddenly turned back and walked toward Ochanomizu Station. Even when Yashiro tried to stop her, urging her to wait until he could hail a taxi, Chizuko still showed him her retreating figure as she entered the station. Chizuko’s retreating figure, now fading into the distance, appeared intensely demure, and the crimson net hanging beneath her small black hat suddenly wafted the scent of Paris over him. He stared wide-eyed, realizing that the difference between their dreamlike harmony back then and their current jagged, clashing feelings was all part of this very disparity between a dream that had actually occurred and reality. He came to think that even this misfortune of theirs after returning to Japan was not Japan’s misfortune at all, but merely an individual’s solitary misfortune—akin to divine punishment—for having seen things different from Japan.

And if that were true, he thought, then there was nothing I and Chizuko could do now but guard each other’s solitude—a resolve that hardened within him as he followed her into the station.

Inside the station, Chizuko wordlessly handed Yashiro one of the tickets she had bought. Though bound for Yūrakuchō, the fact she had purchased two tickets despite still sulking made her intention perfectly clear to him.

The elevated railway from Ochanomizu to Yūrakuchō on a clear day was, Yashiro had long thought, the most enjoyable place in all of Tokyo. The fact that it had coincidentally led to such an outcome pleased him; moreover, among all the various foreign cities he had seen, he had thought since returning that Tokyo and Osaka were the most vibrant with energy—and within those, one of the especially lively areas stretched from Ochanomizu to Yūrakuchō. The bright speed streaming over the rooftops there was indeed something he could not help but gaze upon with delight.

“I’ve always been very fond of this area,” Yashiro said with a smile to Chizuko at his side. The design of this elevated railway—like light swirling around an atomic nucleus—seemed, even if by chance, one of the clearest manifestations of Japanese intellectual achievement. And that this was none other than identical to the prototype of sound wave functions—expanding in multiples across an oracle turtle shell etched with *kotodama*—astonished him profoundly.

“The fact that you bought the tickets here—even if it’s nothing significant—makes me very happy. It somehow feels like after completing a ritual purification.” No matter what expression Chizuko wore, Yashiro no longer cared. “About what you mentioned earlier—the matter of Marquis Tanabe—it’s nothing at all.” “But you were the one who called him a kite,” Chizuko said, looking up askance with lingering resentment.

“Oh, right.” “I didn’t mean it that way.” “Having seen the Marquis’s castle before, it felt like seeing a kite.” Chizuko hunched her shoulders, looked down and laughed; then she began to lean slightly toward Yashiro. “I want to apologize today, but you were cruel too.” “In that stifling room of all places—you had to say such things.”

“But I thought it was good that you endured that.” Still riding the momentum of his earlier boldness, he nearly confessed that her endurance had made him want to acknowledge Catholicism—but he swallowed those words and instead savored the fleeting scenery: rooftops streaming beneath the autumn sky like wave crests, determined not to lose a single moment of this view. Chizuko spoke of how the Marquis was a gentle soul unburdened by material concerns—how even in London, he would drive his wife to Paris in their own car, stay overnight, then return the next day. She hinted too that though Yuki had sometimes joined these excursions, tangled affairs—likely involving Mrs. Makura—seemed to have sent him straight back to London without meeting either her or Yashiro.

“I suppose he might be, Ah.” Yashiro said and laughed. “I’ll introduce you to the Marquis soon.” “His wife is such a beautiful person.” “If she were to go to Paris, all the dress shops on Saint-Honoré would be amazed.” “In how she selects and buys dresses, they say she doesn’t lose to any foreign noblewoman.” As Yashiro listened to Chizuko’s voice growing somewhat sprightly, he began to feel a slight dissatisfaction—not so much at having his brief enjoyment of the view interrupted by melancholy, but at how quickly her ill humor had subsided. He had interpreted the cause of Chizuko’s earlier ill humor as a manifestation of Catholicism crumbling within her mind, and precisely because he had felt emboldened to secretly take pride in the efficacy of his efforts, he now realized that the forcefulness of his words—far from achieving their intent—had instead exposed the clumsiness of likening Chizuko to a body lured by a kite. With this, his enjoyment naturally halved. However, upon further reflection, he could not believe her years of faith would be so easily shaken by his mere efforts; if such a moment were to come, he thought it would likely only be after marriage.

Even so, Yashiro found it regrettable. Particularly when he thought of having to exhaust his meager knowledge of natural science in the strategy of drawing Chizuko’s Catholicism toward himself, he felt nothing but frustration at that alone. All the more so because the reason his ancestors had been destroyed lay not in Catholicism but rather in natural science. What was even more curious was that the overall trend of recent physics itself was inclining, gradually and steadily, toward a direction supportive of Catholicism.

When the train arrived at Yūrakuchō, Yashiro, descending the stairs alongside Chizuko, suddenly recalled once more the magnificent kite-brown hue of the Marquis’s castle ramparts. And today, he thought he had indeed been defeated by that kite-like presence, and he could no longer laugh at his half-day comedy. That evening, Yashiro dined with Chizuko and, parting ways with her at Shinbashi Station around nine o’clock, returned home alone. Then, as dawn began to break, he encountered something utterly inexplicable. It was a dream he had seen while sleeping alone in his room—as was usual—yet though it was a dream, it was also utterly unlike any dream. Chizuko lay sleeping in a separate futon beside him. Yashiro felt as though someone had granted him absolution and commanded him to hold an actual wedding ceremony with Chizuko. At that moment, clear water gushed forth from her flushed mouth—a thing of surpassing beauty—and in an instant, Chizuko’s radiant complexion turned an uncharacteristic wheat-gold across her entire body as waves of muscles, taut to bursting, began to intensify with a powerful tension.

After waking, Yashiro still felt as though he were touching the dream's essence for some time. He tried to convince himself countless times that it had all been a dream. Yet even as he clearly recognized the morning sunlight, he could not deny his entire being which had married Chizuko. He thought this was the unshakable severity and grace of a sixth-dimensional dream, sprang up from bed, and bowed in reverence toward the sun veiled in thin mist and blurred at its edges. Without doubting that this being had granted him permission to marry and fulfilled his hopes, he aligned both knees and expressed his gratitude countless times with infant-like sincerity.

“You’re up early this morning.” While his mother was preparing breakfast, she said to him as he went down to the well to wash his face.

“I just woke up too early,” he replied awkwardly, then pumped water and washed his face. It was an inexpressibly blissful feeling—one that made his face flush red no matter how much he scrubbed.

After finishing breakfast, Yashiro returned to his room and once again thought of Chizuko. Yet when he considered how Chizuko remained utterly unaware of this blissful feeling granted to him, he began to sense a trace of pity—even as his own solitary, fulfilled happiness stayed unchanged. That too was nothing more than his previous day's efforts manifesting in a dream—to dismiss it as such would end the matter—but if that were true, then the world of dreams, imbued with a beauty that surpassed all tangible reality, was by far the truer life of fulfillment, he thought.

Throughout that day, Yashiro could not doubt that the events during his sleep were real. He fully understood that even this—if he were to tell Chizuko about it—would instantly be dismissed as a lie and become nothing but trouble. He could not bear the thought that the sensation of life in that irreplaceable, priceless moment would be dismissed as nothing but a dream. However, if he remained silent like this forever, for Yashiro, there would be two Chizukos in this world. Now that he thought of it, the Chizuko who had appeared during sleep was indeed one he could acknowledge—a true Japanese woman of untainted intensity, utterly untouched by Catholicism.

"That’s it," he murmured. "That Chizuko was far more beautiful."

Yashiro muttered to himself and wandered directionless through the streets, gripped by the loneliness of never meeting her again. Yet the joy of having encountered his true bride remained undiminished no matter which district he entered. Even when memories surfaced of the Chizuko who had traveled Europe with him, his conviction that she had been a false Chizuko steadily strengthened from this moment onward. If anyone were to bear his child, he wished it would be that Chizuko - she who resembled Tanabata stars, she whom he had wedded the previous night.

That night, Yashiro wrote a letter addressed to Chizuko but made no mention of the auspicious personal joy from the previous night. While apologizing for his discourtesy the day before and writing that she should disregard his opinionated remarks about Catholicism and continue as before, the letter nevertheless unintentionally took on the tone of gentle consolation one might offer to an empty husk.

Even two or three days after writing the letter to Chizuko, the excitement from that night of marriage had still not left Yashiro. Moreover, having come to know that such inexplicable phenomena—neither dream nor waking reality—existed in this world, he began to consider what exactly this so-called “reality,” which people commonly perceived and believed in, could possibly mean. Though each person possesses a physical body, Yashiro began to ponder this strange phenomenon—how the sensation of those selfless moments retained far greater joy than corporeal existence; how rational understanding, upon confronting such experiences for the first time, could no longer dismiss dreams as mere illusions—and as he turned these thoughts over in his mind, he started to believe that the sensations life could hold might grow even more vivid after the physical body’s demise. And,

“Now is then.” And as Yashiro repeatedly muttered this principle that Japan had passed down, he suddenly arrived at the conclusion that if that were so, people could find joy even in life and even in death—and he felt his courage grow even stronger.

For some reason, Chizuko’s reply arrived slightly late. The letter explained that her delay stemmed from having written and torn up countless drafts, that she now found herself assailed by formless suffering which drained each day of joy, and that among the two or three principal causes listed—alongside the resurgence of marriage pressures—there remained the particular anguish of Yashiro persecuting the Catholicism she held dear.

While he had been filled with such joy, she had been suffering so much—Yashiro found this strangely delightful and read the letter with an impassive expression. And there, precisely in the text,

“Even if I write of my own suffering like this, since you are so cruel, I am certain you will laugh at me again.” When he read that part about such things, Yashiro thought it was exactly as she had said and laughed again. “Even so, before I went abroad, I made a promise with Mother.” “Mother said that if I would marry someone she recommends after returning home, she would permit my trip abroad—and it was I who responded that I would certainly fulfill this promise before departing.” “Mother still has not forgotten that and never ceases to recommend that person to me at every opportunity.” “I currently have not the slightest intention of marrying that person—but when I consider my promise with Mother—I think it may be unavoidable—and lately even trivial matters have become sources of worry.” “But when I recall those happy days abroad—I also think perhaps even this pain should be endured—and now I sink into bitterness at my own selfishness returning to haunt me.” “And when I think of you since your return—how your thoughts and suffering seem only natural—I grow all the more uncertain what to do.” “At times—I truly wonder if I too have become someone punished by divine retribution—as you once said—until even my prayers grow painful and heartrending.” “Even so—I cannot forget Lord Christ.” “Please forgive me for writing such things—”

When Yashiro read this far—thinking how this Chizuko, unlike the joy-filled Chizuko of the previous night, uttered nothing but sorrowful tones—he felt mentally drained and glanced up at the sky before resuming his reading after a pause. Yet now there remained only Chizuko’s ceaseless lamentations, as though her very life had been stolen away. Even after finishing, Yashiro pondered whether her anguish stemmed from indelible Western illusions, Christ, or perhaps his own marriage to her the night before—and now, more vividly than ever, he recalled Hosokawa Tadaoki’s austerely dignified suffering as he had persistently resisted Christ.

Even while chrysanthemums still lingered, days of bitter winds persisted. At the bus stop where Yashiro often waited, the great zelkova he had long gazed upon stood stripped bare, its leaves blown away. The few remaining dead leaves trembled with spent vitality, each one plucked from his sight by the wind as he watched. Yet on rainy days, this same tree revealed an entirely different splendor. From every twig tip, droplets cascaded down larger boughs like thousands of tiny serpents converging upon the trunk. The smooth bark glistened like whirling glass conduits in ceaseless motion - a torrential column piercing skyward that drank rainwater into its roots with dreadful speed.

On a clear day, Yashiro came again beneath this zelkova tree where a single crow was perched on a branch of the leafless treetop. As he gazed at how only the branch holding the crow swayed among the well-proportioned tree's intertwined boughs, he suddenly—for some reason—recalled when gunpowder had first been introduced to Japan from the West. At that time, much like this crow alighting on branches, the gunpowder would settle on one castle after another, burning each to ruin before moving onward. When Yashiro realized that among all Japanese castles of that era, his ancestors' fortress had been the very first upon which that destructive force alighted, his gaze remained fixed on the ominous black form for some time. Yet there exists nothing that survives safely and grows robust without sacrifice. Reflecting on this, he wished to recognize merit even in his ancestors' castle being the first destroyed by gunpowder—that having fallen to enemy fire without recompense, if only Yashiro himself might honor this as their hidden virtue. Otherwise, his ancestors would have been far too desolate.

As he watched, the crow showed no sign at all of taking flight from the branch. Then, as if yawning, it would open and close its mouth wide, occasionally spread its wings, and repeat the same yawn. Each time it spread its wings, that single branch alone continued to sway and rustle in the swiftly clouding sky. Leaving the chill at his collar to seep in, even as he stood on the deserted early-winter street, Yashiro no longer saw the black of the crow perched on the withered branch as an ominous hue. Rather, he now felt joy in having sincerely discovered a reason to regard the fate of his ancestors—who had perished silently from that crow—as a virtue. It was not limited to Yashiro alone; if any Japanese commoner were to search within themselves, they would each discover this same joy—a joy that must surely also become a shared pride. Yashiro was happier about that than anything else.

He shifted his gaze from the branch where the crow perched and looked at the other branches. Every small branch at each tip connected to larger branches, forming a single trunk that stood without conflict in perfect harmony with the form of Japan. However, the branch where the crow had perched was slightly different from the others, and it was clear that precisely because of that branch’s misfortune, the other branches had been able to store a powerful elasticity—evident in their robust growth that continued ever since. Yashiro, who naturally found himself standing beneath this zelkova tree whenever he went into town, felt joy even as he did so—as if their wills might someday connect. Moreover, from the time he came to feel that looking up at this tree allowed him to gain correct thoughts of his own accord, he began wanting to judge the day’s fortunes and such—and when this too unwittingly became a habit, before he knew it, he naturally developed a mannerism of consulting the zelkova about matters concerning Chizuko.

Ever since seeing the letter in which Chizuko had revealed her anguish over her mother’s encouragement of a marriage proposal from another man, the familiarity of these consultative thoughts ebbing and flowing had grown particularly pronounced.

“Hey, you—here we are again today—but about Ms. Chizuko, I do think I don’t need to say anything special from my side. Just leave her be, I tell you.” In such a tone of self-interrogation, he inquired. “Well, you mustn’t neglect to keep her in mind.” he thought, as if the zelkova were answering. “That may be so, but if Ms. Chizuko’s mother has set her intentions on another man, this seems likely to become a war of attrition. Of course, if my mother knew Ms. Chizuko was Catholic, she wouldn’t be pleased about her coming to me either—so I think it’s the same for Ms. Chizuko.”

“But since you’d already held a proper wedding ceremony in a dream, there was no need to rush things.” “After all, the other party was a matter of this world—it carried a whiff of humanity.” “Well, just do your best.” “You’d had your dream too, after all.” And the zelkova laughed. When Yashiro began such exchanges with this zelkova, his heart would grow carefree at its dignified form, though he sensed the danger of his passion cooling—yet for setting his mind aright, nothing served him better than this tree. However, faced with the zelkova’s stance—as though it had bluntly declared, “You’d had your dream too”—Yashiro suddenly felt a pang in his chest and pondered. All dreams were filled with a more elegant beauty than reality—precisely because it had been a time when he’d thought so. The road-widening project begun the previous year was steadily progressing beneath the zelkova. Before long, the bus stop there too would be removed, and when that time came, the zelkova would inevitably be felled alongside it. He imagined the bright, expanded space to follow and knew his parting with this tree would not be long now.

“In a little while, I’ll be saying goodbye to you too.”

“Seems so.” “Watching every day at my feet.” “They’ve reached this point.” “Will you feel lonely?” “No—it’s strange.” “Do you know who’ll cut you down?”

“Hmm. Watching every day, Asaemon’s technique is quite skillful.” “Is there anything you’ve left unsaid to me?” “No,” the zelkova said curtly and fell silent for a time. Then, after gazing up at the sky, it muttered. “You’ve been staying still here like this all along, but even so, you’ve had quite a long journey.” Yashiro turned his eyes away from the zelkova and fell silent. The sunburned laborers’ sweat glistened between the stones. The grating sound of gravel being mixed reverberated to the marrow as a bus, tilting, came flowing down the slope ahead.

“Hey, you—if I stick around here, I’ll get in the way of human dreams. Isn’t that right?”

The zelkova began to speak again, but Yashiro pretended not to hear this time. “Well, I’m glad just to have been able to talk with you.” “Even if someone like me disappears—” “Goodbye.” Sensing the zelkova might be felled when he wasn’t looking, Yashiro whispered his farewell now and boarded the bus.

After being hospitalized for about two weeks, Shiono came to visit Yashiro again one day. “In my case—in all that time—they still couldn’t pin down what caused it.” When Shiono saw Yashiro, he said this, his complexion somewhat pallid and his energy diminished. Yashiro thought of how words summon forth reality through metaphor. And with the lingering discomfort of a joke that had struck too close to home still clinging to him—having no real intention to inquire deeply into Shiono’s condition—he had merely uttered a single word of congratulation for the safe discharge.

“However, this time, Ms. Chizuko seems unwell.” “I only spoke with Usami on the phone yesterday—I don’t know the details—but that does appear to be the case. They say her fever is quite high—”

Shiono lowered his voice in an unsettling manner and continued gazing out the window without a smile.

So it had reached Chizuko too—Yashiro’s body stiffened abruptly. In the garden’s gathering dimness, only the white petals of sasanquas remained luminous as the faint rustling of grubs reached his ears. Of all those he had met in Paris, only Shiono and Chizuko had returned—and now that these two had fallen to the same illness within days of each other, Yashiro sensed facts moving with harsh inevitability beyond his own thoughts, left wordless and still. A primeval loneliness closed in around his collar.

"But you—to claim falling ill comes from returning to this germ-ridden nest—that's supposed to be scientific? What nonsense." "Scientifically speaking, why must Japan always be the one to decay?" Yashiro suddenly found himself wanting to say such things and ended up slandering science itself. The sensitive Shiono went "Hmm," his glasses flashing sharply like a horse flicking its ears. He then explained how during his illness he'd done nothing but dream, though he still couldn't make sense of any of it. Yashiro wanted to know more about Chizuko's condition, but considering her mother, he realized this inconvenience of being unable to visit directly remained unresolved between them.

“Today I’ve brought photos of the glaciers in Tyrol and photos from Bastille Day.”

Yashiro listlessly accepted the package Shiono had brought out with those words and opened it. He flipped through the dozens of postcard-sized enlarged photographs with an air of disinterest, disappointed that even the beauty he had witnessed firsthand fell short in these images, yet still found himself gradually drawn in and began examining them carefully.

“This is it—this is when I was beaten.” Shiono pointed from beside him to one of the photos—taken on Bastille Day when he had been caught between the waves of left-wing and Catholic right-wing factions, severely beaten even as he pressed the shutter—and spoke. However, the photograph’s captured portion was eerily calm, to an extent that one would hardly believe it had been taken amidst the turmoil of the Champs-Élysées. Yashiro felt a loneliness not from the sight of people jostling in frenzy, but rather from the platanus trees lining the street behind them, which had shed an unexpected number of leaves. Tilting his head, he gazed at the photograph, wondering if autumn had already come to Paris by that July fourteenth.

“Parisian civilization manifests itself entirely in this single photograph.” “A beautiful manifestation, yet profoundly regrettable.” “The gentleman beside me remarked—well—‘This is simply France’s malady; such afflictions mend swiftly,’ but what would you say about this disease?”

With that, Yashiro said and flipped through the photographs. Next came a disordered spread of Tyrol’s glacial images. From pickaxe marks struck into icy slopes, surfaces of glaciers reflecting sunlight spread like scattered light—and behind them emerged mountain range photographs that still made him delightedly excited. The sunlight from that time—so intensely bright it felt languid—on the white tablecloth where he and Chizuko had drunk milk while gazing up at Halfrekar’s peak. Bees swarmed around hydrangeas at their feet. The deep vitro-blue fault they peered into together after crawling down icy slopes. Gentle clouds flowing toward Swiss mountains, pastures, saffron—even while savoring reminiscence’s pleasure, Yashiro now wanted to release the photographs,

“Ah, enough already.”

With that, he laid them all face down on the table. Then, for some reason—contrary to the landscapes captured in the photographs—there arose vividly in his mind: the sunburnt arms of laborers shifting stones beneath the zelkova tree; clusters of ripe figs lining the white coastal roads of Tōhoku; and the hues of water flowing and vanishing beneath thickets in Jōetsu. At first, he had idly recalled those scenes, but before he knew it, he found himself gradually selecting and arranging beautiful landscapes from within Japan—ones he wished to set against Western vistas. And yet, he felt that unless he delved even deeper into Japan to witness its beautiful vistas firsthand, his heart would remain unsettled; thus he strove to summon forth the beauty of mountains and rivers he had seen on days past. But no sooner had that tension eased than the peaks of Tyrol, southern France’s seas, and Italy’s lakes surged forth with vivid intensity, clamoring to intrude one after another. Because these matters existed solely within his mind, they refused to be tidied away according to Yashiro’s will.

“I’ve been thinking of compiling all the photos I’ve taken of Notre Dame and holding a solo exhibition. I’d like to ask you to help me choose the ones,” said Shiono.

“That of yours is beautiful.” With that, Yashiro agreed with Shiono. “Though humans undoubtedly live to feed themselves,” he continued, “whether consciously or not—as humanity’s shared aspiration—I believe everyone ultimately lives to create beauty through every gesture and motion. What do you think?” “It needn’t be limited to artistic beauty alone—political beauty, economic beauty, religious beauty, even the beauty of cities, villages, science, academia, law or editing... That is civilization itself. No one pursues destruction or politics aiming to create ugliness.” “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s right. “Even when it comes to weapons, a country that wields ones without beauty is doomed to lose. “The beauty of Japanese swords—if viewed purely as beauty—would undoubtedly shine brilliantly even within Notre Dame.”

Shiono too appeared to be wrenching his focus from the foreign subjects he had captured and twisting it toward Japan’s interior. That even the difficulties arising at such times had to be repeatedly endured for a while, that the intrusive thoughts cluttering their minds must be forcibly subdued—this, Yashiro reflected, was the unavoidable hardship the two of them had been enduring of late. Indeed, it was a time when ugliness within Japan became glaringly apparent, and there arose an unbearable urge to seek out countervailing beauty.

“Castles, tea rooms, kimonos—they’re all the same in that regard. Admittedly, since the Portuguese arrived, the castles have developed a slightly different tilt compared to before, but even so—ah yes—when it comes to places that achieved such beauty… Just the other day, I read a collection of letters secretly sent back to his homeland by a Portuguese missionary named Frois, who built a Christian church in Kyoto during Nobunaga’s time. He wrote extensively about how Japan was a remarkably civilized nation, even more so than his own homeland. Since it was included in the report he sent to the Pope in his homeland, it seems no one wanted to reveal that particular part—which is why the manuscript only recently emerged from Lisbon’s museum. When I read that, I felt extremely happy—I thought I’d let Kuji know right away, but—”

Even when saying such things, Yashiro sensed within himself a desire to make Shiono’s gaze penetrate deeper into Japan’s interior—a self no different from when he faced Chizuko, he thought. Moreover, merely to slip free from the swelling force of Western phantoms—which inevitably rose whenever he met Shiono or Chizuko—Yashiro had to devise new stratagems daily, labor unseen. If this continued indefinitely, he felt the peril that even those unforgettable people he had met in the West might slip from his grasp. Yet when both Shiono and Yashiro fell silent, Chizuko’s illness—long weighing on him—spread heavily through his mind, and even the sunlit gloss on crimson-clustered nandina berries outside resembled the stillness of closed eyelids in one burning with fever.

“But if Ms. Chizuko’s fever shares the same nature as yours, it should have manifested sooner—though I suppose such things vary in their progression between individuals. So perhaps that’s indeed the case.” Yashiro, having sunk into contemplation and now freshly irritated by the circumstances barring him from visiting her, suddenly pressed Shiono for a response. “Ah, there lies the rub.” “Even should it come late, this condition may yet find its way to me in time.”

“So, you hadn’t yet?” Shiono asked back with a look of surprise.

“I fled straight to Tōhoku’s hot springs.” “It’s vile—being ensnared by something like that.” “That’s cowardice.”

Shiono suddenly said in a sharp voice, laughed, and turned his face away from Yashiro. “However, my case is slightly different—since my mother is from Tōhoku, I wanted to pay respects to our ancestors there.” “If this is cowardice, then it’s the talk of those who don’t know me.” “Lately, I must say, I’ve suddenly become preoccupied with what my ancestors did.”

“But don’t you think ancestors might want to test their strength by letting descendants rebel a little?” “Somehow—since my late father was a Chinese classics scholar—I feel he’s been telling me, ‘At least try something I never knew,’ which is why I took up this camera and French.” “If someone understands all that yet still acts, I suppose they’d forgive some of what we do.” “But usually, it doesn’t work that way.” “That’s precisely what worries me.” “When you got beaten on Bastille Day—you were caught between those who knew and those who didn’t, struck from both sides.” “And pressing the shutter—well, this was it.”

As he spoke, Yashiro flipped through the photos until he found the scene of tumult on the Champs-Élysées and held it out to Shiono. "You likely don't realize this, but I was watching your face at that moment—properly observing it on your father's behalf." "You were leaping about in utter frenzy." "Turning deathly pale, lurching sideways—'That bastard's really going at it,' I thought as I watched." "I'm playing the old man here."

Shiono let out a soft "heh-heh" chuckle and gazed at the photos anew for a while.

“Ah, I remember. At that time, Professor Nakada was beside me, groaning, ‘If Japan has come to this, it’s unbearable,’ but I wonder how he’s doing now.” Nakada, a political science professor, had been a rationalist who never ceased to emphasize the paramount importance of logic above all else, even to Yashiro in Paris. Shiono cared little about whether this professor’s theories were right or wrong; perhaps his heart had grown closer to the lens of his well-handled beloved camera. He simply admired the professor’s character. Yashiro, too, preferred people over what Nakada preached, but he thought that if he were to meet him now and speak of the irrational dream marriage he had secretly felt with Chizuko since the other day, Nakada would undoubtedly deem him a barbarian. Moreover, this was not limited to Nakada—likely anyone would have laughed Yashiro off as the height of folly. Even now, when he thought of it—imagining himself quietly divulging the joy of that marriage to Shiono—the look of shock and disbelief on his face suddenly struck him as comical, and he laughed.

“Truly, Nakada must be suffering by now. “Because he was such a serious person, after all.” To Shiono—who had conveniently interpreted Yashiro’s sudden laughter as arising from memories of Nakada’s flustered groans—Yashiro once again had to nod along. Yet even as his laughter continued, he grew profoundly certain that he must never reveal this dream’s truth to anyone. “Political science gives off this air that everyone ought to return to Plato, but if we misread that logical mysticism—or rather, mysticism parading as logic—it’ll bring terrible consequences. “The whole world will erupt into a grand brawl of aesthetic sensibilities. “Even in Paris, I never fully agreed with Professor Nakada’s theories, but mark my words—he’ll change when he returns now. “A true gentleman must transform like a leopard. “In other words, only a gentleman understands how change itself holds the beauty of profoundly rich logic.”

Even in moments like these, Yashiro felt tormented by a cunning within himself that sought to twist his laughter into madness.

"But what a serious person he was." Shiono sank into thought with a concerned expression that seemed entirely preoccupied with his friend’s suffering.

“But you see, we aren’t fated to return to Greece. It’s all well and good that scholars around the world continue their studies clinging to that dream of returning to Greece, but I can’t help thinking there must be countless deeper dreams one could wish to hold instead.” Yashiro said this, wanting to somehow restore the distortion that had crept into his smile. Even though he clearly knew it would be futile to speak of it, he still wanted to believe in the essence of his dream of marrying Chizuko—a dream that felt as persistent and penetrating as radiation.

“However, cameras have no dreams.” “That might be our biggest problem.” “Perhaps I should start devising ways to hold onto dreams or capture them through photography.” Without intending to tease, Shiono—Shiono being Shiono—fell silent for a while, appearing to contemplate some specialized camera technique of his own as a separate matter. Even though their words found no point of contact, Yashiro sensed something stirring between them in realms unknown to each other—and thought that this might be the terrifying nature of reality itself. Then he further wondered whether the true form of last night’s dream, now past, marked the vanishing point where this world’s ultimate beauty dissolved.

“Since you specialize in cameras, you should abandon dreams and take photos of these beautiful things here. If it’s dreams, I’ll see any number of them for you instead.” Yashiro said and laughed. By now, he could laugh while looking at Shiono without any pretense, and he found it genuinely pleasant.

The two went out for dinner to celebrate Shiono’s full recovery. The idea of visiting Chizuko came up, but since she was still at home rather than hospitalized, they discussed how it would only be a bother and decided against it. When they descended to the bus stop, this time it was Shiono who looked up at the zelkova tree and, bringing up the matter of the bus conductress from the other day, laughed. When with others, Yashiro no longer felt the desire to speak to the zelkova tree and instead grew detached, his eyes now drawn intensely only to the movements of the stonemason’s arms. And he resolved that it was time for him, too, to begin work—though “work” for Yashiro meant being in the organization department, where all he had to do was sort books and magazines while reading miscellaneous texts. In other words, his job could be described as continuing a journey through the pages of books. Yashiro was ashamed of that, but he also considered it fortunate.

“You see—during the time you were away from Japan, *we* didn’t know Japan either. So somehow, a void formed in our thinking—out of focus with everyone else—and that’s what troubles us now.” “I can’t figure out how to fill that gap.” “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Yashiro placed his hand on the white signpost at the bus stop and peered at Shiono.

“Somehow, that has now become our weakness.” “Lately, I’ve become unable to understand what anyone is thinking. Even when I start to say something, I stop myself—thinking they’ll only mangle my words—and perhaps because of that, whenever I want to speak now, I somehow end up talking to this zelkova tree instead. To me, this tree has become truly precious.” Shiono’s eyes took on a different hue as he gazed up at the zelkova tree.

“I see. You said here that divine punishment had struck—I understand that. Yes… I suppose so.” He continued gazing upward as he spoke. Yashiro had been gazing alongside him, but when he shifted his eyes to the fragmented clouds drifting over the winter-bare treetops, he suddenly wondered where Chizuko—now the wife of that married one—might be traveling at this moment, and the flow of the clouds grew dear to him. As the cold crept into his wrist gripping the Chinese bamboo walking stick, Yashiro felt he was still continuing on a journey toward some distant purpose, and he waited for the bus to arrive.

That night, the two went up to a poultry restaurant in Ryogoku. As the chicken skin began simmering, Shiono—appearing to suddenly remember—said, “Did you see this morning’s paper? Quite remarkable.” “No, not yet—what happened?” When Yashiro asked in return, he learned Chiang Kai-shek had been kidnapped in Xi’an and remained missing. Though this concerned China, Yashiro felt a sudden gust strike his very being and grew chilled at the thought that this might someday influence his own fate.

After Yashiro sent a get-well letter to Chizuko, about a week passed before a reply came. The illness was similar to Shiono’s, with the cause similarly unknown; she had been continually beset by high fever and drowsiness alone but had safely recovered. The letter recounted that during her sleep she had apparently called out Yashiro’s name—later being teased about it by her brother Yuki, which had caused her some distress. Yashiro felt some relief at that first. And then, combining it with his research, he set out alone for the Joetsu mountains where a friend’s cabin stood. What he wanted to know pertained most to the history of religion and science—subjects he was least familiar with—so his luggage grew heavy with the books he had prepared for this purpose.

The snow lay deep in the mountains. Night had fallen when he reached the station, the wind wailing through the valley’s depths. To reach the inn required riding a sled—in its narrow compartment, flanked by one attendant fore and aft, Yashiro repeatedly turned his face from gusts piercing through rents in the canopy. Long stretched the path where avalanches rumbled down cliffsides, his hips aching from the unyielding floorboards’ judder. Each encounter with horse-drawn sleds forced laborious yielding of way. Gazing up at mountainous snowbanks looming overhead, Yashiro wondered if curiosity hadn’t overmastered sense in coming here for research. This disquiet deepened seeing lantern-light reveal how deeply snow engulfed the sled runners—he who meant to subsist alone in that cabin through his stay.

Originally, Yashiro had once come there before and had the enjoyable experience of cooking together with a friend, so it was not his first time; however, that had been in May, and cooking for himself in the winter mountains was his first attempt now. Though there were hot springs near the mountain cabin and the inn there was a familiar establishment—so he could have continued staying at the inn if necessary—Yashiro, who these days found his daily growing distaste for the city since returning, had come out here partly because he wanted to try living an unfamiliar winter mountain life of self-sufficiency. Though this too was partly a desperate measure born of his inability to forget the Tyrolean mountain cabin, even that now seemed unavoidable.

That night, he stayed at the inn. The clerk who had been there several years prior had returned, which suited Yashiro well. Inside the inn—now nearly twice its former size after expansions since his last visit—the bath once located downstairs had been moved to the center of the second floor. Elevated and jutting outward, it occupied a spacious position with sweeping views, its bright beauty vaguely reminiscent of a foreign terrace.

“The bath here is magnificent.” “I’ve never seen a bathhouse that seems to hoist up the entire building like this.” Yashiro praised it to the clerk. “Well, yes,” “Everyone at least commends the bathhouse.” Facing the briny-voiced clerk, Yashiro recalled the hot spring along Hungary’s Danube riverbank and thought it most resembled this place. He asked the clerk to arrange firewood and seasonings for his mountain cabin self-catering, decided to temporarily use the inn’s bathhouse, and anticipated his cabin life beginning tomorrow.

Yashiro wrote letters to acquaintances he had neglected to contact before going to bed. He believed that, among the benefits of having gone abroad, what had most directly served his life upon reflection was above all his own lack of desire; thus, in the letter he wrote to Chizuko, he did not forget to add this. When he thought of marriage, he realized he had never once expressed such intentions to Chizuko, and it occurred to him that what she might be waiting for was precisely that—yet he also felt their relationship was not so estranged as to necessitate a formal proposal, and so he refrained from putting it into writing after all. If he were to say it was because he had confidence in himself, then that was how it was. Come to think of it, even Chizuko had certainly carried herself with an air of confidence. Even if her mother were to raise objections, and even if the same were to occur with his own mother, then both sides should have been prepared to wait until those objections had vanished. It was simply that he had no desire to bring it up now and stir up trouble; even without being told by others, he felt that only by quietly resolving on his own those matters that might become mutual hindrances could what seemed like the most natural form of love—unique to their situation—truly exist. If they could not even do that, then there must still be something between them that made it impossible—in any case, Yashiro did not want to forcefully use the word “marriage” in his letters now. Partially, this too was because he sensed that the Western illusions between Chizuko and himself had not yet burned out, their flames still rising.

“I can’t quite explain it, but lately I’ve developed this wild urge to study like mad.” “Never before have I wanted to study so intensely.” “You keep flooding into my thoughts until it’s unbearable—truly unbearable.” “I resolved to curb those thoughts as much as possible and came to these mountains for ascetic training.” “With fierce determination, starting tomorrow I’ll be cooking my own meals in this snowbound cabin.” “I even startle myself at this bold resolve—please don’t interfere like you did back in Tyrol.” “Just remembering that time makes you no small hindrance to me now.”

Having written this to Chizuko, Yashiro thought there was not a single untruth anywhere.

The mountain cabin was not too far from the inn. Measuring about twenty tatami mats in size, it had four beds on both sides and two benches by the window—making six in total—with chairs and a table surrounding a stove serving as a hearth. The interior logs were all painted white, brightening the room. A box of cooking utensils was also fully stocked inside the cupboard. When skiers would later gather in full force, this cabin too was likely to be filled to capacity, so if Yashiro meant to study there, it had to be now while the snow remained shallow.

The morning scenery here was especially beautiful. The vividness of the sky meeting the snow at the mountain’s edge pierced his freshly awakened eyes, and his gaze remained fixed there as though glued, unable to move away for some time. There, crowned with snow that glittered under the rising morning sun—the delicate branches tinged pale purple hazily settling into stillness—Yashiro washed his face, placed a small snowflake in his mouth, cut vegetables, lit a fire in the stove, and boiled water there. Cooking for himself was not particularly troublesome—in fact, it was rather enjoyable—but since he disliked washing dishes afterward, he decided to entrust this task, along with meal preparation, to an elderly woman nearby.

For two or three days, Yashiro hardly left the cabin and did nothing but read books. The hardship he had felt when first moving from the inn to the cabin proved more tolerable than the strain of being watched by the maids at the inn, and this existence did not bore him so much that he even considered it one of his ideals. Yet when he thought that if there were no books in this life, he probably could not endure even two days like this, the expanse of white outside the window suddenly appeared to him as a mass of dreadful boredom. When passing through Siberia, Minami, who had shared a room with Yashiro, spoke of having forgotten the scenery from ten years prior when he had once traversed that snowy landscape,

“At that time, it was snowing, so I didn’t even look outside.” “Well, but this time, I was quite astonished.” Recalling how Minami had marveled at Siberia’s vastness, Yashiro imagined that land’s pure white world stretching over ten days and thought that even the expressions of Russians who had lived within that unimaginably enormous white mass might ultimately have been shaped by a long struggle against boredom they themselves scarcely recognized. Yashiro had once read a novel from Imperial Russia that zealously depicted murder as a pastime against ennui. He had remembered attributing such phenomena to the snow’s influence; moreover, when told by a Japanese compatriot encountered in Moscow that even the common occurrence of yesterday’s closest friend calmly killing his companion by morning could be blamed on sudden climatic upheavals sweeping across vast plains, he had nodded in agreement—here indeed, such things seemed hardly surprising. He thought Russia was a land prone to radical discrepancies when viewed through any nation’s lens of nature and climate—not just Japan’s—but even the years when voices urging global intelligentsia to emulate ideologies flourishing there had gained momentum were all due to the force of a certain scientific doctrine then in vogue: historical materialism.

"Just why did Greece perish?" At such moments, Yashiro habitually thought this. Even now, his reason for coming to study at this snowbound mountain cabin lay in wanting to investigate why this Greece—which had bequeathed science to the world—had perished. That the destruction of Yashiro's ancestral castle too had ultimately been caused by science left behind by this already-fallen Greece—science that came assaulting under the mask of a religion called Catholicism—now struck him as peculiar when he reflected that even he must still investigate it.

"In any case, that is a strange phenomenon."

At such times, Yashiro would let a faint smile escape as he contemplated Greek civilization. Moreover, that faint smile of his seemed not only his alone but also a shared expression common to the East—and perhaps it was not merely the East’s sorrow but also surely the lament of Catholicism itself, which, masked as science, had journeyed across distant seas to be thrust upon the East.

The kinds of books Yashiro had selected and brought with him for this purpose neither confined themselves solely to the history of religion nor solely to the history of science. For Yashiro now, what he wanted above all else was the history of that tangled intersection where these two histories clashed. Yashiro would wake in the morning and leave the cabin before breakfast, going to the inn to soak in the bath. The high bathtub jutting into the morning sky offered a scene rarely seen elsewhere, and the hot spring there remained one of his daily pleasures.

Within a circular white-tiled bath measuring three ken in diameter, transparent water brimmed to overflowing, and even in the morning, guests coming in from the rooms were lively. The temperature of the bathwater, upon touching the cold glass wall that blocked the outside air, turned into an intense, dense fog-like steam that swirled back into the room, making even the face of the neighboring guest, positioned so close their skin might touch, appear blurred. No figures of other guests could be seen at all; within the boundless fog where only the voices of men and women were audible, the brightness of the mountain snow tinged pale red by the morning sun pierced through.

Yashiro always chose a position facing the mountains, leaned his back against the tiled edge, and listened to the gurgling sound of water beneath the swirling mist. The mixed bathing of men and women in this vast mountain hot spring—rather than in segregated baths—allowed the pure scent of mountain streams to seep more deeply into their skin, while hearts refreshed by mutual unselfconsciousness further beautified the morning’s awakening. “In winter I want to come to these hot springs for warmth,” came a voice, “but having come, I find winter scenery worth seeing too—quite splendid, I must say.”

A guest’s voice could also be heard.

Listening half-consciously to the bathhouse chatter—wild boar sightings, the exceptional sweetness of local leeks, the exorbitant cost of sled rentals—Yashiro did not view the morning scene of men and women bathing together in the snow as vulgar indulgence; rather, he thought these people bore some resemblance to Greece in its days of vigor. And there, in the bath, he naturally found himself contemplating the reason for the decline of that civilization he was now investigating.

The reasons for Greece’s decline that Yashiro had studied were varied. Historians had put forth varied reasons—the proliferation of minor factions, the rampant spread of socialism, the urbanization of rural populations that naturally arose from scientific advancement, the loss of deities—but he could not bring himself to accept any of them as unvarnished truth. Convinced there must still lie hidden some unknown factor that none had yet discovered, he continued watching the figures of naked people in the bath through dense fog—at times glimpsing through mist pierced by morning light the balanced beauty of two breasts hanging heavily and obscurely against the water’s surface—and found himself wondering whether Greece might not have perished from some defect that had arisen there.

"In short, there was a shortage of milk," he thought. "Instead, they made humans drink too much goat’s milk." Somehow, on yet another day when such arbitrary notions filled his mind, he emerged from the bath. Returning to the cabin, he snapped the towel frozen stiff from the journey’s cold against the stove’s edge before chopping green onions for miso soup with his knife. Beneath the snow-crowned trunk of a Hokosugi cedar, the pungent odor of leaf veins splitting with faint pops rose sharply, while the surrounding snow’s whiteness seared into his eyes with sudden pain.

About ten days after Yashiro had come to the cabin, the inn’s maid arrived with a belated newspaper and a telegram. The telegram stated that Chizuko would arrive on the six o’clock train that night, accompanied by her brother.

Even after I had told her not to come—was she finally coming after all?

Yashiro muttered to himself and laughed. Since the telegram ended with a request for lodging, he couldn’t bring himself to disregard it and decided to promptly visit the inn to inspect rooms. While walking down the slope alongside the maid, he thought that surely "requesting lodging" couldn’t mean offering his own cabin as accommodation. Though there were six beds in the cabin where they could have stayed, there weren’t enough blankets for that. Thinking it better to keep their lodging separate for now, he nevertheless made his way down to the inn.

After selecting and reserving a suitable eight-mat room facing east, he leaned against the corridor railing to gaze at the snowscape, steeling himself that his time would once again be consumed by Chizuko for a while. He still hadn't found any leads in his research on the section he was investigating, and had actually wished her visit could be postponed by two or three more days. Even this precious chance to meet her after her convalescence left him unsettled—as if grabbed by the scruff of his neck—due to lingering anxieties over unfinished research. Once before, when absorbed in writing, he'd reached for tea only to mistake an inkpot for a teacup; now too, should Chizuko arrive at this moment, he worried his expression would remain clouded and he'd appear coldly indifferent far too often. But Chizuko had likely already departed by now. Confronted by the arrival of feminine nurture—after all, research on Greece and science hardly suited someone like him—Yashiro forced a wry smile.

“What time is it now?” he asked the maid. “One twenty.” The maid answered, releasing her hand from the narcissus on the floor and looking at her wristwatch, “But I must tell you, this watch does tend to lose time sometimes,” she noted, winding it. “However, it can’t be off by thirty minutes.” “That would be—well, five or ten minutes, I must tell you.”

In that case, he thought, Chizuko must be around Ōmiya right now, gazing at the beautiful bowl of the eel station bento and feeling her appetite stir.

That night, having timed it, Yashiro went out to the station.

The sky took on an ominous cast, threatening a blizzard. The wind blew against the rock face pressing close behind the platform, then swirled back to rattle the station pillars. As he waited on the waiting room bench where snow soiled by geta still lingered, Yashiro thought of Chizuko’s imminent arrival and noticed an unexpected buoyancy within himself—then he remembered the Chizuko from his dream. When her face appeared strangely pitiable to him, he even sensed a sorrowful atmosphere drifting through the air and strained his ears. In truth, this must have been an absurd fantasy of my own making—yet that Chizuko was imbued with such vivid reality,

"Oh, wait! It’s nothing." "It’s nothing."

And so, his habit of talking to himself since retreating to the mountains surfaced, and he ended up soothing the Chizuko of his dreams as he spoke.

Before long, in the trampled snow before the station, the touts' lanterns came to line up. Through the fine snow that had just begun to fall lightly, the train pulled into the station as a string of bright lights. Mingling with the passengers alighting from the halted train, Chizuko stepped down in her yellow weasel-fur overcoat, followed by a young man Yashiro did not recognize.

“Oh, I’m sorry you went to the trouble—this terrible snow!”

Spotting Yashiro at the ticket gate, Chizuko laughed, her cheeks still flushed from the steam heat inside the train car. That was a face entirely different from the one in his dreams. After handing her luggage to the inn clerk, Chizuko introduced Yuki’s younger brother—a young man named Makimi—to Yashiro. Makimi, who at first glance might have been mistaken for her brother, maintained a rare gentle smile from the outset as he silently bowed in his Imperial University student cap and remained utterly quiet throughout. Though his personality seemed wholly unlike Yuki’s, Yashiro took an immediate liking to him. He remembered that Chizuko was the youngest of five siblings. Yet recalling now—having carelessly forgotten until this moment—that she had an elder brother just one year her senior, Yashiro stood before the sleigh’s compartment and fleetingly wondered if his mind still wandered from its proper state. The train’s light withdrew from the station, leaving darkness behind.

In the lonely snow-lit station square, around Chizuko whom the train had disgorged, a vibrant fragrance still lingered. "You may be startled until we reach the inn, but by tomorrow you'll find it's not something to discard."

When the sleigh began moving, Yashiro—sitting in the cramped rear seat—remarked while imagining the trouble Chizuko must have gone through to bring Makimi along. Even as they discussed her illness and Makimi’s convalescence during winter vacation, one side of the sleigh tilted sharply on the snow-covered path. “But once you’ve endured such an odd illness, you needn’t worry anymore—isn’t that so?”

With that, Chizuko turned and spoke. The townscape had vanished, and the rhythm of the horse’s hooves finally settled into a steady cadence. Only Yashiro’s fingertips—leaning against the sleigh’s sideboard—touched the fur at Chizuko’s shoulder and were warm. When he had landed in Marseille that night, afflicted with a stiff leg, it had been this same yellow weasel-fur coat’s warmth that supported his arm, he thought. That night when she helped him walk the narrow stone-paved customs path to the ship had marked their beginning together—now here they were in this snow. Beneath the dull halo of lantern light, snowflakes swirled larger, rising upward from below.

“It seems you’ve been cooking for yourself, but please do continue.” Chizuko laughed as she inquired. “Not at all—it’s far better than an inn.”

“I did bring you some canned goods as a souvenir. But I thought you might no longer need them by now.”

In the sleigh where heads bumped against the ceiling, Makimi remained hunched, always smiling silently. When Yashiro asked what department he was in, “Science,” Makimi answered curtly. “And what is your specialty?” Yashiro asked again. “Mathematics.” “Ah, I see.” Having said that for no particular reason, Yashiro thought this was a true man of science, and a natural smile escaped him beneath the dark hood.

At times, elbows would slip from the sideboards, and the sleigh jolted so violently that Yashiro’s jaw struck Chizuko’s shoulder. Because there was a river below the cliff by the roadside, there was also the danger of tumbling down. “This is terrifying. Do you think we’ll be all right?” Chizuko too spoke while clinging to Makimi’s shoulder. Through the bottom of the gap where all light had vanished, the sleigh staggered onward with only its small Western-style lantern swaying unsteadily in its uncertain motion.

“When I first came here, I thought I was going to the bottom of hell around this area—but upon arriving, I feel I’ve truly arrived here.” “It’s still shaking a lot.” Even as Yashiro spoke these words, the sleigh continued to sway from side to side, the wind rattled and flapped the canopy, and through its gaps, sharp snow swirled in. Yashiro was suddenly struck again by the sensation that Chizuko was wildly flying about with the wind atop the sleigh box, and as he grew all the more sensitive to the howling wind in the darkness outside, it seemed to him as though maddened wings were violently flapping against the roof.

“But there’s no helping it now, is there?” “Now it’s this way.” Yashiro admonished the external Chizuko in his heart, as if to make her hear,

“It really is like that.” Before he knew it, such scolding words spilled out. But it seemed that much had carelessly slipped from his lips, for Chizuko inside the sleigh turned around with reproachful eyes. “About what?”

“No—” “It’s a strange place, here.”

He lightly leaned back but stiffened with a chill—realizing it would be disastrous if others sensed his secret joy—and in that instant returned to himself within the present sleigh. “When we round this mountain, you’ll see a fire on the opposite ridge.” “That’s the inn.” “My cabin lies a bit higher up from there.” Even as he spoke, Yashiro found Makimi’s continued silence beside him somehow unnerving. Yet he felt certain he wasn’t indulging in any illicit pleasure alone. True, discovery would bring trouble—but wasn’t this merely his cherished love manifesting through refined abstraction? Where lay the strangeness in that? With this logic, he found courage to face it squarely. Had others noticed, he’d even prepared to tell Chizuko inwardly: “The Chizuko I imagine isn’t you—she’s someone distilled from you.”

The three in the sleigh continued their silent journey, swaying through the snow without a word.

The three made their way to their assigned room through the hallway where the inn’s maids had lined up at the entrance. In the room, a kotatsu had also been set up. After changing into inn robes, Chizuko and Makimi went straight to the baths.

Yashiro remained alone in the room drinking hot tea. As his knees warmed at the kotatsu, he felt reluctant to return alone to his chilled mountain cabin and even considered asking whether another vacant room might be available somewhere. However, while it would have been one thing had it been Yuki—who could handle such situations—the thought of Makimi, with his spotless appearance, being Chizuko’s companion made him hesitant to display his foreign-style familiarity with her. In the end, he resolved to have dinner at the inn before returning to the mountain cabin and, embracing the armrest beside him, waited for the two to come back.

Even so, that Chizuko had been able to come this far might have been partly because her mother had come to acknowledge her daughter’s will to some extent—it could be interpreted there had been such consultations too—but rather than their relationship having reached an impasse, Yashiro felt there was now no course left for either of them except marriage. Even if theirs had been a marriage born of passion they themselves scarcely recognized—one that maintained every propriety between man and woman until it finally bore fruit—now that Yashiro had seen through to the end of Chizuko’s marriage too, the intimacy of this night felt newly distinct, tinged with a familial closeness unlike anything before. By now, even if obstacles existed between them, they might have transformed into an inexorable tension that would press forward without regret.

However, he himself would surely suppress even that as well, Yashiro thought. By now, it was neither restraint nor shame. It was something without particular reason—if pressed to say, it seemed akin to a fragile courtesy that could only barely be conveyed through efforts merely upheld by others. Yashiro had sealed away both the free use and observation of his own heart in this manner because, after all, he too had vaguely wanted to shoulder the unfathomably heavy mikoshi that people had borne since ancient times.

Chizuko emerged from the bath with her inn robe uncharacteristically open at the collar and draped a towel over herself. “The bath was lovely,” she said. “Won’t you go in?”

After suggesting this to Yashiro, she applied her makeup by the mirror stand. While watching her glossy nails sway gently against her cheek, he realized it was his first time seeing Chizuko in a kimono. “If I go in too quickly, I tend to get chilled after the bath.” “But the baths here are quite nice, aren’t they?” “Especially in the morning.” “How extravagant of you.” “You’ve kept up your self-catering—I was just talking with Mr. Makimi about it earlier in the bath, you know.”

“Well then, I shall invite the two of you for tomorrow’s lunch. Shall I have you partake of a mountain feast?”

“Lunch?” Chizuko turned from the mirror. “Oh, how lovely! I’ve been looking forward to this. What sort of feast will it be?” This was no sudden whim—he had contemplated tomorrow’s lunch invitation since meeting them at the station—and he had already arranged for most ingredients to be gathered by morning.

“After all, it’s handmade cooking in the snow. It’s different from what I made in Tokyo, but perhaps a bit better compared to my time in the Tyrolean mountain cabin.”

“What was that back then, I wonder.” “Soup and potatoes and sausages—yes, that’s exactly what it was.”

As the two exchanged glances and laughed, the dinner preparations were completed and the meal was brought out. When Yashiro asked about Makimi, who still hadn’t come up from the bath, Chizuko laughed and said he must be watching the steam or pondering something. Makimi lumbered into the room and sat on a chair in the corridor by the window, gazing at the mountains. In his daily life, he did not seem to dwell much on human affairs; perhaps because he was focused solely on observing nature’s movements and numerical permutations, he bore a calm, unwavering smile unique to him. His pure red lower lip protruded slightly, his large clear eyes were beautiful, and he always maintained a tranquil silent demeanor that showed no sign of revealing his inner turmoil to others. Yashiro understood there must certainly be some pride there as well, but this only deepened his favorable impression of him.

“Tomorrow at lunch, Mr. Yashiro is treating us.” “It’s a home-cooked meal from the mountains.” When they sat down at the winter inn’s dining table—thick boards laid over the kotatsu—Chizuko said this to Makimi, but Makimi merely smiled. “Do you enjoy being cooked for?”

After a moment, Makimi suddenly asked Yashiro. Chizuko blushed slightly at Makimi’s awkward question and spoke up from beside them to fill the silence left by Yashiro’s hesitation. "He dislikes that sort of thing most of all." "So I’m truly looking forward to tomorrow’s feast." "But when you’re in the mountains—unlike in the village—cooking truly becomes more enjoyable." "The very characters for ‘feast’ supposedly come from monks—I understand that now." "When Japanese ships long ago carried shiitake mushrooms to Ningbo in China, the head monk there—whose greatest daily duty was to feed his disciples something delicious—would come down from the mountain and run about gathering ingredients. After all that rushing around, since Japanese shiitake were deemed the most delicious, there’s a theory that this is how the characters for ‘feast’ came to be." "Well then, tomorrow I’ll play the monk myself."

“Then we’ll be your disciples tomorrow, won’t we?”

Chizuko laughed as she picked up a piece of fried salmon with her chopsticks.

“Well, that’s as you like. Anyway, since Easterners realized that savoring good food brings more happiness to life than quibbling over logic, they’re wiser than Westerners in that regard.”

In the enjoyment of the meal, Yashiro momentarily forgot that Makimi beside him was a mathematician and remarked. "But since humankind discovered numbers, happiness has ceased to be happiness," Makimi said suddenly with student-like clarity in his voice, laughing as he looked at Yashiro. This was a blunder, Yashiro thought. "In other words, because it was the discovery of abstraction—that marked the beginning of human unhappiness." "The genesis of Greek tragedy."

“Well, zero was discovered by Indians—but what is this? Abstraction?” When it came to numbers, Makimi—unable to restrain himself from speaking his fill—began to adopt the sharp tone characteristic of a mathematician. “Yes, yes—it’s said that India was the first to discover zero. I don’t really understand mathematics well, but strangely enough—well, this is a bit different—the Japanese also discovered zero in ancient times. There is the character ‘wa,’ which in the fifty-sound syllabary of a-i-u-e-o marks the first character of the last row—the tenth position. The ancient Japanese character ‘wa’ is zero. In other words, the circular form of ‘wa’ represents zero, and placing this circle in the tenth position of the syllabary’s concluding row—I’ve come to think there’s something inherently mathematical in how ancient Japan arranged this. However, Greek numbers lack a character for zero. That’s what I don’t understand. Zero is a circle—the harmony of bonds. To think they have no harmony…”

“I don’t know about ancient Japanese characters, but in mathematics, the concept of zero still isn’t understood by anyone. However, they say all modern culture has blossomed upon this unfathomable circle called zero.”

Makimi suddenly looked down and fell silent after speaking, yet he still wore a gentle smile.

“Zero… It’s so strange.”

Chizuko, too, seemed to ponder for a moment before silently resuming her meal. By the time the meal ended, the wind had died down, and in the snow-lit valley, the horses' whinnies echoed sharply through. Yashiro leaned over the railing and searched for the light of the house where he had ordered the bird for tomorrow’s meal. From the window of a solitary teahouse, the color of the lamp shining on the snow-covered street had a warm, peaceful feel. After finishing her meal, Chizuko came to Yashiro’s side.

“Oh, the snow has stopped.” “Your mountain cabin is close by here.” “I’d like to go see it.”

“It’s right above here.” “But it won’t do until tomorrow noon.” “I must go back now to prepare the feast—” “If it’s from now on, I can help too.” “Well then—just for tomorrow—quietly become my disciple.”

Even when saying such things, whenever he thought about cooking, Yashiro would always feel an unexpected surge in his heart.

The next morning, while receiving vegetables, Yashiro went to the inn’s bathhouse. Resolving not to stop by Chizuko and the others’ room, he immediately made for the bathhouse. Guests who had arrived on a late-night train after that commotion last night seemed to be departing early this morning, making the bathhouse lively. The bathhouse was filled with its usual morning fog—so dense that it concealed everyone’s bodies, rendering them indistinguishable—and it occurred to him that either Chizuko or Makimi might be among them.

Like any bathhouse, the talkative guests always kept chattering—only those individuals—while those who were silent remained so, so that the voices echoing in one’s ears must have outnumbered the actual crowd. The ripples stirred by their bodies collided ceaselessly and irregularly, sparkling as they washed against Yashiro’s chin. There were guests leaving and new guests entering, and though the sound of the sliding door continued incessantly, the morning bath—where not a single figure could be seen—as always filled Yashiro with a pleasantly tranquil feeling.

Eventually, the chattering guests and their companions left. Only the sound of ripples lapping on the hushed water’s surface could be heard.

“Ah——ah.”

And then, somewhere along the edge of the bath, someone unexpectedly let out a loud yawn. Even though the bathers had carefully chosen their spots in the bath to avoid facing one another, whenever a newcomer entered, their positions naturally shifted bit by bit, realigning in the water.

Yashiro hoped to avoid encountering Makimi, Chizuko, and the others in the bath for some reason, so whenever someone approached nearby, he would turn his face away and shift positions, savoring his solitary world within the dense mist. However, amidst the sounds of people rising from the nearby water’s surface and droplets falling from faucets—mixing together as they reached him—there came two small consecutive coughs: a cough that somehow felt familiar, reminiscent of Chizuko. Wondering if she had caught a cold from last night’s sudden chill, Yashiro grew concerned. Circling the edge of the bath would have allowed him to confirm it immediately, yet he found himself unable to do even that. If she had left Makimi still asleep and come to the bath alone first, then undoubtedly it was now Chizuko’s time for bathing. Yashiro pressed his face to the water’s surface, but even when peering through the relatively clear area where the steam thinned, thick fog suddenly swirled down from above, erasing all human figures. The fog was ceaselessly thrust upward by the bath’s waves only to swirl back down to the surface, seeming to whirl around the room at a rapid speed. The snowy mountain, in the thinner patches of mist above, was stained a pale crimson high up where it caught the rising morning sun.

The deep indigo sky along the mountain ridge was vivid to the point of severity. As Yashiro sat hugging his legs at the bath’s edge and gazed up at the sky, he suddenly recalled the hue of that vanished-airplane sky from when Chizuko had parted with him and left Paris. Back then, the sky had been a hollow, profound color that made them think they would never meet again—yet the mist ceaselessly billowed upward and swirled downward. Enveloped in soft, secretive water sounds akin to gargling, he felt Chizuko was still there within them. When Yashiro thought of the two who must now be bathing in anticipation of the midday meal, he soon emerged from the water.

Carrying fiddlehead ferns and fresh shiitake mushrooms received from the inn’s maid, he climbed toward the mountain cabin. The valley river’s surface kept only a murky hue where ice had thawed, while pure white undulations across its breadth reflected the morning sun—dazzling as if fine particles scattered. Yashiro arranged for labor-intensive dishes—grated yamaimo, konjac salad, fried shiitake—to be delivered by the teahouse matron while planning to roast a whole chicken over the cabin’s embers, though cooking time remained premature. The gap between floorboards and snow-packed ground stayed unfilled by last night’s fall, letting wind rise through cracks to chill the cabin.

While he had time, Yashiro resumed his morning routine of research. Lately he had come to endure his days by telling himself that any day he discovered one new thing during his reading hours was not entirely wasted—but on this particular day, he had unexpectedly stumbled upon a great treasure. It was that he had belatedly discovered the thought and work of a man called Saint Thomas within thirteenth-century religious history. This figure had excised the Oriental mysticism that Christianity had incorporated until then and, in its place, became the first to introduce Greek intellectualism into thirteenth-century Catholicism. He viewed humanity as a tether linking the spiritual and material worlds, asserting that to enter the divine realm, one must first scientifically master the material order perceived through human senses before gradually ascending—a stance that made him pivotal in imparting decisive force to Renaissance science’s emergence. This act of harmonizing religion and science—which until his emergence had remained divided and contentious—repositioning humanity within natural order and thereby bringing forth the Renaissance’s flowering in the West, became for Yashiro something like a tangible shining key discovered within the long-abandoned darkness of medieval doubts. To those versed in religious history, such matters were undoubtedly commonplace, but within his research framework, this was to become a vital main artery. Precisely in this political ingenuity—preserving religion’s essence while making science bloom as humanity’s basest intellectual faculty’s flower, even rendering it fertilizer for humankind—there still lay submerged many heavy ears of grain awaiting Easterners’ discernment. And Yashiro harbored no doubt that upon the Oriental mysticism Saint Thomas had painstakingly severed from Renaissance Christianity, an enlightenment surpassing even the Renaissance was now dawning. In reality, he felt happy sensing its approach before his very eyes.

Yashiro thought that all their painstaking studies too were part of this moment when the East must answer the West by reconstructing its virtues—that now was precisely the time to exert full effort in devising methods to cultivate the ability to use the science embraced by the Renaissance not as a head like Greece, but as one's own limbs.

When Yashiro closed his book and looked at the clock, it was nearly eleven. He hurriedly threw firewood into the stove, stuffed butter into the chicken’s belly, and began roasting it whole. As he listened to the sizzle of fat dripping from the skewered chicken skin over the fire, Yashiro rejoiced that coming to the mountain cabin had been worthwhile—for before treating Chizuko and Makimi to this feast, he had managed to uncover the essence of the Renaissance that very morning. It was a joyful morning moment—one that truly felt like gazing upon a softly glowing world of white light.

It was Saint Thomas’s humility—his discernment that human intellect ranks lowest among human possessions—that gave rise to the splendid blossoming of the Renaissance; yet within the present-day East, a humility surpassing even that remains rooted at its foundation. That was its virtue. And once again, he murmured thus to himself inwardly, both impressed and reflective. Speaking of which, the English name "Saint Thomas" becomes "Saint-Tôma" when rendered in French. Saint-Tôma Temple stood just a few blocks from Luxembourg Park. Once, Yashiro had visited this temple with Chizuko, but he recalled feeling discomfort at the sanctuary’s murals—their numerous depictions of barbarians prostrating beneath crosses held aloft with pride—and exiting hastily without proper examination. The cause of Greece’s ancient downfall—the thrusting of intellect’s spear into barbarians’ vitality, that very capital of life, thereby extinguishing it—had taken root and flourished within that temple. Like a mathematical thicket devoid of Musubi’s zero—that divine creativity—

As noon approached, Chizuko and Makizo came up the cedar-lined slope path—its trunks still damp—with bright voices. Gazing down at the snow-covered valley spread beneath the clear sky, Yashiro raised his hand from the cabin window and called out to them. A voice answered from below. Yashiro found it amusing now—these two hungry sibling disciples climbing the snowy path still unaware of his research, one a Catholic and the other a scientist.

“I’ve worked up a sweat.” “It’s so warm today—such lovely weather.” When they reached the cabin’s front, Chizuko brushed snow from her borrowed geta against a step’s edge and spoke. The snow, having begun to melt under the sun, slid from the roof. After ushering the brother and sister guests into the room, Yashiro brewed tea. Chizuko, still wearing her coat and seeming intrigued, kept moving between the back window and kitchen area for some time. Yashiro watched her retreating figure with the fresh-heartedness of a groom first showing his home to his bride.

“How do you like this cabin?” “It’s simple, but nice enough. You boasted in your letter about becoming free of desires—but here even I could live without wants.” Chizuko turned from gazing at water trickling through the bamboo conduit outside the back window, her smile conveying a meaning only they shared. Yashiro felt this was the first time he’d seen such an expression from her—a reassurance that he’d grasped something true in her heart—before shifting his gaze to Makizo seated across the chair. Yet Makizo merely kept examining Yashiro’s papers strewn across the desk, his calm face betraying no interest in such matters, flushed lower lip still jutting out. Now Yashiro fully understood why Chizuko had brought this brother instead of her perceptive elder sibling Yuki.

“Did you catch a cold? It got rather chilly last night.” Remembering Chizuko’s faint cough in the morning bathwater, Yashiro asked Makizo. “Not really,” Makizo replied before countering with a laugh, “Are you studying religion?” “It’s nothing so grand as religion.” Yashiro answered with a chuckle, though he wanted instead to say it concerned Makizo’s own field of science. But recalling how their conversation had nearly derailed during last night’s meal over this very topic, he fell silent again. To speak at all—when today’s youth carried countless sparks kindled by fire—required extraordinary restraint to continually smother every impulse at one’s lips. This was no ordinary discipline, Yashiro thought.

“Chizuko-san, do sit here.” “Once the meal I asked the old woman downstairs to prepare arrives, I’ll serve it.” Chizuko slipped her arms from her coat sleeves and approached the stove. The lingering aroma of butter-roasted chicken in the room intensified with her movements. “Brother Yuki’s making preparations to go abroad again soon—I wonder if he actually heeded what you told him last time? He says he’ll thoroughly revisit Nara and Kyoto first this time.” “I think I’d like to go along then.” “How about you?”

“Then I’ll accompany you anytime,” Yashiro said. “But Brother Yuki never seems to find time for his fatigue to subside. As for me, I don’t feel fully recovered yet—perhaps those accustomed to it aren’t like that.” “What do you mean? Lately he’s been making gestures like he wants to go abroad soon.” “He even says things to me like, ‘Won’t you come along again?’”

Chizuko had likely meant her remark as nothing more than a casual dismissal of Yuki’s jest, but to Yashiro, it resonated deeply. Even if it were merely Yuki’s joke, such an atmosphere permeating the Usami household could not be ignored. To Yashiro, it seemed Yuki’s sympathetic invitation stemmed from having realized that Chizuko—now pressured to marry another man—had no escape left but another journey abroad. And if matters grew dire, Yuki’s proposal could not be dismissed as mere folly—it contained the seeds of reality.

“Among my acquaintances, there’s one who returns to Japan only to stay in Tokyo for a month before immediately coming back to Paris.” “On the other hand, there’s another who arrives in Paris from Japan and grows tired of it by the next day—returning home within half a month.” “People truly are diverse.” Yashiro had meant to ask Chizuko directly, “Which side are you on now?” But he uttered these remarks instead, masking his hidden agitation.

“Why do you think that is?” “Is it really that different?” Makizo inquired with a genuinely puzzled expression. “Well, I don’t know either—but isn’t it like the difference between leaving Japan’s interior for the exterior of this sphere we call Earth, and entering the interior from the outside?” To Makizo, who specialized in mathematics, Yashiro thought this explanation was actually quite direct, but Makizo remained silent. “In other words, there’s a fundamental difference in perspective between when you go abroad, Chizuko, and when I do.” “Since you were raised Catholic from childhood, your journey abroad is truly an outward movement from within that sphere. But for someone like me, brought up with Japanese discipline, it becomes an inward penetration from without—so even the sensation of ‘going’ differs entirely.” “I seem to recall physics making a distinction between entering a spherical surface from outside versus exiting from within. What would you say?”

“That exists,” Makizo stated clearly, his customary smile abruptly disappearing as his expression grew taut. Yashiro had meant to draw out the core ideas of this brother—this youth who might someday become his own kin—into what might be called society’s vital center, to let them brush against its pulse. But sensing the subtle alteration in Makizo’s expression now devoid of smiles, he thought this man differed somewhat from brother Yuki, and found him reassuringly steadfast.

“The Earth is indeed a spherical surface.” “Therefore, relying solely on Greek planar trigonometry would often lead to errors when calculating what we call the real world—that is, spherical triangles.” “That aside, Japan’s traditional geometry from ancient times deals with spherical triangles.” “It’s Riemann.” “No matter how you look at it, planes and spheres are fundamentally different.”

At that moment when he said this, Yashiro thought what he had most wanted to say was not such things, but to avert the danger of Chizuko possibly going abroad again with Yuki. If Chizuko were to escape abroad now, what would Greece or geometry or religion—what would any of it mean to him? Yashiro wondered. Yet that danger could well be seen as closing in on him.

“Was there geometry in Japan in ancient times?” Makizo asked again with a childlike earnest expression.

Yashiro regretted having said unnecessary things. While throwing red pine logs into the stove, he still had to somehow fill the idle time until the meal arrived with conversation. "There certainly was—because the essence of Japan’s ancient shrines lies in ritual paper offerings, you see." "The ritual paper offerings—a single sheet of white paper—are a geometry that infinitely splits and descends downward no matter how much you cut it." "At the same time, that is also the peaceful prayer of the Japanese people." "In other words, I believe the central philosophy of our country believes in and demonstrates that beauty of the universe." "The fact that we today mindlessly repeat 'nation, nation' is absurd—it’s like using the narrow translation of 'nation' for the cosmic vision our ancestors conceived."

“Hmm.”

Having said that, Makizo fell silent once more. This moment—where Yashiro kept stoking the flames of earnest conversation with Makizo, who couldn't deviate from his single-minded path—somehow became oppressively heavy and painful for him. "Yet this isn't unreasonable for us at all—there was an innocent quality to knowing nothing about Japan." "If people like us were to recklessly uncover Japan's true nature now—at this very moment when Japan might find such exposure unbearable—it's better we remain ignorant. That's why they've secretly kept it hidden." "Don't you think if we wait just a little longer, the time of understanding will surely come?" "Lately I've come to believe that letting the Japanese people sleep a while longer—keeping them asleep that extra span—might be an act of loving consideration devised by Japan's ancestors." "It must certainly be so."

While Yashiro was speaking, an old woman from the teahouse came climbing up the snowy slope—bent at the waist with two lunchboxes hanging from her hands. "The meal has arrived." Wanting to forestall Makizo's questions, Yashiro moved to stand by the doorway. The old woman who had reached the cabin passed two immaculately polished lunchboxes to Yashiro.

“Well, which should I start with?” Yashiro opened the lid of the lunchbox and looked inside, thinking that determining the serving order for mountain dishes posed a particular challenge. Konjac in white tofu dressing, grated wild yam, freshly fried shiitake mushrooms, his own hand-cooked whole roasted chicken, and simmered suginori seaweed—he arranged these in a neat row on the table alongside plates before speaking again. “Well, why don’t you each start with whatever you like?” “We’re being served so much.” “They’re all such unusual dishes.”

Chizuko served portions of each dish from the bowl onto everyone’s plates and filled all the rice bowls.

“At this point, perhaps I’ll take the role of the guest, if I may.”

Yashiro said and laughed. “If I may have just this much, the rest will be more than enough.” They left the soup simmering on the stove to be ready during their meal and began eating. The konjac in white tofu dressing was particularly well-made. Chizuko praised the flavor of the grated wild yam, though it seemed slightly overseasoned, while the freshly fried shiitake mushrooms cooked in poor-quality oil disappointed expectations. Yet because the rice had been prepared better than usual, the meal—with its salty accents—became delicious. Makizo appeared oblivious to the food’s nuances, silently consuming everything served, but showed particular fondness for the chicken—clutching a clawed leg in his grip, lips glistening with butter as he desperately tore through its sinews.

“I remember your poulet rôti.” “You know, you only ate young chickens back in Paris.” “If you don’t hold a chicken memorial service at least once, divine punishment will strike you know.”

To Chizuko’s words, Yashiro indeed thought that was also true.

“I really must have eaten hundreds of chickens in Paris.” “I should hold a chicken memorial service once.” “Would I end up eating them again at that memorial service?”

“Which cuisine did you like best?” Makizo asked. Because this same question had been asked of him time and again, Yashiro had eventually become unable to speak the truth when answering. “It’s only when I think of chickens that I feel like going abroad again.” “Even when I hear that Mr. Yuki is going abroad again, chickens are the first thing that come to mind.” “This must indeed be what they mean by a memorial service.” “So today’s meal is essentially another chicken memorial service.”

“That must be how it is.” “If I end up going with my brother, I’ll eat plenty of chickens on your behalf to make up for you.” Chizuko inserted her knife into the chicken’s shoulder and said with a glance at Yashiro’s face. “So you do plan to go again after all.” “How utterly irritating.” Yashiro raised his eyebrows and laughed lightly in deference to Makizo’s presence. “But my brother keeps insisting we should go.” “They say the urge returns strongest around six months or a year after coming back—it does seem true.” “I don’t know why—maybe because of that—but sometimes I feel this sudden, dizzy spell-like urge to go.” “And you?”

“For me, it’s only when chicken is served—like today—that I want to go.” “Are foreign chickens more delicious than this one?”

And once again, Makizo posed a question.

“I do think they were delicious.” Yashiro answered this way, yet all along he had secretly wondered if this was the chicken’s divine retribution—so heavily did Chizuko’s impending trip abroad weigh on his mind that for a while, his chopsticks moved through the meal with a vague emptiness. Moreover, when Yashiro thought of Makizo’s current position—how this honest young man would surely report every detail about him to their mother once Chizuko and the others returned to Tokyo—Makizo no longer seemed like an ordinary guest but rather a scout-like figure vested with authority, and Yashiro’s shoulders stiffened slightly. The one somewhat convenient thing for Yashiro was that he liked Makizo.

“But please, just don’t go again.”

Yashiro turned to face Chizuko and said. “Yes,” Chizuko replied in a soft, contemplative tone, and then—

“But if I were to go this time, there’s something I want to research thoroughly.” “Last time, I thought I’d be returning right away, you know.” “So I only did surface-level research from afar, like a half-hearted imitation, but after coming back—not that it’s your doing—I suddenly found myself desperately wanting to study properly.” “So back then—were you researching something through all that too?” Yashiro asked, belatedly realizing his own obtuseness as he recalled their days together.

“Back then, it was you who was at fault—you told me to go have fun, that that’s the best study there is.” “Well, at that time, that was the truest thing of all. And I’ve never once regretted enjoying myself back then either.” “That’s why I’ve come to want to study so much after returning—I want to go study Western tailoring techniques more thoroughly and make a living on my own. Lately, when I think about all these things—whether it’s joyful or lonely—I can’t tell anymore, and it’s so troubling—”

Yashiro spent some time pondering what Chizuko had meant by bringing up such matters. He could interpret it as her anguish warped by domestic troubles she couldn't voice openly due to Makizo's presence—only hinting at them obliquely—yet simultaneously sensed some sharp-edged implication directed at himself too; finding himself unable to respond,Yashiro remained silent. "Let's stop talking like this," she said lightly while ladling soup from nickel-plated pot to bowls and arranging them before everyone. "What a waste of this fine meal."

Chizuko suddenly said with a light turn, poured the clear soup from the Neume pot into bowls, and arranged them before each person. Yashiro, who ate little, finished his meal before everyone else and replaced the clear soup with coffee.

“If this counts as completing the chicken memorial service, I’d be grateful.”

He muttered while putting his used dishes into the bucket, then lit a cigarette. Chizuko alone seemed to have heard Yashiro’s muttering, glancing briefly at him. "But thank you for this wonderful meal today," she said with a laugh. "The dishes were exquisite." Following Chizuko’s words, Makizo offered an awkward bow of his own. After clearing the table, they drank coffee in a drowsy state of fullness. Outside the quiet window where silence lingered, snow occasionally slid from the roof with soft thuds. As Yashiro listened to these sounds near his ear, the pale curve of Chizuko’s neck emerging from her crimson muffler—wavering in the coffee’s steam—appeared tinged with seduction. Thinking how the room had gained a luster absent yesterday, he felt the weight of propping himself on one elbow against the table grow heavy.

That entire day, Yashiro felt a chest-tightening unease unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Even when he tried his best to remain cheerful, he would often fall silent, feeling a heavy weariness akin to fatigue in his chest, and occasionally stepped out into the snow. Having decided to have dinner at his inn, he saw off his guests and then set out alone for Chizuko’s lodgings. On the way, at a bend in the sloping road, he encountered three women wearing quilted robes from the inn. The lively chatter belonged to the owners of the hoarse, unpleasant voices from the room two doors down from Chizuko’s. The group appeared to have come from some red-light district in Tokyo, and a plump woman nearing sixty who seemed to be the proprietress was taking what seemed to be a pre-dinner stroll with two geishas under her employ,

“Hey, it’s your turn this time.” The proprietress poked the younger geisha’s shoulder in a mannish voice, and as instructed, she pressed her face into the snow along the slope’s embankment. Beside the two female masks that had been made in the same way earlier, this time the proprietress pressed her own face into the snow last of all and, “Hoh, mine’s the best Okame mask yet!” she declared, and the three of them burst into raucous laughter. Under the dimly lit mountain peaks before dusk, for a while, the three of them continued to laugh uproariously, repeating the same antics.

As Yashiro watched the women—now free of any ill intent—at their playful antics, he felt refreshed, as though he himself had splashed water on his face. He halted on the slope and, gazing up at the peaks where dusk tinged the snow, took out a cigarette. Then it struck him—perhaps tonight he should broach marriage with Chizuko—and sensing this sudden shift in his emotions take hold, he felt invigorated.

As Yashiro walked toward the inn, he thought that if they were indeed to formalize their marriage, he first wanted to hear the Catholic oath Chizuko recited during her morning and evening prayers. If he married without knowing its contents—even while anticipating conflicts with his mother, a devout follower of the Lotus Sutra—he feared his own wavering stance between them might cause endless complications. Yet even contemplating marriage, he sensed an adventurous spirit still lingering within himself and stood listening to his heart's voice with restrained solemnity. Suddenly discarding his cigarette, he held his breath and pressed his face into the embankment's snow. The searing cold stabbed his cheeks as luminous orbs swirled chaotically, tracing arcs before dissolving into nothingness. When this continued until the final disordered spheres, he perceived the Chizuko from his dreams—her face faintly flushed, posture tilted—glancing back mid-flight before vanishing. Yashiro raised his face when his breath finally gave out.

"What was that?"

He wiped his still-burning cheek with one sleeve of his overcoat and looked up at the sky. After a while, he began walking through the snow again, but as memories surfaced of the deities in the *Kojiki* who were moved to act by their dreams, the beauty of Chizuko’s dreamlike figure—entwined in a jade cord and flown away—seemed to him a resigned acceptance that had celebrated the joy of marriage alongside him, and Yashiro felt glad. After arriving at the inn, he sat facing Chizuko at a table by the railing. When he asked about Makizo’s absence, he was told that he had gone to the recreation room.

Now, for the first time since yesterday that they were alone together, Yashiro felt an unease for no reason and continued to gaze at the mountains. Chizuko, too, remained silent in the same way.

The mountain behind the inn cast its shadow across the valley to the peaks of the opposite mountains, and at the base where snow-crowned mixed trees jutted out like eyelashes, an iron bridge could be seen.

“We plan to return tomorrow morning.”

“We plan to return tomorrow morning,” Chizuko said quietly, still looking at the mountains.

“Well, I should get going soon.” “When you return, would you meet with Marquis Tanabe once?” Chizuko, for some reason, flushed crimson with an air of difficulty and gazed at Yashiro.

“I will meet him, but why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing, really.” “But you see—” Chizuko momentarily cut off her words. “Since my mother hasn’t met you, I thought it would be better if someone were to mediate—so I considered asking the Marquis—that’s something I came up with on my own.” “But if you dislike it, that’s all right.” “If that’s the case, I would be happy to meet him anytime.”

“Then I’ll meet him anytime,” Yashiro replied simply. “Thank you,” Chizuko said. She looked up at the mountain peaks with a soft, open smile. In the ravine where only the snow-capped summits retained their bright orange hue, an ever-deepening twilight encroached. Yashiro thought Chizuko’s natural articulation of what he himself had contemplated broaching might stem from an increasingly unbridgeable rift developing between her and her mother. On one hand lay her struggle to conceal this from him; on the other, a calculated maneuver born of deliberation—for unless she disclosed it, her reasons for hesitation would remain obscure. Sensing this duality, Yashiro too felt moved and raised his eyes to the same peaks Chizuko contemplated.

“But would your mother be convinced by such a thing? I think it would be better if we don’t push things for a while.”

“That’s why I’ve been thinking about it too, you see.” “My mother is rather difficult—there are things she simply doesn’t understand.”

Chizuko lowered her gaze from the mountain peaks to the road directly below and cast her eyes downward. A hand-pulled sled loaded with charcoal bales and mandarin oranges stood unattended on the snowy road. There, a small child from the inn came out with a sweet bean bun in their mouth, grabbed the handle of the sled, and began straining with grunts as they tried to move it.

“What about your father?”

Yashiro asked Chizuko while looking down at the child below. "My father is fine." "But when it comes to things like this, he’s someone who will do as my mother says." "I’ll wait as long as it takes." "I don’t mind meeting your mother, but I think I’d find the courage more easily once I know for certain that I’ll be outright rejected. So until then, it’s probably safer to leave things as they are."

“What about your mother?”

Chizuko—as if this concerned her most of all—suddenly raised her head from the railing, eyes glinting, and asked. “If I ask my mother, I believe she’ll agree without fail.” “But once they learn you’re Catholic, complications will likely follow.” “You see, my mother adheres to Nichiren Buddhism—this isn’t something that can be bent, however one might try.” “Still, there’s one promising angle. I mean to handle that deftly somehow.”

Yashiro had resolved never to mention their religious differences, but sensing that broaching it at the right moment might clear future obstacles, he ended up speaking of his mother’s Nichiren Buddhism too. Then came the creak of a rattan chair as Chizuko suddenly leaned sorrowfully against the railing and looked downward. “But I’m not disappointed.” “Since this has happened before—listen carefully now.” “This matters greatly for you too.”

“Somehow, I feel so sad.” “I remember having a dream where your mother scolded me—” Chizuko took out a handkerchief and gently wiped her eyes.

“But you should expect such things to happen once or twice without fail.” “If you’re Catholic and my mother follows Nichiren Buddhism, has there ever been anyone who could reconcile them?” “So trying might prove interesting.” “I can’t—not me—” Chizuko muttered into her handkerchief. “You lack courage for a Catholic. Do consider my position.” “I’m the one caught between Catholicism and Nichiren Buddhism—your troubles pale in comparison.”

The two fell silent again and looked down. The child on the road below, gripping the sled handle and straining, persistently refused to stop trying to move it. With the sweet bean bun clamped in his mouth, his face thrown back and flushed with effort, the sled refused to budge an inch. Then, the child let go, moved around to the back, and this time tried pushing the sled from behind with grunts. The load was clearly too heavy—evident at a glance from above—but Yashiro thought that from below, it might still appear movable. Relating it naturally to his own circumstances, he continued gazing downward.

After taking a bite of the sweet bean bun, the child moved back to the front again without resolve. Then hanging from the sled handle in reckless abandon, he hooked his feet onto it and began singing a school song while swinging upside down. Chizuko and Yashiro both spontaneously laughed together from above. “That’s how it must be done.” “That child will surely rise in life.”

said Yashiro. “Truly.” “If only we could become like that.”

Chizuko seemed to have somewhat regained her composure. "If only we could find a way to move ours too." "Then what do you think I should do?" Chizuko rose from the railing and asked earnestly. "Well, while nibbling on anpan, pushing at it, singing school songs—when the time comes, that sled's owner will emerge and haul it away." "Human fate—isn't that how it works?"

“Then, who might be the owner of our sled?”

Chizuko momentarily took on a childlike expression and looked around as if searching, but this too seemed to collide with a confused thought, and she reverted to her originally pained face. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you—when you pray daily, you Catholics use an oath, don’t you?” “I’d like you to teach me that one thing.” “How do you say it?” Yashiro thought this might be difficult for Chizuko to answer. Though he had posed the question calmly, when it came to such matters, his heart clouded with a spy-like sense of probing—an inquiry without confrontation.

“Mine has remained as it was when I was taught in school.” Chizuko immediately sensed the meaning behind Yashiro’s question and assumed a formal demeanor. “This really won’t do. Whether it’s better or worse to know such things—I still can’t decide—but after all, everyone has a school song they whisper quietly in their heart.” “Even that child earlier ended up exhausted and sang a song in the end.” “That’s the voice calling out for the sled’s owner without knowing who they are.” “Such a thing must exist for you too.”

“But you do know such things, don’t you.” Chizuko grew visibly more displeased. Was this how conflicts over religious differences persisted so relentlessly? Confronted anew with the difficulty of it all, Yashiro felt an anxiety that allowed no peace and looked downward. Soon, the sled’s owner—wearing straw boots—emerged from beneath the inn’s eaves and began hauling the charcoal bale down the slope. Yet now, even as Yashiro watched the sled start moving, he felt no flicker of interest—only sinking deeper into despondency.

“It’s not good that we must suffer one more unnecessary burden than others. If we understand this matter can’t be resolved, then within those understood limits we must do something—otherwise I find it all rather pointless. It’s not that I dislike you and am tormenting you out of spite—” “You don’t know my sorrow at all. When I think of your mother, I feel like I’m only ever being scolded—and that’s what makes me sad. You always side with your mother—it’s certain, and—”

Chizuko stared fixedly at Yashiro from directly in front of him without releasing her gaze. Under Chizuko’s intense gaze—which seemed almost like jealousy toward his mother—Yashiro felt a flinch, as if suddenly pressed for a response, and his body stiffened.

“But I don’t know why—women have a tendency to turn even good religions into heresy, don’t they? Even watching my mother, there were times when even I—as a child—found myself troubled. My father’s family has been Shinshū for generations. My mother alone was Hokke. That’s because her family was Hokke—she was raised reciting *Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō* from childhood. So even after joining my father’s household, it seems she couldn’t awaken any sense of gratitude through *Namu Amida Butsu*. There she was, always suffering alone. In truth, the more earnestly one engages with it, the more painful it must become—yet it’s not something one can casually discard. Even now, there remains something... some conflict tangled between her and my father.”

“Then, which side are you on?”

Chizuko immediately inquired. "I am Ancient Shinto," he said in a small voice at this point, then added: "But this isn't a religion." "It's different from Shinto too," he rephrased. "What is Ancient Shinto? I've never heard of it before," Chizuko said shyly in an equally soft voice, continuing to gaze at the distant evening sky with a faint smile still lingering on her face—yet her expression showed no sign of dispelling its bewilderment. The brightness that had hovered over the mountaintop had already vanished from the sky, while darkness steadily deepened in the valley below. Just then, as Makizo lumbered back from the recreation room, the corridor beneath the icicles suddenly became bustling. Then came the sounds of maids carrying fire and setting down trays, until finally this busyness reached the room where Yashiro and the others were gathered.

The meal began immediately after that. While serving as a substitute maid by attending to the men’s bowls, Chizuko still seemed preoccupied with what Yashiro had said and spoke little. Yashiro steered his conversation more toward Makizo, endeavoring to draw out new topics related to physics.

When Makizo finished describing the creation of new hypotheses that most troubled physics, “Hey, Mr. Makizo—this is off-topic—but do you know about Ancient Shinto?” Chizuko asked from beside them. “Earlier too, this person here said he believes in Ancient Shinto, yet he won’t explain what it actually is.” “You don’t know either, do you? What Ancient Shinto is.” Makizo simply remained silent, smirking all the while.

“Well, that’s—this is difficult, and even I don’t quite grasp it.” “I believe it’s an inherently Japanese aspiration for peace—one that refuses to acknowledge conflict among all things.” “So unlike religions such as Christianity or Buddhism, it holds not a shred of prejudice that would exclude others.” “This *Ancient Shinto* naturally flows within you too, Ms. Chizuko.” “But its very refinement—being too elevated for ordinary understanding—has always been its disadvantage.” “Yet there’s another aspect where that very quality becomes its strength.”

Even as he spoke these words, Yashiro suddenly recalled the vision of Chizuko from his dream—her figure strung with jeweled threads as she flew away through the snow he had seen on his way here. And so, comparing that Chizuko with this Chizuko, he examined the woman before him once more. “So, *Ancient Shinto*… it accepts Catholicism too, then?” Chizuko’s brow relaxed as if to say she had finally found reassurance. “That has been since March 14th of Meiji 6.” “I did some research—that year, a cabinet minister held his family’s funeral according to Catholic rites, publicly following a foreign priest.” “Until that day, they called Catholicism a heretical sect. But since then, people have started calling *Ancient Shinto* heresy instead.” “And yet Japanese law remains firmly centered on *Ancient Shinto*, not Shinto itself!” “Before we knew it, everything had flipped upside down.”

Makizo continued eating his meal, still leaking a thin smirk. "I’d noticed such things myself, so I thought I should at least know the words you say during your prayers, Ms. Chizuko—that’s why I asked such an impertinent question earlier." "I can’t help but ask—from my position."

Yashiro had absentmindedly forgotten about his food while speaking，so his voice rose somewhat． “But at that time，it was impossible．The way you spoke was so sudden—somehow I felt as though I’d been ordered to trample a *fumie*．”

“Fumie… I see,” Yashiro said. “It was when I was about to trample the *fumie* in your place, and yet—” “—In truth, had Japan during the Tokugawa period not vested real power in the shogunate, there would have been no great massacre of Christians.” “If, back then, Ancient Shinto had been the central force behind the law as in Meiji, I believe there would have been no need for cruel things like *fumie*.”

“Then, what exactly do you recite in your Ancient Shinto prayers?” “I don’t know about others’, but mine is simply reciting ‘iue.’ When you say it quickly, it becomes like a kiai and sounds like ‘e,’ but well, that’s still fine.” “Yours, on the other hand, must go on and on—obliging you to utter things that would be troublesome if heard by other sects.” “What does ‘iue’ mean?” Mr. Makizo asked.

“In *kotodama*, I is the great deity of the past, U is the deity of the present, and E is the deity of the future.” “By quickly condensing these three into a single utterance and voicing ‘E’ in prayer, any Japanese person would feel invigorated.” “In ancient times, they made these characters *I* and *U* into stones—using ancient script—and enshrined them as principal deities in shrines across every land.” “But claiming they were licentious shrines due to their lewd forms, they uprooted them.” “Since they’d torn out the roots of these two *kotodama*—‘I’ and ‘U’—Japan fell into turmoil.” “Yet when Japanese people face hardship, even without understanding why, they shout ‘E!’ and find strength to overcome anything.” “This is what we call the love of life.” “My prayer’s much the same when simplified—but now I’d like to hear yours.”

Yashiro looked at Chizuko and said. Chizuko started to say something but ultimately diverted her words. “I’ll write mine on paper and give it to you when I leave tomorrow.” “It’s long, you see.” “But hearing how you explain it made me feel reassured that Ancient Shinto flows within me too.” “I was truly glad to have heard your wonderful words tonight.” Chizuko prepared tea with a lightened manner and placed it before Yashiro. However, Makizo alone continued to sit there, still smirking to himself even after finishing the meal.

“But can modern people really find satisfaction in what you’ve just described?”

After a while, Makizo, who had leaned against the wall, spoke while sipping his tea. Though not mocking in tone, his voice unmistakably carried a note of honest disappointment toward Yashiro.

“Happiness like satisfaction doesn’t exist for modern people,” Yashiro said. “Even Greek geometry has as its foundation a triangle formed by three sides—like *IUE*. With words too—no matter which of the fifty syllables—the ancient Japanese knew all sounds return to these three vowels: I, U, E. Then came the conceptualization of numbers. So I’ve come to think simply: while Greek civilization developed from triangles, Japan’s arose from three sounds. If you labor to create new physics hypotheses, unite sound and form’s principles. Reconsider time’s essence with a ‘Hah!’ Then modern people’s satisfaction might become attainable.”

Yashiro said and laughed, half-intending it as a joke. Then Makizo abruptly stopped his smile and fell silent. “Foreign countries also have reverse manji, but that shape resembles Japan’s prototype diagram of kotodama. Whether foreigners know that in Japan this represents life force’s expansion geometrized—I still don’t know—but there must be some entirely different reason for it.”

Makizo alone gave a low "Hmm" and nodded only at this moment. However, a faint smirk—determined not to let the academic world he protected be disturbed in the slightest—once again leaked from his lips.

The next morning, Yashiro went from the cabin to the hot spring. When he peeked into Chizuko’s room and saw that only Makizo was still sound asleep, he did not wake him and returned to the baths. Thick fog filled the bathhouse as it did every morning, and only the voices of the three women who had pressed their masks into the snow the day before sounded especially loud to his ears.

Yashiro sensed Chizuko’s presence in the bathwater. Though he had avoided encountering her in the bathhouse yesterday morning, this morning—with her impending departure—he yearned to speak with her alone beforehand and kept peering through the fog-laden air. To steal a moment away from Makizo, Yashiro truly had no time beyond this brief morning interlude at the baths. Even after Chizuko had unexpectedly broached their engagement the previous evening, that they still resorted to such a place made him reflect anew on how their travels abroad had once offered a vast, singular world for their meetings—a realization that now struck him with fresh astonishment.

He made a round of the bathhouse and approached what seemed to be a woman’s figure rinsing herself in the corner, but with only the blurred outline of her body visible through the haze, he still couldn’t discern who was who. As he began to feel cold and was about to re-enter the bath, “Oh.”

Chizuko suddenly raised her face from the water’s surface. “Oh, good morning.” Yashiro felt as though facing a full-length mirror and said. “When did you arrive?” “Just now.”

The two of them stayed submerged in the bath, gazing up at the window where the morning sun poured in, and remained silent for some time. In the abundant waters swelling around their bodies, the milky-hued field of vision appeared like bathing in morning clouds. When they moved slightly apart, the fog swirled in so thickly that their faces became indistinguishable, and ripples from meeting waters sparkled between their chins.

“Did you sleep well since then?” Yashiro asked. “I wrote a letter afterward.” “I’ll give it to you later.”

“Well, thank you—” “Please return as soon as you can.” The water overflowing the bathtub’s edge continued splashing vigorously like morning’s awakening. As Yashiro gazed at snow-laden mountains towering through icicles on the window, he no longer wanted to consider the many obstacles hindering their marriage. When warmth from the bath had suffused his entire body, he went to cool himself by the window. There alone, untouched by fog, the glass instantly absorbed his body’s warmth and misted over. Every tree sagged under snow’s weight as ravine cold pierced upward from his knees.

“What time will we arrive in Tokyo?” Yashiro turned toward Chizuko’s faintly blurred figure visible through the haze and asked.

“It might be past three, I wonder.” Sunlight sliced through the fog, streaking into a corner of the bath. Twisting her body to gaze up at that beam of light, Chizuko resumed the old practice of pouring hot water over her shoulders. Narcissus flowers, thirsting for drops from the dry faucet, peered from behind Chizuko’s steam-veiled skin—to Yashiro, facing their parting, this was a fleeting yet indelible gleam. After seeing off the train carrying Chizuko and the others back to Tokyo, Yashiro stood alone in the station square. Though cold seeped through his feet from the sunlit packed snow beneath them, his shoulders stayed warm. With no urge to return to the mountain cabin just yet, he wandered into the sweet red bean soup shop before the station and held his hands over the brazier. The cramped shop glowed with sunlight reflected off the snow blanketing every surface. Alone now, he felt more at ease than when Chizuko had been present—the wait for his red bean soup unfolding into an unexpectedly blissful interlude.

The letter Chizuko had handed him occasionally brushed heavily against his hand in his coat pocket, but he could not bring himself to open it, lest this present enjoyment be disrupted. For now, he had to consider himself sufficiently blessed simply by knowing that their mutual intent to marry remained unbroken; as for other dissatisfactions—no matter how numerous—they were ones that should fade in time, provided they did not rush the marriage.

Gazing at the mandarin peels fallen in the snow, Yashiro considered confessing about Chizuko to his mother. However, as long as her mother’s feelings remained unsettled, it was not yet the time to bring it up. He could also imagine his mother’s reluctant face if he were to bring it up. When he thought of his mother’s hesitation that would arise upon learning of the differences between the two families—their wealth, religion, lineage, and such—

“Well,” he muttered under his breath.

He unintentionally leaned his chest over the brazier and muttered, but it wasn’t such a dire matter—it was more like he had simply murmured to himself. The shiruko he tasted amidst the snow was delicious. The all-encompassing whiteness looked like a mass wrapped in sweet liquid, and even the moist parts that had melted in the sun and crumbled softly were deeply flavorful.

On the way back from the station, he walked instead of taking the sled. The crunch of the packed snow beneath his boots this morning was a sound with satisfying resistance. To avoid slipping, he spread his arms wide, adopted a wide-legged stance, and as he walked slowly, he began to feel an unexpectedly carefree mood. When the scent of burning dried pine needles wafted over from somewhere, it merged with the fragrance of the deep mountains, and his chest tightened further.

After passing the outskirts of town and reaching a place where shadows had vanished, Yashiro felt increasingly happy under light pouring down unobstructed from above. It had long since ceased to have anything to do with Chizuko - it was something like nature's own ecstasy. To eyes looking down into valleys and up at mountains, the undulating white snow appeared tinged with pale violet haze, while within golden radiance suddenly rising from around his feet, only his own shadow leaned back long behind him. Perhaps from walking carefully, sweat soon began streaming from his armpits. He paused and looked up at the sky - a sky so profoundly clear it seemed bottomless. This too was where he had brought Chizuko by sled through raging winds. This was where wind-borne sleds had been assailed by wildly flapping wing-like sounds - where Chizuko in her trance-like state would dart about. Now, under skies clear enough for jellyfish-like tranquility to float, sensing something transparent flowing through air, Yashiro suddenly felt sadness in that resigned hush of stillness.

He could not forget the Chizuko from that dream and found her unbearably dear. If his marriage to Chizuko were settled, it might mean the end of that dream as well. When he thought this, the color of the sky he gazed up at seemed more distant and deeper than usual.

But that alone couldn't be an illusion. That was real. That was why this parting felt so unbearably lonely. Muttering these words to himself, Yashiro crossed the golden waves of light reflected on the snow with his splayed-footed gait. After returning to the cabin, Yashiro opened Chizuko's letter. The letter contained little that differed from his expectations, but within it were details about how the young man her mother recommended kept pressing for a swift reply, how she was now caught between marriage proposals from two sides—this other young man and the first—leaving her in day-and-night anguish, and how she deeply regretted not having been able to discuss these matters thoroughly with Yashiro. And toward the end,

“But tonight, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.” “Even if I return now, I believe I can remain well for some time.” “Knowing that your feelings remain unchanged, I am resolved to endure any hardship.” “However, regarding Mother alone—the more resolute I become, the less likely she seems to soften her stance for some time—I fear this will surely cause you displeasure, and this alone worries me.” “When I went abroad, I had lightly thought that upon returning, I would simply keep my promise to Mother and marry whomever she recommended—yet now that I have changed so much myself, what could this be but God’s design?” “I earnestly pray that you will never again do anything that would make me feel my joy was premature.”

The grief and joy expressed in Chizuko’s letter resonated directly with Yashiro, and he read through it in one breath. However, when the promised Catholic oath appeared at the end, Yashiro suddenly felt as if his chest had been struck and grew terrified to read on. After all, he regretted for the first time that such things were neither to be asked nor to be read. “O Thou beneath heaven and earth, with reverent hearts we prostrate ourselves before Thy seat and humbly offer the sincerity of our praise.” “We purify ourselves and spread among people the reverence we humbly hold for Thee; with hearts throbbing in joy, we cherish our servitude, and while praising Thee with humility, proclaim Thy greatness. Rejoicing under Thy protection, we desire to teach others how beautiful Thy dwelling is.” “So long as we exist, we desire to make Thy will our own, to raise Thy glory high, and to pour forth the wicked thoughts of heretics, the heartless deeds of many people, and even the insults received through hasty hearts.”

By the time he had read this far, Yashiro could no longer maintain his ordinary composure. When he reached those flowing inhumanly pure invocations—particularly the passage desiring to pour forth heretics' wicked thoughts—he felt something forcing him to prostrate himself and instinctively braced his body. The joy he had felt from her words until now hadn't been straightforward joy; rather, it had merely taken on distortion from this source. It was as if rigid steel beams had come crashing down—an eerie, unmanageable discomfort pressing upon him with uncanny heaviness.

Of course, at the end of the letter, she had written not to feel troubled by her having mustered the courage to write such things honestly, but even so, Yashiro felt a sinking loneliness. Had the woman he had loved so fervently been offering such prayers every day? And even if he thought that Chizuko had until now endured self-restraint for that very reason, Yashiro felt pained and unsettled by an inexplicable fear. However, there was nothing he could do.

That day, Yashiro found himself unable to read any books. When dusk came, he set about polishing the lamp chimney. He ran a cloth over the sections blackened by oily soot, breathing on the glass and wiping it repeatedly, but even during this task—whenever the window-side snow reflected in the chimney whose haze was clearing into transparency—he would recall again the words of Chizuko’s oath. “Heretic.”

Somehow, Yashiro muttered this and reflected on himself. It was like having a brand labeled "immoral wretch" forcibly driven into his forehead by some unseen hand. He had encountered such words many times before. Yet never had they been aimed so directly at him. The uncanny sensation of being branded a heretic for the first time became a blade pressed against his chest—one he could not dislodge. He stared unwaveringly at its gleaming tip, this feeling of perpetual confrontation persisting until night fell. But if he were to marry Chizuko, would every day become such a struggle against this blade? And to think that very blade had destroyed his ancestors' castle—

Even as the night deepened, an oppressive feeling Yashiro could not laugh off persisted. From the direction of the valley floor beneath the piercingly clear moon, the sound of snow collapsing echoed.

Yashiro threw firewood into the stove, made the room warmer than usual, generated steam, and endeavored to lift his spirits cheerfully. However, this was the blade that had tormented Japan’s many brilliant minds for fifty years since the Azuchi-Momoyama period. Moreover, for seventy years from Meiji to now, it had been thrust at the chests of similarly exceptional people—a spiritual white blade that still stood manifest before them no matter which way they turned, taking aim at “immoral wretches.”

And this blade was one that not only the Japanese but people of every nation in the world had once faced—and whatever might be born hereafter would likely find it inescapable from now on. “Heretic?” “I see—” Yashiro muttered again.

In reality, Yashiro thought, how many people had fought against this and lost their lives simply for being told that single phrase. Moreover, it now pressed in upon Yashiro’s very consciousness. Even if Chizuko hadn’t told him directly, it felt as though something had spoken through her—a finger pointing squarely at him. Yet in such moments, when Yashiro imagined himself—this heretic—finally marrying Chizuko, he felt less the blade aimed at him than the overwhelming presence of his ancestors behind him—those destroyed by that very blade—rising up with anguished groans. Caught between this harshness assailing him from both front and back, Yashiro could only endure one strained breath after another through desperately pale intervals.

It was precisely during this suffocating moment. The sound of a freight train descending the valley came, and through the stillness of the night sky left in its wake, a muffled, heavy drumbeat echoed from the direction of the inn. The drum had continued casually with its “pon, pon—popoponpon” for a while, but as it began expelling the stagnant toxins accumulated in his gut, with each beat his neck stretched upward—and as his abdomen lightened, the drum’s sound grew clearer.

Yashiro had always particularly favored drums among musical instruments. Partly because of this predisposition, whenever he heard their sound he would become utterly absorbed—forgetting all else—but what delighted him now was how this particular resonance reached him at precisely such an opportune moment, as if orchestrated by some unseen hand.

For a while, the drum continued to be struck without ceasing. The sound that pierced through the distant darkness and resonated in his abdomen had likely been passed down and flowed from ancient times; he thought it must surely be the only instrument’s sound that still remained unbroken exactly as it had been.

“Thud, thud—thud-thud-thud-thud.”

Yashiro felt his mood strangely brightening. Certainly, for Yashiro at that moment, it was a revelatory strike—a salvational sound. He wanted to open the door and go outside, so he put on his shoes. At the bottom of a sky carved by snowy peaks, the moon shone as if about to resonate. Yashiro suddenly remembered Chizuko offering prayers before a glacier in the Tyrolean mountains. That prayer of hers back then—ah, so that was it—Yashiro thought he now felt for the first time the resolve Chizuko had shown while kneeling there in white vestments. Had I been traveling through Europe without even knowing Christ’s prayer at Gethsemane?

However, the drum’s sound continued to reverberate through the snow without ceasing. As if urging him to “See not the snow but the prayers encased in ice”— “Pom, pom—pom-pom-pom-pom.”

The continuing drumbeats roused courage within Yashiro and grew purer in clarity. It was a sound that pierced through layers of countless accumulated deaths to resurrect them—a resonance that seemed capable of reviving even Christ himself. He climbed the slope toward the summit, though the untrodden snow deepened with each step. No lamplight from human dwellings shone anywhere. The frozen river gleamed only where moonlight struck water seeping through fissures in the ice. A waterbird took flight with languid wingbeats. As Yashiro watched moonlight swirl across the luminous water, an inexplicable conviction seized him—he must undergo *misogi* purification before walking Japan’s soil again. If he were to marry Chizuko, he resolved to fulfill this ritual first, and so turned his path toward Echigo’s borderland plateaus.

The rapids running alongside the flattened path twisted around the stones in the riverbed, and as they wove patterns through the intertwining streams, the moon’s light grew ever clearer and brighter. When Yashiro returned to Tokyo, powdered snow was falling on the red plum buds peeking through the dust-covered fence. The treetops too took on a pale purple hue, and days of dappled light—announcing the quiet approach of early spring—became more frequent.

On such days, Shiono’s photography exhibition was to be held at Shiseido’s gallery. When Yashiro went out to the bus stop, the keyaki tree he always looked up at had vanished from the sky. The thick cut surface at its base remained vividly white, and a wide open space had formed around it. Yashiro observed the sunlit area’s refreshed appearance, peering as if at new neighbors who had moved in. Though he could not grow accustomed for some time, the sorrow of bygone days no longer arose within him.

When Yashiro went to Shiseido, he met Shiono by the reception chairs in the hall. Shiono approached with a slightly more excited expression than usual,

“That was a long time in the snow.” “Ah yes—Ms. Chizuko was here earlier but went next door for tea.” “Shall we go?”

With his characteristic casualness, Shiono invited Yashiro—

“Well, let me see the photographs first.” “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Yashiro looked over the dozens of Notre Dame photographs lining the walls. Grotesques and spires he recognized, cloisters and stained glass, side walls and statues of Christ—all enlarged into vivid clarity—flooded his mind instantly with Catholicism’s grand cathedral itself in overwhelming presence.

He sat on the bench and began methodically viewing the photographs from the left, calming his agitated mind. At first he noticed nothing amiss, but soon the sharp beauty of the spires within their frames made him feel a blade once more dangerously piercing his chest. When he thought he would soon meet Chizuko, he felt himself now advancing while shaking off such threatening gazes. Yet even this beauty—this peerless resilience that had pierced through countless ideological currents—now appeared to him as the cold sharpness of a white blade pressed against his chest. What was this force that confronted nature itself, unyielding and unquenched?—

Clearly, something that could not be viewed merely as art emanated from within the shadows of every photograph of this Science Temple. Though it was a mysterious force that had engulfed the world time and again—still showing no sign of abating—as long as no one contemplated it, all merely passed by these photographs without pause. Yashiro thought that within that innocence dwelled an even more vibrant, resilient mysterious power—something roaring with laughter. Among those crowds, nearly everyone was a heretic.

“Photographs truly make one think about the real thing—it’s troublesome.” Yashiro envisioned Shiono’s fervent figure—the man who had kept photographing Notre Dame like a madman—and spoke again to Shiono beside him. “It’s slightly blurred, but you did put thought into it after all.” “Hmm, I tried blurring it a bit.” “Wanting to blur it precisely to this degree—that part proved rather difficult.” “Ah, that’s where it lies.” “I see.” When Yashiro realized that Shiono’s efforts—this photographic master’s labors—had transformed into the agony of blurring the scientific eye of the camera, and that this was his solo exhibition, something even more profoundly significant welled up within him, making him re-examine the walls.

The number of visitors in the hall increased, yet all remained quiet. As Yashiro looked on, he felt things beyond comprehension being bound together with masterful unity, and gradually came to fully grasp Shiono’s exceptional skill.

“As expected, you’re a master of the Orient.” “You’re quite thoughtful—having to blur Catholicism slightly before showing it.” “Thank you.” Yashiro offered his thanks and laughed.

Looking out the window, he saw a stream of sunlit crowds flowing endlessly through the gap between buildings. These too were all heretics. Shiono kept rushing back and forth without pause, attending to arriving acquaintances. Perhaps influenced by the temple photographs, every visitor had removed their hats—some even their overcoats—their figures lending the hall an air of pristine purity. Then a hand lightly touched Yashiro’s shoulder—Chizuko had stopped him from behind. “Thank you for that time in the mountains.”

“Oh—well, you see… Coming into the city so suddenly made me feel dizzy. Mr. Yuki—how do you endure it?”

As Yashiro was speaking, Shiono approached again and introduced him to the beautiful woman in a black Western dress standing beside Chizuko. "This is Marquise Tanabe." Caught off guard by the suddenness, Yashiro silently bowed in acknowledgment. The Marquise returned an equally quiet bow, her clothing’s refined taste marking her as someone of truly uncommon elegance. The delicate lace at her collar harmonized with the elegantly slanted cut of her slender boots, composing her neat figure without a trace of discord. Her attire somehow evoked a Suiko-era courtier holding a ceremonial baton.

When Yashiro thought this marquise might be one who would arrange their marriage, he naturally became humble. "Since then, have you not been ill?" At the window edged with cascading palm bamboo leaves, Chizuko asked Yashiro. "There's still no sign of it happening." "It must have already run away." "Mr. Makizo—is he off to school again?"

Yashiro asked in return. From the moment he returned to Tokyo, Yashiro had steeled himself for the likelihood that Makizo’s report to his mother would prove unfavorable. “Yes, thank you. He’s been doing well.” While watching the cigarette smoke wavering toward where the sunlight was beginning to shine, Chizuko’s face darkened somewhat, yet the smile she had mustered did not vanish. The results of Yashiro telling his friends the same things he had discussed with Makizo in the mountain hot spring were always as bad as they had been with Kuji in Paris. He had spoken to Makizo despite knowing this because he wanted to let the unavoidable ill consequences pass by sooner rather than prolonging them; yet even now, he thought, the agony of having to confide in the brother of the woman he wished to marry—matters that even his friends would frown upon and attack—had still not subsided. If I were to lay bare my true heart as a Japanese man and speak openly, unable to suppress it, and if I were to persist further in this desire to see it through—it would not merely mean being abandoned by all my friends. He understood all too well that misfortune would only grow stronger, acting to shatter his marriage with Chizuko. Had I already embraced a fire that caused people to scatter wherever I went?—

Yashiro gazed once more at the photograph of Notre Dame on the wall. Before this image of Catholicism’s spiritual heart, he thought even Chizuko—and her feelings as she regarded him now—must differ from ordinary times. Yet he had long understood her kindness: how she concealed even that difference, striving to share his anguish. Though their trembling hands groped for and clasped one another in that gallery where some intangible force kept their bodies apart, Yashiro thought—should a trial like the *fumie* arise to claim Chizuko’s life—he too might die with her, as Ogasawara Shōsai had died to ease Hosokawa Gracia’s mortal agony.

“This is Marquis Tanabe.”

After some time had passed, Shiono came to Yashiro’s side and spoke. The person he had once been promised to meet finally appeared, and Yashiro bowed with the tension of this first encounter. Though Yashiro knew roughly of the Marquis’s daily life in the West, contrary to his imaginings, the Marquis wore an expressionless, placid round face and merely took his hands from his pockets to offer a casual, silent bow.

Marquis Tanabe had nothing in particular that stood out about him. Yet even in that expressionless, seemingly ordinary appearance, he possessed both the dignity of a still life—which made one perceive him as someone not to be underestimated—and the status of a castle lord. Such a refined person was the most formidable type, yet also one who imparted an unrestrained ease to others.

“I’m exhausted.” “I’d love to drink plenty of tea, but perhaps I should step out for a bit.”

With a host’s reserved expression, Shiono—while looking for a chance to slip away—nonetheless busily shifted his steps toward acquaintances who continued to appear. Before long, Yuki appeared at the stairway entrance with his large frame, moving leisurely. With a smile that strangely radiated a sudden brightness among the crowd, Yuki approached the Marquis; yet the two exchanged glances without greeting, abruptly exchanged a light joke, and then turned their gaze to the photographs. He alone still hadn’t removed his overcoat; after leisurely lighting a cigarette, he turned his head as if to loosen the collar that was too tight around his neck and gave Yashiro a brief smile. As one watched, the Marquis and Yuki were truly kindred spirits in perfect harmony.

Phrases like “Right, I’m touring Istanbul now,” and “A letter came from Glas”—fragments of such conversations drifted to Yashiro from the group surrounding Shiono. They seemed to be acquaintances connected to the Foreign Ministry, but there was another separate group as well—likely his blood relatives—who remained clustered in a corner with restrained quietness.

Shiono’s parents had passed away early and were no longer present. This orphaned boy had been raised—and even sent abroad—by his uncle, who was a renowned businessman once appointed Minister of State. Since Shiono still resided in this house, the cluster of relatives was likely a gathering centered on that uncle’s family. As one looked around this assembly, the harmonious warmth naturally exuded by Shiono’s amiable nature—so beloved by others—overflowed.

“This is Ms. Fujio Michiko, who played the piano in Paris.” Then Shiono came to Yashiro’s side and introduced another woman. The attire of the woman named Fujio was, for some reason, nearly identical to that of Marquise Tanabe. The plume standing stiffly at the slit of their long boots had possessed an amusing charm when each woman stood alone, but when the two stood side by side, it took on a slightly conspicuous oddity—like beards—yet still formed a splendor distinct from other gatherings, suffusing the room with a peculiar air.

Fujio and the Marquise appeared to share a deep friendship, and as the two were always talking side by side, Chizuko naturally found herself left out, leading to more opportunities for her to converse with Yashiro again. “What will you do today? We’ve been invited by the Marquis today—won’t you come?”

Chizuko, as if avoiding prying eyes, lowered her voice under the shade of palm bamboo leaves and asked Yashiro.

“But that—”

When there had still been no word from anyone, Yashiro could not bring himself to give a presumptuous reply. “It’s quite all right, you know. As long as you’re amenable.” “I’m afraid it isn’t that straightforward.” “But you must understand. Let’s go.” Yashiro briefly wondered if there was already some prior arrangement between the Marquis and Chizuko, but, concerned that even today might still be too soon, he hesitated to respond. Chizuko suddenly shifted her gaze and fixed it on Shiono; then, seizing a lull in his conversation with acquaintances, she approached his side. Apparently having been told something, Shiono immediately began scratching his head and walked over to Yashiro.

“I was so caught up in today’s event that I had completely forgotten.” “Today, after this concludes, I’ve been invited to the Marquis’s villa—and he specifically requested I bring you along.” “I must apologize for forgetting.” “Since it’s ostensibly my celebration, won’t you bend your principles and come?”

If it was Shiono’s celebration, Yashiro couldn’t flatly refuse.

“Then I’ll take the liberty of attending,” Yashiro replied. As visitors left one after another, new people came streaming in again. After Shiono’s acquaintances had similarly departed, another group of acquaintances came up the stairs, and among them appeared a single figure—Baron Hisaki, a friend of Shiono’s uncle renowned as one of Japan’s foremost magnates. This Baron had lived abroad for many years due to his numerous overseas branches. He was rather short in stature and thin. His ash-gray Western suit and pince-nez-like glasses made him appear far younger and more vigorous than his years. This person also seemed acquainted with Marquis Tanabe, and upon noticing him, immediately approached.

“How nostalgic today feels.”

he greeted while gazing at the photographs on the wall. Though small in stature, he had a carefree demeanor that seemed utterly indifferent, yet his eyes—which occasionally revealed an unnervingly sharp glint—accompanied by this perceptive richness that made one acknowledge his talent for seeing through people. Just then, ascending right after him came another small-statured elderly man who suddenly grabbed the Baron’s shoulders from behind with force. Then, in a childlike manner of play, he began fooling around—twisting left and right while evading the Baron’s attempts to look back at him. The onlookers watched their antics as if wondering what was happening, but the elderly man paid no heed to their gazes and continued his persistent clowning with a perfectly straight face.

“Who could it be? Mr. Takahashi? Seeing how deftly you evade me—it must be Kitahama.” Even as the Baron staggered, his suit jacket began to slip backward, yet the elderly man refused to relent. “Oh—it’s you.” When Kiyama was finally discovered and addressed by the Baron, he stood up without a trace of a smile. “They worked me hard today. “Got orders to gather five hundred thousand yen by nightfall. “That’s why I chased you down—ah, I’m spent.”

Having said that, he bent both arms and arched backward. The old man showed not a hint of expression and did not once attempt to look at anyone else. When Yashiro later asked Shiono about the old man, it turned out that he was Kiyama, the president of a famous shipping company. Yashiro had long since heard of Kiyama’s sharp capabilities—how he had risen from a mere impoverished student to a business magnate, once spoken of as the very epitome of a nouveau riche. Yet, upon closer inspection, Yashiro thought that despite Kiyama’s poverty-stricken appearance—the kind likely to invite contempt from anyone at least once—there lurked within the thinness of his motionless single eyelids a keen and astute intuitive power.

Fatigued by the venue’s atmosphere and just as Yashiro began craving tea, Shiono’s uncle appeared at the gallery in a black suit. Though Yashiro was meeting this man—who had recently resigned from the cabinet—for the first time, he recognized him instantly from photographs he had always seen. The old men merely huddled together discussing matters incomprehensible to Yashiro, scarcely bothering to glance at the photographs. Shiono’s uncle was an elderly man with a resolute air and slightly sunken eyes, yet his voice resonated with a piercing clarity, and his dependable countenance—overflowing with vigor—bore a solidity that remained undiminished despite having weathered society’s storms. Particularly in the firm strength entrenched from shoulders to chest, one could even detect lingering traces of youth that refused to be confined within.

Even as Yashiro waited for Shiono, who was being besieged by acquaintances, seeing there was no prospect of getting tea this way, he went downstairs alone. At the exit, Chizuko, having caught up to him from behind,

“Somehow we have time before dinner—shall we walk until then?” she suggested. Yashiro said he wanted her to join him for tea and tried to enter Shiseido’s café. But Chizuko objected that she had just been there, so they walked southward instead, dissolving into the crowd’s flow. “Have you accepted the invitation?” Chizuko asked. “Since Shiono insists I attend, I intend to go. Will that be acceptable?”

“Is that alright?” Chizuko, seeming to have considered yet another aspect of their own marriage, asked in return.

Yashiro remained silent in response and continued walking. “The group of old people who gathered there today are quite interesting.” “Thinking that those might be a partial representation of the figures embodying Meiji and Taisho, I found it extremely fascinating.” “If that were pre-Meiji, I also came to understand that it would have been somewhat different, which made today enjoyable.” “Next will be our turn...”

Yashiro had casually said this to Chizuko, but by then it seemed he was muttering to himself as though speaking to someone else.

After crossing Shinbashi and turning right, they walked straight through Sakurada Hongō-chō. The street had many furniture stores with chairs and tables stacked high in front of the shops. When bored in Paris, Yashiro had often wandered through such furniture stores with Chizuko, and those memories suddenly surfaced. Now too, he did not neglect to carefully select furnishings they would use in their married life.

When they came to a certain storefront, Yashiro found two beautiful matching leather sofas and went inside. The design was simple yet robust—taut in a way that made it hard to walk away. “These are nice.”

When Yashiro tilted his head slightly, Chizuko, from beside him,

“Pretty.” “Somehow it looks familiar, but I like this one best too,” she said. As he settled into the sofa and recalled old man Kiyama’s playful antics at the gallery earlier, he looked up at Chizuko beside him.

“Please try sitting down for a moment.” “How does it feel?” Chizuko lowered herself onto the vacant sofa beside him, but when they sat there side by side, she awkwardly looked down and stifled a laugh. Then she hurriedly stood up again. “No, no.” Yashiro tried to take her hand and pull her back down once more, but Chizuko leapt away too quickly for him to reach her, so he too rose. He arranged to have two of those sofas delivered before leaving the store. Yet as they distanced themselves from the shop, he felt their earlier playfulness had been premature indeed. Walking with his head bowed, his footsteps gradually grew leaden with resignation until he fell silent. Chizuko also walked wordlessly for reasons unknown.

For a while, each time their footsteps mismatched or fell into sync, Yashiro’s emotions rose and fell as they walked, but once again he recalled the drum sound he had heard in the snow. It was like a sound pushing relentlessly forward, “Boom, boom, boom-boom-boom, boom.” The rhythm resonated in his chest, merged with the echoes of their footsteps, and became a striking cadence that pierced through the clamor of the streets—until Yashiro, too, gradually lifted his head with renewed clarity.

"Boom, boom, boom-boom-boom, boom." He waited for when the sound of his footsteps would transform into those of feet treading upon a Noh stage.

Marquis Tanabe’s villa stood on a hill behind Reinaizaka. Between the gateposts of double doors barred by a heavy crossbeam, gravel was visible. When Yashiro entered the gate with Shiono, a large gatekeeper emerged—his lips chilled blue and shoulders hunched—to ask their names. Beside a gutter oozing verdigris, the thick trunk of a pine tree with peeling bark rose sturdy, scattering dead needles across the curved thick roof tiles.

Shiono, seeming to already know his way around, entered the entrance hall first. Behind the folding screen depicting flowers and birds, it was dark. They passed through the coldly gleaming corridor to the inner part, where a reception room lay to the right, but there was no one there—only several coats left. “Do you come here often?” Yashiro placed his own coat beside Shiono’s and asked. “Ah, I’ve been here about three times—because this place is more comfortable, that’s why the marquis prefers it here.”

As he said this, Shiono exited the room and turned down the corridor several more times toward the inner part of the house. A covered corridor passed through a courtyard where clusters of Nandina bushes, all trimmed to the same height, grew densely. The corridor gleamed starkly through the uniformly red berries, and as Yashiro walked there, his eyes caught sight of a pine grove at the edge of the spacious backyard, its grandly curving edge tracing a beautiful line along the white sand. Yashiro let Shiono go ahead and stopped. And for a while, he gazed at the beauty of the courtyard. He had recalled the garden of a temple in Florence because of the whiteness of the raked sand and the redness of the Nandina berries. The garden of that temple was just such a pristine square, but at its center stood a single oleander tree in full bloom, lending an elegant modesty to the serene space enclosed by white plaster walls.

From down the corridor, the laughter of Yuki and the others could already be heard. Gazing at the pale glow of sand in the encroaching dusk, Yashiro thought that tonight’s gathering would feel like an inquisition for him. Given that reports concerning him from Chizuko’s brothers, Yuki and Makizo, had already reached her mother, and now with the Marquis newly added to their number, they were certain to be delivered once more—this night would indeed become one that determined his fate. What the Marquis and his wife most wanted to know about them—how far the secret negotiations between Chizuko and himself had progressed—was, he thought, likely their true aim in observing them. Moreover, that their relationship was already perceived to have concluded something beyond actual marriage was, nine out of ten, an indisputable fact. Yet whether the inevitable matters arising from a young man and woman freely traveling abroad had indeed occurred as assumed—even the Marquis could not directly question this, nor could Yashiro himself display any clear expression to confirm it. Now, Yashiro suddenly felt pained by such delicate matters, but though it was meant to be a celebration of Shiono’s solo exhibition, in truth, the evening gathering also contained elements of an inquisition—where Marquis Tanabe, Yuki, and others sought to implicitly ascertain from Yashiro and Chizuko about that very point—and as he walked down the gleaming corridor, he steeled himself for this reality.

“Oh, welcome.” “I must apologize for my earlier rudeness.” When they entered the detached Western-style building, Marquis Tanabe greeted them with an unreserved smile—contrasting sharply with his formal demeanor at the Shiseido gallery that afternoon. The gathering included many unfamiliar faces starting with Yuki, though none of the women had yet appeared.

The Western-style building, though antiquated, had a Corbusier-like brightness that appeared to have been added later. One entire side of the building was wrapped in vast glass panels offering an unobstructed view over Azabu below, while a mouse-gray carpet bearing subdued crimson patterns blended harmoniously among the room’s furnishings and garden vistas without disrupting either. On a lacquered black shelf sat a single early Joseon jar adorned with autumn grasses, forming an exquisite contrast with the 17th-century copperplate print framed on the wall—a room exuding refined taste.

Among the people gathered around the stove, a discussion about the Spanish Civil War was ongoing. Among them, the young diplomat who had most recently returned from Paris suddenly said to the painter named Sasa beside him: “Look—that Spanish waiter from the Coupole. There was a man who often came by our table, wasn’t there? When he saw the newspaper, he told me, ‘I can’t stay like this any longer.’ ‘Our side is losing,’ he declared resolutely. ‘I must return to my homeland and fight.’ It seems he was part of the anti-Franco faction, but regardless of which side he was on, I was shocked by that waiter’s expression at that moment. He had the look of someone prepared to die.”

The group fell silent for a moment. Yashiro listened silently, recalling the various faces of the Spaniards who had been at the Coupole. And he thought that if his own country were to fall into such a state, he too would no longer be able to afford to think about Chizuko. During his time in Paris, there had been a major news report—even if it was false—about Japan and China entering a state of war, and he recalled the day he had resolved to return and fight immediately. And at that moment, the first thing that floated into his mind was a song hidden among the masses by some unknown poet.

"When I lead the horse over the pass to offer it before thee, the moon shines clear."

Yashiro liked this song. There was a simplicity to it—sung without any adornment, straight from the heart—imbued with a refreshing melody that united man and horse, clarity pervading every note. What’s more, Yashiro felt joy in knowing this was not an ancient poem but a modern creation—a song that held a kindred spirit to his own divided heart. “But China’s situation is also becoming precarious.” “It’s related to the Spanish Civil War.” It was Yuki who had brought this up. “That is true.” “It doesn’t seem like someone else’s problem.”

said the diplomat Hayami as he wiped his high, pointed nose with a handkerchief. “According to those who have studied world history throughout the ages, to obtain two years of peace, humans must wage war for twenty-four years. When you consider this, peace is truly a treasure. The Tokugawa period had three hundred years of peace, but one could say such a thing is nearly nonexistent.” As the conversation progressed, Yashiro recalled a certain night in Paris when he had debated with Ko Yumei, a Chinese man, in Makiko’s room. When he thought that Ko would soon be returning home, various things he still wanted to discuss with him welled up and would not fade.

However, just as this tense conversation was reaching its peak, Baron Hisaki came from the corridor,

“I’m terribly late.” With that, Baron Hisaki walked over to the group. “The photographs of Notre Dame today—those must have required considerable effort from you. I too have attempted to photograph that cathedral, but no matter how often one sees it, its splendor remains undiminished.”

When addressed thus by Baron Hisaki, Shiono remained smiling as though at a loss for words. "What do you think? When it comes to photography too—don't foreigners and Japanese have quite different ways of seeing things?" With this sharp question hanging between them, Baron Hisaki continued his interrogation while staring at Shiono.

“No, that isn’t how it works,” Shiono replied. “Once I asked French experts to curate my photographs—the ones they selected as good weren’t any I’d labored over there. They kept choosing shots I could’ve taken anytime in Japan. For weeks I tormented myself—why had I even gone to France?” The young photographer still seemed trapped in that old anguish, his face assuming an uncharacteristically somber expression as he stared at the floor.

“Well, painters say the same thing—that when you go to France, you end up unable to paint well anymore. Someone said that.” “Humans might be the same way.” Yuki said, packing and repacking tobacco into his pipe. Everyone burst out laughing.

That ripple suddenly cast a contrary brightness over the group’s expressions, and from there, their conversation grew even more animated.

“I was in London from sixteen until twenty-six, yet those of the previous generation who knew nothing of foreign lands seem more impressive than I. What say you all?” As Baron Hisaki spoke these words and surveyed the gathering, the musician Asobe—

"I suppose I'm the same way too, ah." He sighed and laughed.

This Asobe had married Fujio Michiko, who had come to the Shiseido gallery during the day, and the two had gone abroad together, but upon returning, they immediately separated.

Around the time the pre-dinner apéritifs were served to everyone, the women entered late. Chizuko, at that time, sat alongside Fujio on chairs slightly apart from the male guests.

“How old are you，Baron Hisaki? You look younger than your years，don’t you?” Yuki asked.

“I am precisely at the age for wearing red undershirts, but loving art as I do, I haven’t aged a whit.” “I’ve finally come to understand these days that art truly surpasses economics.” “Ever since my time abroad, contemplating when my era would arrive, I discreetly had my disciples handle funds to prepare for the future—but when my time did come, I entrusted all responsibilities to those very men, leaving me quite comfortable now.” “Well, until about three in the afternoon I do attend the company, but every moment thereafter is devoted entirely to art.” “I don’t consider myself any businessman—when pondering what I am, I still conclude I’m an artist through and through.” “When immersed in art rather than commerce—though this may simply be my nature—my spirit grows more beautiful and I become most earnest.”

Yashiro found it amusing to think that what Baron Hisaki—regarded as a leader by Japan’s businessmen—had secretly let slip was meant to convey such things, and he understood it as an aspect of a beautiful heart that could not be dismissed. The painter Sasa, too, appeared to have been moved by something and shifted in his chair. “So, do you still compose every day now?” Yuki, seemingly aware of the rumors that Baron Hisaki often devoted himself to mathematics and composition, asked accordingly.

“I do a little every day without fail, but more than that, once I begin, I travel somewhere and seclude myself in a single room for about a week.” “During those times, I refuse to see anyone from morning onward.” “After all, unless I keep my mind still and clear like that, if even a single mundane matter flits into my head, it’s already ruined.” “The right notes just won’t come.” When saying such things, Baron Hisaki’s eyes suddenly changed and radiated a clear, penetrating light. Despite his seemingly carefree demeanor with his small frame, there emerged the sincerity common to those refined through art without contention.

“But given someone like yourself, since no one in society considers you an artist, that must pose quite a difficulty for you, must it not?” Marquis Tanabe remarked with half-teasing intent.

“Yes, yes. That’s precisely my struggle,” “No matter what fine things I make, people in Japan refuse to believe they’re my work—this is truly lamentable.” “To have not a single thing I devote myself to taken seriously—there’s no grief more bitter than this.”

With the unexpected feeling of having caught wind of the sorrow that accompanies wealth and status, Yashiro scrutinized Baron Hisaki’s lonely face.

“Then, does that mean we’re still happier than you?”

And the musician Asobe laughed, his face flushed from the apéritif. “Well, that is indeed true.” “Since Japanese people do not engage with me, I have no choice but to present my works abroad these days—yet foreigners all treat them with earnestness.” “Even so, I am fairly well recognized, you know.”

Beneath the old man’s laughter, which seemed almost jocular, there flowed a lonesome resonance—as though even this truth would eventually be smothered by all. From behind the partially drawn velvet room divider, the piano lid was visible, and from that direction came the sound of dishes. Yashiro took care not to direct his gaze too much toward Chizuko. And even as he listened to Baron Hisaki’s words, he gradually grew more acutely aware of a certain indescribable feeling—distinct from the others—that mingled an unfamiliar kind of intimacy with anguish. The reason was that Yashiro’s father had once been an employee of the previous Baron Hisaki’s company during his youth, and now, faint though it was, this memory had been rising and sinking from the depths of his mind until it finally surfaced. Though they were now indeed children of two entirely separate families, Yashiro’s feelings—as the son of a man who had once been under the care of the previous Baron Hisaki—were naturally different.

He thought that if someone were to formally introduce him, he would express his gratitude in a few words; however, at such a rare gathering without hierarchical distinctions, mentioning the old master-servant relationship might only cloud the atmosphere and distress the other party. Moreover, Chizuko’s presence at his side seemed likely to further prevent Yashiro from speaking of it. "When the New Year comes, President Hisaki gathers the employees to deliver his address, but it’s only once a year that you get to see his face—that’s all there is to it, ah."

And yet, a certain remark his father had once let slip—words of this nature—still lingered in the depths of Yashiro’s ears. Though his father had spoken of that occasion as the greatest honor of the year, had he now become a child of an era that sought to conceal his father’s joy—even as he faced Baron Hisaki as an equal? The thought made Yashiro’s continued silence ache within him. Yet tonight was no time to let such trivial matters with the Baron torment him. The interrogative gazes he had been receiving implicitly and incessantly from Yuki and the Marquis since earlier weighed heavily upon him too. All of this—everything—had come about solely because he had spent that brief period abroad.

He thought Chizuko, unaware of such matters, now seemed more pitiable than anything. Yet she remained someone who would inevitably draw near despite his efforts to shake her off - someone showing no intention of ever leaving. Why on earth did this person keep coming to his side?

“I won’t change even if I return to Japan. The one who will change is surely you.” Whether this stemmed from Chizuko’s defiant nature when she spoke those words at their Paris farewell or some Catholic machination—either way, it remained one of the few things Yashiro could not grasp at this moment. As the garden’s lingering twilight finally dissolved, Marquise Tanabe appeared before the piano lid in her pale mauve Western dress. With a courteous nod to the guests, she announced that dinner was prepared. The group rose from their chairs and filed through the adjoining room into the dining hall beyond.

The dining hall was adorned entirely in pure white—likely to avoid impairing the food’s flavor—with only the walls bearing a thin horizontal gold line. The guests placed Shiono, the guest of honor, at their forefront while naturally guiding the elders toward elevated seats, each taking positions according to age. The Western-style meal soon brought forth soup, though that night’s bread and broth unmistakably declared the hidden presence of a first-class chef. Every guest momentarily revealed expressions of recognition yet spoke nothing of it, commencing instead with leisurely small talk. Yashiro tore apart with his fingers bread scarcely different from what he had tasted in France, secretly marveling at Japan’s acquired skill to produce such flavors as he tilted his soup plate.

“Mr. Yashiro, have you met Mr. Higashino?” With a calm voice yet in a question that seemed somewhat abrupt, the Marquise Tanabe looked at Yashiro. "Yes, we were always together." "I heard from an acquaintance that he apparently went to London." Yashiro answered. These were the first words Yashiro spoke that night.

“Mr. Higashino—do you mean Higashino Shigezo?”

Baron Hisaki also turned toward Yashiro for the first time that night and inquired. “That’s correct.” Yashiro merely answered with a single word. “Mr. Higashino and I once took a ship from Yokohama to Osaka.” “At that time, we were together for four or five days, but at the Nagoya golf links along the way, I taught him golf, you see.” “I see.” “Is he in London now?”

Baron Hisaki began to scrutinize Yashiro’s face with a pensive smile.

“We young people were often scolded by him. That man was a master at barging headfirst into our core issues—the ones central to us youths—and stirring everything up with a well-placed slap. On days we met Higashino, it felt like being hurled from the sumo ring. For two or three nights afterward, we couldn’t sleep a wink.”

The group laughed together amidst the clinking of forks. When the laughter subsided, Baron Hisaki turned to Yashiro with renewed interest. “What would you say constitutes the central issue for people of your generation nowadays?” “I’ve been observing carefully, yet somehow I still can’t quite grasp its essence.” “It’s difficult to express concisely with so many complexities entangled, but ultimately I believe the core lies in the conflict between Eastern morality and Western science and Christianity.” “Just because the West inhabits the twentieth century doesn’t necessarily mean the East does too. If we let Western logic carelessly resolve Eastern matters, our nation’s virtues will be ruined. All current debates—whether they develop, get suppressed, or drag on—stem from this fundamental question of whether we should so hastily destroy those virtues.” “I found it rather intriguing to hear everyone discussing those issues earlier in the adjoining room, as I believe they all originate from this same root.”

Yashiro, wanting even the Baron to consider such issues, tried speaking in a manner that didn’t soften but rather intensified his somewhat overbearing tone. “In other words—you mean it’s a matter of twentieth-century morality versus science?” Baron Hisaki briefly removed his glasses and leaned toward Yashiro with an unnervingly sharp gleam in his eyes. “Well, yes.” “From our perspective as Easterners, it might appear as a fourteenth- or fifteenth-century problem.” “That’s where the difficulty lies.”

Yashiro answered.

“Then, which do you consider superior—science or morality?” “That lies at the very heart of our debates—but I believe it to be morality.” “I maintain it’s science.” said the musician Asobe from beside them. “Well now—that’s difficult to say... No, it’s grown rather complicated.”

Baron Hisaki rephrased himself, put his glasses back on, and tilted his head. "But that is morality." Suddenly, Fujio Michiko looked at her ex-husband Asobe and said. Something in her voice contained a short, strained tone resentful of Asobe’s rudeness. Those who knew the past circumstances of the Asobe couple burst into laughter all at once. Yashiro, realizing for the first time that even this single household had been part of a group that touched the Renaissance’s core and scattered, looked back at the two of them.

The expressions of the guests lining the white tablecloth remained divided between both sides for a while, having absorbed Asobe and Michiko’s tangled emotions. Just then, a maid appeared with thinly sliced smoked salmon and replaced the empty plates. Beyond the winter roses in full bloom that complemented the lustrous Etsushu vase, Yuki casually ate a piece of salmon and exclaimed, “Ah, this is splendid!” The group was on the verge of descending into chaos as the morality and science factions became entangled, but Yuki’s cry of admiration caused an unexpected reversal, drawing all the guests’ gazes to the platter of salmon.

“Marquis, tonight’s cook is no ordinary one.”

When Yuki said this, Marquis Tanabe responded with only a faint smile. Yashiro, watching the two, felt a pleasant beauty that somehow emitted a subtle sound. After finishing the salmon, Yuki tore a page from his notebook and began writing a note of thanks for tonight to hand to the cook, but then leaned slightly toward the Marquis and asked, “Is he Japanese?”

“He is French.” “He was with the mail steamship company, you see.”

“I thought as much.” Yuki erased the Japanese note of thanks, rewrote it in French, and asked the maid to pass the slip of paper to the cook. The entire group fell silent for a while, all seemingly slightly bested by Yuki. However, Yuki—who had boldly done such a thing without an ounce of shame before the guests—must have felt slightly embarrassed.

“It’s such a bothersome thing to do, but it’s better to take care of what needs taking care of.” He put on an apologetic smile and muttered, “I suppose I’m a moralist after all.” At that, all the guests once again burst into laughter. “No—that’s the science faction.” As if to smother a sudden laugh, Asobe leaned over the table toward Yuki and declared: “Because you find something delicious and call it delicious.” “The virtue of such experiments lies in their scientific nature.” “Forget that, and neither morality nor research holds any real value.”

“So, the reason for your divorce was also due to scientific merit, I suppose,” Yuki said with a laugh. Yuki’s ingenious joke sent waves of laughter echoing through the dining room once more, but as Michiko’s expression—abandoned by Asobe—began to sharpen pointedly in one corner, the gathering gradually sensed the gravity of the situation and grew pale. However, only Baron Hisaki—the elderly man unaware of the couple’s past circumstances—remained oblivious to the underlying bitterness permeating the group. If anything, he seemed to feel some antipathy toward Yuki, who habitually derailed earnest debates, and instead turned back toward Yashiro.

“What was it you said earlier—ah yes, that just because the West is in the twentieth century, it doesn’t necessarily mean the East is as well.” “I found your observation quite intriguing. If that is the case, then the science we conceive—though not of the twentieth century—must account for the error, or perhaps danger, of thinking identically to twentieth-century Westerners. That is what you mean to say, is it not?” “So when you declare that morality is superior to science, what sort of logic underlies that assertion?”

“There is no such thing as logic,” Yashiro said. “Why?” Yashiro found himself at a loss for words. He sensed the danger that even in his humility, he had unwittingly projected an absence of logic where some should rightfully exist. He felt his face grow flushed while becoming conscious of having inadvertently laid bare an unexpectedly formidable problem. In truth, Yashiro could not fathom how one might extract logic from those quandaries over which all humanity still stumbled helplessly. Yet regardless, it remained an undeniable fact that this was a bridge every person must eventually cross.

“I—to tell the truth, that is precisely what I wish to know myself.” When Yashiro said this, everyone fell completely silent, caught off guard by the sudden shift in momentum. “However, did you not just state that morality is superior to science?” Baron Hisaki’s expression was not one of contempt; rather, it was a calm, rescuing smile that had already perceived Yashiro’s anguish. “Well, that is what I think. It’s not that I’m making excuses, but I believe logic cannot be established there. Even if no logic whatsoever can be established, if one discerns that something serves a purpose, is it not permissible to conclude that morality—which provides an internal compass from one’s own heart—is superior to commands like science that investigate the external aspects of humanity? In other words, to put it a bit sophistically, I believe that being convinced of morality’s superiority over science is itself morality.”

“That’s still sophistry, I tell you,” Asobe said. “No—that’s not sophistry. It’s a fact,” Yuki retorted, this time in a somewhat earnest tone as he came to Yashiro’s defense. “But you—unshackled by notions like morality—if you do not regard the true earnestness of science, which investigates nature, as morality itself, what other morality can there be? Science is none other than morality.” “That kind of thinking—that’s very scientific,” Yuki interjected again. It seemed he had perceived the unsettled nature of this issue and was beginning to feel some irritation toward Asobe, who remained oblivious to his own repeated attempts to suppress it from the outset. However, Baron Hisaki seemed to grow increasingly irritated by Yuki’s meddlesome attitude on the other hand.

“You too seem quite adept at derailing discussions, just like Higashino-kun.” “However, as someone who dabbles in science myself, I find great interest in these issues you young people debate.” “I’ve always instructed my factory’s chief engineers that they must employ their sixth sense—yet sixth sense alone won’t suffice. They must logically organize it. But having seldom spoken about science versus morality myself, this proves most intriguing.” “Well?” “And what of your theory from there onward?” Baron Hisaki turned back toward Yashiro, still endeavoring to draw out his discourse. Though elderly folk typically showed little interest in such debates, this old man strangely remained more earnest and sincere than any. From the evening’s start, Yashiro had genuinely wished to avoid these metaphysical questions of science and morality. Even when pressed by the old man, he’d naturally inclined toward answers meant to neatly conclude matters—yet now, cornered step by step, he found himself agonizingly immobilized.

“Even when I was in Paris, I constantly quarreled with friends over issues like those we’re discussing tonight. Yet upon returning to Japan, the very things I fought tooth and nail for there began to seem trivial, and I’ve grown to detest debating altogether.” “How should I put this? It seems all of you here have had such experiences, but when one first sets foot in the West, one unexpectedly feels as though they’ve stepped onto a battlefield.” “Certainly, for us, that was a battlefield we had never seen before. So even though we couldn’t tell who the enemy was at first, we still felt clearly that we were right in the midst of them. And if you misspoke even a single word, your allies would start to look like enemies, and many would end up wounded or dead.” “I think there’s probably no one who has returned unscathed. Yet the fact that I managed to come back—whether through mediocrity or incompetence—I’ve come to believe lately that it’s because I never placed my trust in science.” “Instead, I clung fiercely to morality alone, thinking that as long as I had this, nothing else was necessary for humans.” “Then, what exactly is this morality? Because putting it into words inevitably leads everyone to failure—even if I wanted to say it, I couldn’t.” “I have come to think that not a single person in this world has yet been able to explain morality without error.” “Yet, when it comes to morality, everyone just keeps incessantly preaching about ‘the Way,’ as if they want to leave it shrouded in mystery—though I admit my view is rather extreme. But as Mr. Usami pointed out earlier, I believe that is indeed the truth.”

Yashiro, anticipating that many objections would surely arise, had already spoken those words as though leaping out naked before everyone. Asobe listened to Yashiro’s words, his eyebrows twitching intermittently as he let out sneers and remained silent—yet in the end, it was he who spoke first.

“But what do you mean by not trusting science? The discovery that recognizing nature’s purposiveness constitutes the sole method to acknowledge God stands as science’s most credible virtue—has it not also demonstrated the very magnitude of humanity’s worth?”

“I do not believe God to be such a teleological being,” Yashiro said softly, his face still lowered. “Then what is He?” Yashiro found it agonizing to respond further. It was not that he lacked an answer, but when he considered Chizuko and Shiono—seated at the table’s edge, worshipping a god different from his own—he could only fall silent and smile. He feared that any additional words might tighten the noose not just around those two, but all other guests as well—yet for reasons he could not name, it was then that sadness first stirred within him. Asobe, who had awaited Yashiro’s reply, now picked up his knife with a restraint born of having too swiftly conquered the younger man’s prolonged hesitation. With precision, he sliced through the salmon. Then, carried by momentum, he continued speaking awhile longer. After expounding on Puritanism’s alignment with Newtonian thought, he quietly delivered the coup de grâce.

“I still believe in the teleological nature of science,” Asobe continued. “When considering what humanity can most universally empathize with, there exists nothing beyond extracting shared truths from the transformed particularities of various nations and mutually acknowledging them. I’ve reached a point where even God feels unattainable beyond that realm of understanding.” “What you’re toiling over isn’t music—it’s mere acoustics,” Yuki interjected, his laughter laced with renewed mockery.

“That’s true.” “I went to Paris to study music.” Asobe had reflexively answered this way, yet it seemed there was something responsive to Yuki’s sharp jab somewhere within him; flinching with a hesitant, faint smile, he ate the meat.

“There are heaps of people who went to Paris to study, but as for those who went for fun, it’s just me and the Marquis, isn’t it? This is a bit unsettling, isn’t it? Marquis, come on—say something. You weren’t exactly a moralist back in London either, huh.” Yuki glanced back at the silent Marquis Tanabe and, with a smile that reached no one, let out a dry, hollow laugh alone. “I am a moralist,” the Marquis said, and with that single remark, he fell silent once more, saying nothing further.

When Yashiro saw the Marquise Tanabe’s beautiful complexion shift faintly, the magnificent ancestral castle of the Marquis’s family that he had once seen momentarily blazed with light through his mind. At that moment, he glanced briefly at Chizuko, but she merely remained silent, smiling gently as she turned her gaze toward him. When faces flushed crimson from wine began to emerge vividly above the white tablecloth, the meal came to an end. The guests moved to the adjacent room, where casual conversation began anew.

Yashiro stood alone by the window, avoiding the indoor light, and studied the garden intently. The young pine grove extending from the inner courtyard swelled like an island at its center, white sand gathering along its water’s edge in soft, intricate lines as if swept into rippled patterns by a broom. The pine tips—all pruned in the peony-cut style—and the orderly arrangement of dead leaves swept to the water’s edge below echoed gardens descended from Kohō-an within Daitoku-ji; even now, standing here, Yashiro felt an intensifying urge to depart soon for Kyoto.

“What a beautiful garden this is, isn’t it?”

Chizuko came to stand beside Yashiro and said. “Thank you for the wonderful meal and for showing me this beautiful garden tonight.” “There are many fine ceramics upstairs, you know. If you would like to see them, I can arrange it.”

“That’s something I’d like to see,” Yashiro said. And as he drew his face closer to the window to avoid the indoor light reflected in the glass, he felt for the first time a steady warmth emanating from Chizuko—who was gently pushing aside the velvet curtain with one hand—a warmth that unintentionally distanced him from the combative world of words he had been inhabiting. It resembled a shared tribulation needing no speech—a sorrow carried in each breath. Even as he stood with his back to everyone beside Chizuko, he thought the scope of his true meaning being understood in this vast world might extend only to her alone. Yet realizing that what had obstructed his earlier speech was precisely Chizuko’s reverently restrained bearing, he concluded that Asobe’s decisive final blow had ultimately stemmed from their discordant faiths failing to align. And so these unsatisfied, lonesome feelings would persist—undoubtedly recurring many times hereafter in just this manner.

“Now, Mr. Yashiro—come over here.” “Take a seat there.” When Yashiro turned toward the room, it was Baron Hisaki who had beckoned him with a gentle, ever-changing smile and spoken those words. Realizing that among all others, it was indeed this man who had been concerned about him from the start—and sensing, even if the Baron was unaware, a mysterious bond still connecting them through his father—he moved toward the Baron. However, having inadvertently taken a seat slightly apart from the others arranged in a circle, he suddenly felt oppressed by the light converging on him from all directions and could only look around with an idle expression. But when he suddenly became aware of the content of that night’s interrogation, Yashiro came to resign himself to his current state—now dragged into the defendant’s seat—as retribution for having fallen into verbose self-defense about morality in the dining room, which had finally led to this outcome.

Yuki and the diplomat Hayami were engaged in a discussion on international affairs nearby. Even as the flow of conversation occasionally touched upon economic matters among the group, Baron Hisaki alone—apparently weary of discussing the topics he found most engaging—refused to contribute a single word. All the while slouching at an angle and gazing up at the ceiling as he leisurely puffed on his cigarette in silence, he now leaned toward Yashiro and spoke these words.

“Your earlier remarks were rather intriguing—might you continue them a little further?” “I’ve become somewhat removed from such conversations recently, so without an occasion like this, I find myself unable to speak of such matters.” Yashiro remembered he hadn’t said anything particularly noteworthy earlier and briefly pondered what aspect of his words had caught this old man’s fancy. “What I spoke of before was nothing extraordinary, but given that these ideas still hold relevance for our era, I naturally seek someone with whom to share them.” “For instance, having merely crossed the sea to glimpse the West, whenever I observe the waters surrounding Japan now, they all appear to me as waves of Christianity crashing upon our shores.” “In truth, once you step beyond Japan’s borders, the tides of civilization we inhabit are those of an ocean centered on Christianity—even determining one’s stance toward this demands considerable resolve these days.” “Then there’s science.” “We can no longer afford to regard our own nation as foreign territory.”

Even as he spoke these words, Yashiro became aware that his attention was turning away from Baron Hisaki and toward Chizuko, who must surely be listening somewhere behind him. And yet, even as this tormented her, what pained him more was realizing that—given this night was a celebration for Shiono’s photography exhibition of Notre Dame, the Catholic headquarters—his careless remarks had ended up rudely shifting focus from Chizuko to Shiono’s celebratory banquet; finding himself unable to muster the courage to continue his imprudent words, he abruptly fell silent. Baron Hisaki, too, seemed to have keenly perceived this.

“Ah, what truly challenges us is science,” muttered the old man to himself. After a pause, he turned again to Yashiro: “Earlier, you spoke of viewing the matters of East and West that we ponder as a fourteenth- or fifteenth-century issue—what exactly did you mean by that? I didn’t quite grasp that part.” “That part is difficult for me as well,” said Yashiro, “but there are such people. Take Lafcadio Hearn—a Greek who, around the thirty-seventh or thirty-eighth year of Meiji toward its end, observed that Japan’s current state of social evolution was equivalent to that of the West four or five hundred years before Christ’s birth. It has been nearly forty years since Hearn’s death, but I posited—well—that Japan’s forty years in this span correspond to a millennium of progress in the West. Yet even so, for us, Christ has not yet been born.”

Everyone suddenly burst out laughing but immediately fell silent again with a sort of awkward, thin smile.

“However, the fact that Christianity now exists in Japan is, after all, no different from being born into it.” And it was Asobe who said this. However, Hayami, seeming to have touched upon something in his usual line of thought,

“That’s simply because they cling to the hollow remnants of Christ from the past.” “Ah, the nostalgic longing for Ginza’s willows of old,” he added with an amused laugh. “Christ exists beyond past or future. That’s where His transparent majesty lies—isn’t that so?” “No—I’m a reformist through and through. I don’t see it that way. No matter what anyone claims, I won’t yield an inch from reformist principles.” Hayami’s words—sharpened by his diplomatic youth—cut through the room’s disdain, compelling nods that seemed to anticipate some unspoken verdict. The group fell silent once more, but this quiet bore the mark of chaos—thoughts multiplying like ripples in each mind’s hidden depths.

“Returning to Hearn—this foreigner named Hearn reportedly searched the globe for where the spirit from Greece and Rome’s healthiest era still remained.” “And then, unable to find even a fragment of it anywhere—or even dream of it—he wandered to Japan in utter despair, only to realize unexpectedly that this was the place.” “And so he settled permanently in Japan—but this wife of his, they say, would fill each of Hearn’s two hundred pipes with tobacco for him to smoke, and by the time he finished the last one, she had already neatly packed fresh tobacco into the very first pipe again.” “She was like a goddess, you see.” “At that time, most Japanese women were apparently like that, you see.”

As Yashiro spoke, everyone’s expressions transformed into a solemnness never before witnessed. Their backs straightened from their chairs, their eyes beginning to gleam brightly—yet still, no one broke the silence. "What’s intriguing is that Hearn—a foreigner himself—bitterly resented how Kirishitan Catholicism had advanced into Japan." "Those heinous forces came marching with orders for Japanese to abandon ancestor worship, and when they were swiftly met with massacre, Hearn even praised Japan as magnificent—insisting such slaughter was justified." "I came to understand there truly are diverse ways of seeing things."

Carried by the momentum of having spoken out, Yashiro found himself saying this much when he sensed pale faces tinged with anger flash briefly in some corner—but he no longer looked in that direction. He thought Chizuko’s face must surely have been among them, yet he remained convinced that this was something everyone ought to know at least once—that even foreigners had harbored such thoughts.

“That’s pretty damn interesting.”

And suddenly brightening with joy, it was the painter Sasa—who had remained silent until then—who spoke up. “Come now, Marquis—don’t just sit there in foolish silence. Say something.” “Your ancestors were ones who crushed Christians too, you know.”

Yuki said with a sly grin, pressing Marquis Tanabe.

“Because my family has been generations of wise lords, we wouldn’t engage in such dubious deeds,” the Marquis said, stroking his nose. The faces of those who had been somber also burst into laughter at this moment. “However, to call Catholicism heinous—well, Hearn simply doesn’t understand Catholicism.” “No matter how much one may have spoken out of excessive love for Japan, to call the foundational spirit that has bestowed upon the West virtues of order, patience, and humility ‘heinous’ is nothing but the talk of ignorant and shameless individuals.” “If Catholicism had not existed in the West, I believe the European spirit would be akin to utter darkness.”

Asobe frowned, spoke with an air of restlessness, and looked at Yashiro. It was a gaze that contained not so much anger as bitterness tinged with sorrow. “However, if Hearn perceived Japan’s greatest virtue to be ancestor worship akin to that of ancient Greece, and if Catholicism were to order its cessation, then it’s only natural to deem those people heinous scoundrels.”

Sasa said. Sasa’s father was no longer alive, but during his lifetime, he had been a Buddhist scholar known as a pillar of Shin Buddhism. Yashiro had heard from Shiono that his late father, a Confucian scholar, had been friends with Sasa’s father, and that during their lifetimes, the two men had done nothing but argue over the differing stances of Buddhism and Confucianism—until both of them died. Even now, it seemed such a relationship had stirred associations in the hearts of these two children as well, and as Sasa heaved himself up to speak in that manner, the expression of Shiono the Catholic also began to change in response.

“It was sixteenth-century Catholic politics that were at fault,” said Shiono. “Back then was an era of conflict between Spain and Portugal—both sides ended up in a mud-slinging contest of slanderous propaganda as they shifted blame onto each other. But there’s nothing inherently wrong with Catholicism itself. If Japan hadn’t had Catholicism, foreign relations would have been utterly impossible going forward, I tell you.” “Even so,” countered Sasa, “the Catholic doctrine that ancestor worship is evil still hasn’t changed. If the foundation of Japanese morality lies in ancestor worship, conflict with a creed that refuses to acknowledge this is inevitable. Catholicism recognizes souls yet denies this nation’s ancestral souls—I can’t make sense of it. Buddhism may make one believe in Buddha, but it properly recognizes ancestors as Buddha.”

“However, Catholicism shares the same aspiration to return to God.” “Since there cannot be two Gods, when you bring out something dubious like Buddha to confuse people’s minds, it’s only natural that restoring those confused minds will take longer.” In response to Shiono’s words, the habitually reticent Sasa hesitated and stammered slightly, but beneath his strong eyebrows—set wider apart on his broad forehead than most—he flashed a smile where only his eyes remained sharply defiant as he spoke.

“Buddhism does not impose suffering upon people like Catholicism does.” “Well, you should both just believe in Japan’s gods.”

With that, Hayami—perhaps catching a cold—repeatedly took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “However, even if we say Japan’s old Kirishitan religion was Catholicism, that was truly the spirit of Bushido.” “Since those who considered dying under persecution honorable went calmly to their deaths in droves, the Roman Papacy apparently heard of this and found it unprecedented among foreign examples of the time, causing a sensation there. But I think Hearn—being a foreigner—must have interpreted such selfless, ego-effacing prayers of Japanese in moments of crisis through a foreign lens.” “Oh, if you’re Japanese, you’d understand immediately, you see.”

Yashiro wanted to take responsibility for having inadvertently raised an issue among the group and spoke thus—yet as he did so，another thought suddenly welled up within him，prompting him to add further. “There exists what is called Maria Kannon in Kyushu from that time，but whether those Kannon statues were Mary images meant to blind the shogunate’s eyes or whether Mary images were instead perceived as a form of Buddhist Kannon—whichever way you take it，this leads to the conclusion that Japanese Catholics themselves did not fully understand what their own faith truly was．If we push that intuition one step further back and imagine the time when Buddhism first arrived here，it becomes conceivable to me that Buddhists infiltrated the populace by making them believe Kannon statues were images of Amaterasu Ōmikami．” “Fundamentally，since the root of all faiths must surely be one，I believe that no matter what form Japanese faith takes，within it flows Ancient Shinto from the great deity．” “When I think of it this way，even the believers who faced death as calmly as if returning home during the Kirishitan persecutions—I cannot help but feel their dignity stemmed not from Bushido，but rather from the spirit of Ancient Shinto．What do you think？”

Having said even what he had been hesitant to express, Yashiro felt relieved that he had at last formulated his response to that night’s interrogation. Moreover, it had unexpectedly also become an answer to Chizuko; even if he felt it left aspects requiring reflection, he thought that for now, in public, there was no choice but to leave it at that. “Well, I’ve finally come to grasp your moral theory as well.”

After Baron Hisaki tilted his head slightly and removed his glasses, the guests all fell silent, their gazes fixed on some distant point as if looking far away. However, Asobe alone seemed somehow ill at ease as he glanced around, and by chance, his gaze met Michiko’s. Then, suddenly with a shy smile, “Everyone’s gone quiet, huh.” “Michiko, how have you been since then?” he suddenly asked. “Yes, I’ve been well, thank you.” “And you?” Michiko asked in an unexpectedly quiet voice, her shoulders slumping with a hint of nostalgia as she lowered her gaze and glanced softly at Asobe.

“Well, I’m managing as you see.” “You’ve grown thinner.” “What’s this about? If you both care for each other, why remain apart—how does that work?” Yuki suddenly demanded, scrutinizing their faces. “Lack of sincerity,” Asobe murmured, lowering his gaze. “There is sincerity.” Though Michiko countered just as lightly, not the faintest hint suggested either sought to restore their former rapport.

“Come on, more!” Yuki egged the two of them on again with apparent amusement, and unlike the earlier debate, the room grew even more filled with boisterous laughter. “Both of you lack sincerity.”

Shiono, seeming to want to vent a lingering frustration that had been caught between the two of them for some time, also adopted a more invigorated tone.

“In any case, I apologize for troubling you all, but you see—this Maria Kannon knows nothing of morality.” As Asobe spoke these words, Yuki allowed no pause, “Who’d be defeated by morality nowadays?” he demanded, peering into his face. “The other day, I saw that person connected to you.” Michiko now completely ignored the others, gazing at him with eyes softened as if only Asobe existed there. “You saw?” “Where?”

“A certain place.” “But do you really like that person?” “She’s fine.” “She has sincerity.” “Is that so?” “I thought there must be something wrong with you, being impressed by someone like that.”

With that, Michiko pulled her chin in, lowered her gaze to Asobe’s chest, and let slip a faintly ironic smile as she spoke.

“That’s not it.” “That part—you wouldn’t understand.” “But my eyes aren’t mistaken.” “You might be more mistaken than you think.”

Until Michiko said that with a slight glare, those nearby had remained utterly silent, as if spellbound by the two's fluid and rapid exchange. Yashiro too found himself imagining that Kuji and Makiko—now in Paris—might be engaged in similar banter at this very moment. For a time he listened with divided attention, but when Asobe's conversation broke off there, Yuki—appearing reluctant to let it end—seized Asobe by the arm and tried to pull him closer, exclaiming "What? That's all? Keep going!" With that, the discussion dissolved into the group's laughter.

“Let’s not let these two leave tonight,” Hayami proposed.

“No, no—I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Asobe replied with uncharacteristic seriousness, his face flushing with fluster. After glancing briefly at his wristwatch, he stood and made his way alone to the adjoining room, where he began lightly tapping out what sounded like a Schumann concerto. Michiko, seeming to still have something to say, followed Asobe; before long, hushed voices began to leak out from between the two as they played the piano together. Yashiro came to realize for the first time that the soirée at the Marquis’s residence that night had contained various forms of goodwill.

Hayami proposed holding the next gathering again during Sasa’s solo exhibition and Fujio Michiko’s recital. Everyone agreed to it. Yashiro still felt reluctant to part with the rich atmosphere of the evening, but as a first-time attendee, he felt it would be presumptuous to overstay his welcome like Chizuko, so he announced his intention to leave early and bid farewell to the Marquis. Then, Baron Hisaki also said, “Well then, I shall join you,” and stood up together. Asobe and Michiko also came out from the adjoining room.

“Tonight has been a most delightful evening in recent memory. Please let us have another one of these next time as well.”

With an expression of genuine cheerfulness that could not be mistaken for mere courtesy, the Baron made this entreaty to the assembly before exiting toward the corridor. Yashiro left the room in the same manner, his gaze brushing against Chizuko’s large eyes that seemed to linger motionless for an instant.

From the depths of the frigid night air outside the gate, flames from roadwork streamed along the fence, carrying the stench of tar. When the door of Baron Hisaki’s automobile opened, revealing its fragrant silver-gray cushions patterned in silver-gray, the Baron asked Yashiro about his return route and suggested they ride together that far. With the lingering mood of the gathering still unabated and his manner uninhibited, he accepted the offer to share the car and descended the slope. “I’ll be setting out on a journey before long, you know,” said the Baron. “Do visit me there next time. When traveling, things aren’t so bothersome, you see.”

After saying this to Yashiro, the Baron suddenly asked, “How about next week?” Even as he thought this might be his last meeting with Baron Hisaki, Yashiro found himself slow to respond to the abrupt invitation. “If next week proves inconvenient, shall we schedule it for the week after?” “The following week should suffice.”

Once again, the Baron pressed him with another question as he remained silent. “Yes. Thank you.”

And Yashiro hesitated to answer this time as well. His indecision stemmed from having still failed to mention his father’s employment under the previous baron’s household—an anguish resurfaced anew—but when he considered how this Baron’s kindness would pursue him even during travels,tightening its grip on his temperament,Yashiro lost composure. Yet as frustration swelled—Why couldn’t he utter even this?—the thought *I mustn’t speak* pressed urgently. *A whisper coiled through him: Better left unsaid now.* So bound,Yashiro forgot even the car’s speed for some time.

“I’m afraid I have an inept nature—when traveling, I invariably end up inconveniencing others.” Interpreting this as nothing more than Yashiro’s reserve, the Baron made no attempt to pursue the matter. “There are times I wish to escape thoughts of company affairs entirely.” “For that,” he murmured, “there’s no recourse but travel.” At this, Yashiro concluded it had been wise to endure without mentioning matters like his father. To speak plainly, he feared, would not only alter the rapport forged with the Baron that night through their unspoken tensions, but might even cause the goodwill he’d so painstakingly acknowledged to be coldly rejected in turn.

“It’s good. “Being alone—the feeling when I wake up alone in a hotel during my travels—is truly indescribable.” The Baron’s tone carried a contemplative sigh as he pictured the complex, demanding duties of his daily life. The suffering of this Baron—raised swathed in layer upon layer of that strange entity called money—was a heavy, droplet-like lament of solitude, from one who must have ceaselessly pondered day and night by what measure human values ought to be determined.

“How many companies are you president of?” “I’ve lost count.”

And the Baron fell silent after uttering a whisper too faint to catch even a single word. It was something that, even to voice aloud, sounded like a deep sting from a swarm of vexing thoughts assailing him. As Yashiro and the Baron swayed on the cushions together, he imagined how overjoyed his father—who still clung to the Meiji-era ethos of loyalty to one’s master—would be if he recounted this evening with the Baron upon returning home. When Yashiro pictured his father’s delight, he realized that merely standing here now beside the Baron was itself an act of filial piety. An unexpected brightness seeped into his mood, and he felt himself regaining a youthful vigor he hadn’t known in years. And as he perceived this excitement—a reflection of his father’s joy—as some fragile value he had barely unearthed within himself, he imagined the Baron’s daily life and thought that even this might be besieged solely by the ephemeral loneliness of wealth; by contrast, his own happiness grew ever more distinct.

It was Sunday; though wind seemed present high in the sky, the garden trees stood motionless. Among the lower branches, bush warblers flitted shadow-like across gaps. The mochi tree that had borne no fruit for five or six years after planting began producing small red berries that year, and since then small birds came frequently—this year their numbers had markedly increased. Though still a young bush warbler practicing its bamboo-leaf song, its form seen up close ceaselessly stretched taut and swelled. As Yashiro warmed one hand over the brazier while listening to the iron kettle’s whistle—thinking he might till the long-neglected field that afternoon—he suddenly became aware of a quietness as though something precious had slipped away. Beyond the winter shoji’s bright clarity, even the bush warbler’s sharp “chit-chit” cries seemed to mirror the nostalgia he had occasionally felt when gazing skyward during those transient days of travel.

After a while, footsteps sounded, and his mother entered Yashiro’s room carrying tea and sweets. In the afternoon, perhaps, but in the morning—his strict mother had rarely done such things for Yashiro until now. “It’s a fine day today.” “I think I’ll try tilling the field today,” Yashiro said to his mother.

“The field? “How unusual.” “Can you manage that with those hands?” Mother laughed. By the window where the two sat facing each other, the iron kettle whistled with rising steam while bush warblers kept flitting from branch to branch, finally reaching the plum branch Yashiro had secretly been awaiting. “I told Father about last evening.” “Then Father was so pleased.” “He’s already beaming with delight.”

As Mother spoke these words in an uncharacteristically childlike manner, Yashiro thought, *Ah—so that’s what she meant*. It appeared Mother had relayed to Father exactly as she heard it—how Yashiro had told her about last night’s meeting with Baron Hisaki after returning home, while keeping it from Father himself. In retrospect, it seemed trivial, but Father could never have perceived it as such; he must have felt the household atmosphere suddenly swell and rise like an auspicious omen. Moreover, this occurred two days after they had received notice that his younger sister Sachiko would finally be discharged from the hospital.

“Baron Hisaki is an interesting person. “I actually found him rather more magnanimous than people generally perceive. “It’s difficult to grasp. “That person’s grandeur.” Even as Yashiro spoke these words, he could not believe they stemmed purely from goodwill fostered by the Baron’s kindness. Within the Baron’s refinement lay profundity—humility hard-won for one of his station, earnestness and passion all intricately intertwined. What most illuminated Yashiro’s heart was how deftly he had drawn forth voluble speech from one inclined toward silence.

"But I was troubled," Yashiro said. "The fact that Father was once indebted to Baron Hisaki's company—I just couldn't bring myself to mention it." "You didn't do anything rude, did you?" Mother asked. "Father is most worried about that."

“I might have done just that,” Yashiro said with a laugh. “Father said, ‘Kōichirō often speaks impertinently, so I wonder if that boy was spouting foolish things again,’ or so he said.”

“However, that Baron is the sort of man who doesn’t let me regret having shown my flaws.” “There aren’t many people like that, you see.” “Well, even I feel a bit better because of that.” “Instead of saying such things to me, why don’t you tell Father?” Absentmindedly, Mother pushed the sweets toward her child and looked happy. “It’s no good with Father.” “Because he’s the sort who already considers the fact that I spoke with the Baron to have been an act of rudeness.” “You mustn’t mention things like me forgetting to express gratitude.” “That’d be one hell of a scolding.”

“That won’t do.” “If Father were to find out about such things—” Mother raised the teacup and kept watching her child’s face for a while before suddenly falling silent.

“If I express my gratitude next time, it’ll be too late. What was wrong with me last evening—well, I felt it was more proper not to mention it at the time.”

It was neither regret nor a sense of personal discourtesy, but his silence had undeniably left a bitter aftertaste that lingered. That part—Yashiro thinking it was merely because he liked the Baron—was acceptable enough, but before he knew it, he had begun imagining a scenario where, should Father and Mother disapprove of marrying Chizuko, he might even naively ask Baron Hisaki to persuade them—a faintly optimistic notion that had crept into his mind. Even if such a possibility existed, it was not something requiring earnest entreaty—yet now that Chizuko was clearly striving to have her favored Marquise persuade her own parents, he too had quietly selected Baron Hisaki as a corresponding persuader. This was not out of any desire to burden the Baron, but simply because having him write one letter to his parents would suffice. Still, were he to do such a thing, Yashiro could plainly see Father growing even more furious at a son overstepping his station.

While watching the bush warbler moving among the lower branches, he realized that if he were to meet Baron Hisaki again and grow closer, he might end up requesting what had floated into his mind—and thus resolved never to see the Baron again. “About how old was Father when he was at Baron Hisaki’s company?” “Let me see, he was probably around your age. Since he was working at Baron Hisaki’s company when you were born—how time flies—it’s already been over thirty years.” “At New Year’s, President Hisaki would come before the employees to give his greetings—that was the only time they could see his face once a year, I’ve heard.” “And if your story from last evening is true, Father would be astonished.”

Yashiro gazed at his mother's face—her cheeks still barely lined for one nearing sixty, her almond-shaped eyes framed by thick hair—and let his eyes linger on his father's white hair, aged beyond hers in comparison. "I've truly come to realize how Father has aged these days," he said. "Before I went abroad, he wasn't like that." "When you're together daily, you don't notice it," Mother replied. "Oh yes—just recently, Father expressed concern about your marriage prospects." "He's been waiting to see when you'd bring it up yourself." "If you mean to decide something, it wouldn't be too soon to settle matters now."

He had assumed that talk of marriage would not come from Mother but would eventually be broached by his sister Sachiko. Yet when Mother brought it up so directly, he naturally felt his face grow hot. If Mother were to learn that the one he intended to marry was Chizuko, she—with her strong temperament—would surely oppose it more vehemently than anyone. Yet in her current manner of speaking, which seemed to carry an unspoken intention, there was a sense that she was already dimly aware of Chizuko and nodding in understanding.

“Well, regarding the matter of a wife—please wait a while longer.” Yashiro evaded the subject and casually picked up a sweet. Then, thinking that the sofa he and Chizuko had chosen at Toranomon yesterday would likely arrive soon, he looked at the clock. The cold was still too early for heading out to the fields. Yashiro took a hoe and went outside. In the field where the ridges had vanished and it had flattened out, a few millet plants, forgotten since summer, stood withered and remained. After pulling out those along with the daikon radishes whose leaves lay limply flattened against the ground, he began to hoe the field.

With each strike of the hoe, as the pungent smell of soil rose from beneath his feet, he recalled a certain afternoon in Brougny Forest when he and Chizuko had lain together in the grass, breathing in the earth’s scent while longing for Japan. And now, he had finally begun acting on his desire—one he had often felt upon returning home—to till the fields before all else; yet through the weight of the hoe he swung, the smell of soil, and the scent of sweat, he felt himself grasping the profound meaning of *shindo-fuji*, that age-old adage of “body and soil as one.”

However, even as he dug up the soil, he thought of how this land was borrowed from the landowner and still not his own. Even if it were a narrow plot he could till with his own hands, as he felt an increasingly strong desire to secure some land for himself, he regretted that unless he purchased it with money he himself had earned—not funds received from his father—even the profound meaning of *shindo-fuji* would remain beyond his grasp, its very roots unknowable. Now that he thought of it, the sum he had spent abroad would likely suffice to acquire this field he now tilled—and with each strike of the hoe, he began to feel the weight of that lost amount pressing upon him.

The surface of the soil, frost-heaved and parched, revived its vivid blackness as it advanced from behind him. It was the faintly warm scent of soil. Yashiro wanted to limit even the fertilizer he spread on this field to substances produced solely from his family’s own bodies. And he considered nourishing his family with vegetables grown from that soil, wanting to incorporate the cycle of earth and blood into his plans. Even so, one regretful thing relentlessly pursued him from his mind’s depths. It was a minor incident aboard ship during his voyage, occurring just after dinner when they had departed Colombo. When passengers gathered and their amiable chatter turned frank, a commercial attaché addressed the young man beside him—one who had left his law practice—

“If you’re going to the West, you’re doing it with money you’ve earned yourself, right?” he said lightly as a joke. To anyone’s eyes, the young man appeared to be a rich man’s son, so the speaker had merely made the remark in jest—yet no sooner had the words left his mouth than the young man’s face paled instantly, and he shouted in a voice loud enough to startle everyone: “You idiot! Who do you think would go without earning their own money?” Yashiro knew of the young man—a lawyer who had resolved a case and earned twenty thousand yen, funding his travels through his own work—but there was a reason why the commercial attaché’s offhand remark, made unaware of this fact, had provoked such anger. Before departing Kobe by ship, none of the passengers had questioned whether their ability to board stemmed from self-earned funds; they had all embarked under the usual assumption that going abroad remained unchanged regardless of such matters. Yet once the ship began to move, it became unexpectedly clear that whether one had come by their own means would implicitly establish itself as the standard for determining a passenger’s worth. Therefore, Yashiro—who had constantly felt a weakness in himself for having become a traveler with money received from his parents and tormented by guilt—found no words that struck his heart more violently than the commercial attaché’s careless remark directed at the young man. It was a frustration not limited to the voyage itself but one that clung persistently throughout every step of his travels abroad.

“Oh now, don’t get so angry.” “If it’s money you earned yourself, I’ll allow it.”

The commercial attaché immediately laughed it off with a grand gesture, and the tense atmosphere aboard the ship was smoothly diffused—but for Yashiro, who had no room to defend himself, the sting only reverberated more intensely, refusing to fade. Even now, as he continued to bring down the hoe over two furrows, sweat trickled from his forehead down his cheeks and dripped onto the soil. Even this he felt as if he were watching the sins of his own body trickling down, and even as his arms grew numb, Yashiro did not want to stop. Having long been unaccustomed to physical exertion, his breath came labored. His lower back grew sluggish, and the saliva at his throat dried up. However, even as he continued—as the sweat streaming down grew more intense—he gradually began to feel a certain vanity akin to keeping up appearances. Yashiro leaned on the hoe handle and surveyed the field. From the buoyant pleasure that had lightly sprung up within him, he wondered why such vanity had begun to mix in—and as he gradually grew melancholic, he slowly raised and lowered the hoe. The tilling became an act where the more he felt his sense of justice, the more keenly he became aware of injustice.

Yashiro had not expected to obtain anything so complicated from tilling the field. He rested in his weariness among the withered grass along the stream's edge. From soil thawed and moistened by sunlight, butterbur shoots thrust up vigorously, their growth displacing nearby pebbles. A warm-hued mist drifted over water flowing through dried grasses, while winter's lingering presence could still be sensed in the thickets - though spring's approach now faintly stirred among them. The day's labor left his body thoroughly exhausted, yet for the first time since returning from abroad, Yashiro felt something resembling mental calm take root. Even washing himself before dinner became an arduous task, but his spirit remained uncharacteristically untroubled.

“I’ve never had a day as pleasant as this,” Yashiro said to his mother as he stepped out of the bath, drying himself off. “That’s what happens when you work now and then,” his mother replied with a laugh while preparing the meal. “The soil smells nice, doesn’t it?”

Even as he said this, Yashiro thought it was truly due to the honest labor he had performed for the first time in recent days. Thinking that he had drawn somewhat closer to actions unashamed before nature, he quietly fell silent, changed into a fresh shirt, and tightened his sash firmly.

After night fell, the temperature suddenly dropped, and snow-thickened air chilled the room. That evening’s meal was unusually served on formal dining trays in his father’s room. His father offered Yashiro an evening drink— “How about a cup?” —and poured it for him. When with his father, Yashiro would forget his age, feeling like a boy of ten, yet found it strange he still sensed no growth within himself. But receiving sake from his father’s hand made him suddenly feel taller, shyly extending his cup as if proving newfound stature. Though normally reticent with his father, after three or four refills—the alcohol mingling with fatigue—he began showing signs of uncharacteristic volubility.

“How old is Mr. Hisaki now?” asked his father, having received a pour from his son as well. Yashiro understood his father’s cheerful mood today stemmed from what his mother had mentioned, yet for some reason he still found himself unable to speak directly about Baron Hisaki.

“He mentioned something about being at the age for wearing red shirts.” If he were to take advantage of the Baron’s absence and carelessly use disrespectful language, he risked being scolded by his father, so he answered with a certain stiffness. “Hmm.” Father fell silent for a moment, appearing to consider something—perhaps his own age or the gap between it and that of the previous generation of the Hisaki family. “Father, when you were employed at Mr. Hisaki’s place, what were you mainly engaged in?” “By that time, I was already designing tunnels.” “When people failed at difficult projects, I was always made to take over afterward.” “With this, I too have completed quite a number of Japan’s difficult tunnel projects.” “There’s a tunnel that runs from Fukushima to Aizu, you know.” “That was a difficult project—my first time tackling such a thing—so back then, I could hardly sleep at night.” “Then there was Usui Pass—that was difficult.” “That was difficult.” “Next was the canal from Ōtsu to Yamashina, and after that came the hydroelectric project on the Uji River.”

It seemed the alcohol had begun to take effect on Father too, and soon boasts of reminiscing about old times started emerging before his son. Yashiro saw this moment as an opportunity to draw out more of his father's proud tales and kept diligently pouring sake into his cup without fail. "How long were you at Mr. Hisaki's company?" "I stayed there under their hospitality until finishing the Usui Tunnel." "You see, I was a hotheaded man—when I realized following orders would endanger the work's progress, I opposed them." "But since the company wouldn't heed me, the tunnel ended up collapsing." "So they ordered me to complete it after all, and with that done, I had them let me resign from the company."

The father’s expression was concealed by his stiff white beard, but as Yashiro gazed at the keen glint darting through eyes that held a smile—a glint he had never directly witnessed from his father’s technical prowess—he could only think this must be what manifested through years of disciplined craftsmanship. “Which would you consider your proudest achievement? Was it indeed Usui Pass?”

“Well…” “The ones I can take pride in are Usui Pass and Mount Ōsaka.” “The current Mount Ōsaka—anyone would have failed at that, but in the end, I was the one to complete it.” “Even now, when I pass through there on the Tōkaidō Line, it’s a strange feeling.” “Even when I’m asleep, I suddenly wake up.” “After all, I’m rolling into the belly of something I made myself.” “The soil of Higashiyama was soft—there’s no soil as soft as that.” At times when he looked up at his father’s face—where only the color of his lips remained beautifully red—Yashiro would suddenly glimpse, then lose, the connection between their ancestral history and his father’s work. And though he wanted to seize this moment to ask about the unknown parts of his family’s history, to his father’s eyes—eyes that had endured a life starkly different from his son’s—the accumulated weight of mountains he had confronted must now be assailing him as phantoms of the past. Even the figure of his father in his truly healthy, youthful days could be felt with envy emanating from those broad shoulders. He found himself thinking about what such children born between Chizuko and himself might do, and even about his bride—matters he had yet to disclose to his father.

“If I come to understand Father’s hardships so clearly, I might end up unable to ride trains so carelessly.” “This is troublesome,” Yashiro said with a laugh, glancing at his mother. “You did some farming today, I hear?” Father suddenly asked.

“I thought if I stayed ignorant of what our ancestors did, divine retribution would strike me—so I just imitated them a bit.” “But it felt rather pleasant.” “To have forgotten even this—what exactly have I been pondering all this time?—today I felt some regret.” “That aside—within known records, what’s the name of my family’s oldest ancestor?”

“Fujiwara no Mototsune. “My old man used to tell me that when I was a kid, but I don’t know if it’s true or not.” For Yashiro, who had read the county chronicle published in his father’s hometown and knew nothing of his family’s history beyond what was written there, the name Mototsune was something he heard for the first time, and he now felt as though he had committed an unexpected act of impropriety. “When you say Fujiwara no Mototsune, do you mean that Mototsune—Tokihira’s father—the first Regent?” “The first Regent’s.”

“I can’t say for sure about that.” “However, only the name was like that,” Father answered in a voice that seemed utterly disinterested.

However, Yashiro murmured the name once more in his heart, as though it were a single answer from his father that he would never ask again. Probably both his grandfather and great-grandfather—just as he himself had now been told so casually by his father—must have heard it on some such pleasant night long ago. And yet, only Mototsune’s name would be remembered and passed down through memory for generations to come, as long as their family endured, while in time, his own name and Father’s would surely be forgotten. However, even among those, he thought that henceforth the tunnel at Ōsaka Pass left by Father would not vanish from the memories of their descendants, alongside Mototsune’s name.

The faint sound of snow could be heard on the plum branches outside the shoin. When Mother brought the sake bottle from the kitchen, she too informed the two that it was snowing.

“The time I was in danger was during the Uji River hydroelectric project,” “When we were building that—since they said it’d be the finest in the Orient—I worked with all my might. But even then, I clashed with the opposing engineers. When I finally told them, ‘Fine, have it your way,’ it collapsed right from that spot.” “There I was, half-buried alive! The cave-in stopped just short of my feet, but you should’ve seen how the Narita talisman split clean in two!” “Ha ha ha!”

Father’s face—flushed crimson with a lifetime’s pride—seemed in even brighter spirits. Yet from the moment Yashiro heard the name Mototsune from his father, a murky gloom had been steadily deepening within him, its origins unclear. This darkness mirrored that of Tokihira—Mototsune’s son—who had exiled Sugawara no Michizane, Yashiro’s most revered figure, to Dazaifu. Though trivial on the surface, it weighed on him all the more because his mother had told him since childhood that he was born on Tenjin’s death anniversary—Tenjin being Michizane’s deified form. That he had pleaded with his mother to plant more plum trees than any other in their garden owed partly to Michizane’s famed love of plums having taken root in him. Now, as snow fell noisily upon those garden plums alongside Tokihira’s father’s name, its coldness became a faint chill within his memory, letting melancholy seep into his bones.

"However, our ancestor couldn’t possibly be that Mototsune, Tokihira’s father." Even after his father had gone to sleep, Yashiro muttered to himself in his study and suddenly opened historical texts about Mototsune and Tokihira. Discovering that Regent Mototsune had fathered Onshi, from whom two emperors were born—a blessing indeed—he turned with sudden clarity akin to fresh spring water from the shadowy Tokihira to imagine instead the life of Tokihira’s sister Onshi, delving late into the night into the lineage of the Fujiwara Hokke. Yet the Mototsune Father spoke of could not possibly be that parent of Onshi—this time reversing his earlier thoughts, he found himself gazing at the descendants of the rural Fujiwara clan who had drifted desolately with the western sea’s waves, alongside pine winds sweeping through his homeland’s crumbling castle like the sorrows of a long journey.

He opened the window and peered at how deep the snow lay. The plum tree bathed in lamplight thrust its branches into the snow with vigorous clarity, their forms etched by a vivid interplay of light and shadow. Grazing the crystalline stillness of clustered boughs, fat snowflakes kept falling like whispers of the late night. Through this luminous snowfall—where frenzied swirls of white clashed yet carried faint plum fragrance—he suddenly sensed something akin to the essence of Japanese history. With the crisp vitality of his returned hometown seeping into his very bones, he shut the door. He thought it no longer mattered who Mototsune—the man his father had spoken of—truly was.

After getting into bed, he soon realized his birthday was approaching. And around this time last year during his voyage, he recalled how idleness had flourished aimlessly in the southern heat that nurtured peach sprouts in the cabin’s pot. On that ship sailing through Pinnan, Colombo, and Aden, Chizuko and Kuji had always seemed on the verge of holding hands as they moved merrily between shadows on the deck—but wanting to erase those vexing memories of days past, Yashiro tossed in his futon. As his ear lifted from the pillow with that sudden movement, he faintly heard something resembling a moan. It seemed to come from his father’s bedroom—starting and stopping intermittently at first—then fell utterly silent, leaving only the clamor of his own pounding heartbeat that kept him awake. Since his mother now slept separately due to his father’s increasingly loud snoring—waking easily these days—he thought she might not have heard the moans yet. He rose, turned on the light outside his father’s room, and slid the door open a crack. By then, no moans could be heard—only an unfamiliar foul odor permeating the room—so he opened the door a little wider to let in light. There lay Father’s white hair, leaning out from the futon and motionless amid tea-brown liquid spread across the floor. Yashiro sensed this was no ordinary condition—

“Father, Father.”

He called out twice by his ear. Yet with only the colorless back of an earlobe looking desolate, Father no longer responded. He felt a heavy shudder as though a waterfall were crashing down upon his entire body. And, “Father.”

He called out loudly again, but there was still no response. The liquid—apparently vomited from his mouth—had flowed copiously across the tatami mats. Even to an untrained eye, cerebral hemorrhage seemed certain. He tried not to disturb Father’s body while preparing to fetch Mother, but when he grasped the wrist, he found no pulse and already dilated pupils. Intuiting all was lost, he remained kneeling motionless. The small desk clock’s hands pointed precisely at two o’clock. When Father had risen for bed earlier, that momentary image of his hand on the sliding door—his retreating back—had been Yashiro’s final glimpse. Having fleetingly realized neither had known it would be their parting, he continued sitting blankly upright.

“What’s wrong?” His mother entered after some time. Then his mother suddenly stopped speaking and returned to the kitchen area for some reason. When Yashiro left his father’s corpse， he asked his mother not to move his father until the doctor arrived， said what needed saying， put on his coat， and went outside.

Snow had piled up on the road. As he walked—despite the gravity of what had occurred—he felt a hollow opening up within his body, a vacant space filled only by an unfamiliar chill that crept in slowly, leaving him tense with its inexorable advance. Snow had packed into the teeth of his geta and swelled; he dropped to one knee and momentarily collapsed. Even knowing his haste was already too late, he still hurried his steps. Then, Mother’s habit of sleeping separately—disliking Father’s loud snoring—suddenly began to irritate him. But imagining Mother now—alone and flustered—he began to feel sorry for her as well.

Despite it being past two o'clock, the hospital entrance was still lit, and a doctor still in his everyday clothes emerged immediately. And then, without even properly listening to the details of his father’s condition that Yashiro was explaining,

“There was another patient just now—I’ve only just returned.” “The weather has changed so drastically, you see.” Having said that, he reentered the medical office. There was some explanation about the car not being able to move due to the snow, but even so, the doctor came walking through the snow with him. At home, Father’s vomit had already been cleaned up, and beneath Father’s head—which had leaned out from the futon—an additional futon had been laid out. In the house, now brightly transformed with lamps lit on both the Buddhist altar and Shinto shrine, Mother’s face had regained its resolutely composed tightness. The fresh kimono she had changed into was neat, making her look younger and more beautiful than usual.

The doctor entered the entrance ahead of Yashiro, casually slid open the shōji screen, opened the fusuma sliding door, and—as if intuitively knowing where Father’s bedroom was—strode briskly deeper inside. And, opening wide the collar of Father—who lay collapsed in the same state as when Yashiro had left the house—he placed the stethoscope against his chest. On Father’s thick, robust chest, there were no undulations, and its color had already somewhat changed. After finishing the examination, the doctor turned to face Yashiro and Mother, who were sitting nearby.

"My deepest condolences." he said quietly.

After the doctor had left, Yashiro found himself leaving the house again without quite knowing why. On the snow beyond the reach of the gate lamp’s light, only the hollowed tracks left by Yashiro and the doctor as they passed were visible. Even as he walked, stepping into those depressions, thoughts flooded Yashiro’s mind only to vanish again. The snow piled on hinoki leaves brushed against a kite’s wings and scattered away. He looked around at the snowdrifts, his chest’s core so numb and hollowed-out in its stillness that he nearly wanted to test whether his father’s death could truly be real.

But could this truly be death? In an instant—leaping from some unknowable origin—it now dwelled within the surrounding darkness. He continued voiceless questions as he walked beside the doctor until sudden tremors overtook him uncontrollably, forcing him to part ways and turn back alone. Though this dreadful inevitability had always loomed in some distant future, now it had come. He sensed something imminent spreading its maw to press against him, and with vigilance permitting not the slightest chink in his defenses, he instinctively assumed readiness—as though shedding his heart’s sheath to bare an unsheathed blade.

But now, Father was gone. And once again, he thought. Time had abruptly broken free from somewhere and came surging and cascading into him with force. Feeling the intensity of some grand thing tilting and assaulting him, he looked up at the sky. Then he prayed for the destination of his father’s soul, which must have ascended to heaven. The coldness of snow falling on his face swirled upward like sorrow toward heaven, only to seep back down into his heart.

“The weather has changed so abruptly tonight, you see.” As he walked, he suddenly recalled the doctor’s words. Moreover, it also seemed that informing Father of his meeting with Baron Hisaki before his passing—which had pleased him—had become an undisputed condition that provided stimulation to Father’s blood vessels. After entering the house, he sat down beside his mother, who was lighting the fire in the brazier, and thought about what needed to be done—but it seemed there was nothing in particular that required doing.

“Shall we reposition Father?” he said cautiously, careful not to startle his mother. “Yes, let’s do that.” Mother and he entered Father’s bedroom. And yet, when they tried to lay Father out properly on the newly spread futon before the bedstead, his body had already stiffened like a plank—legs rigidly extended, tautly stretched, and so hard it seemed it might creak. He wrapped his hands beneath his father’s torso and wedged them in, but the moment his chin touched the abdomen, a sudden surge of sorrow overwhelmed him, and he buried his face in his father’s stomach and let out a cry.

“He has such a noble face now.” Mother said quietly as she stroked Father’s high forehead with a faint smile. Then he felt the sadness begin to recede once more, and gathering strength into his arms, he lifted Father up. “But since he was glad to die, it’s still a blessing.” “He was truly so glad…”

After laying Father in the seiza position, Mother muttered this to herself, wearing an expression that was somehow cheerful—in contrast to her son Yashiro. To Yashiro, Mother—who did not appear the least bit sad—was incomprehensible, and it also left him unfulfilled. He brought the brazier over and thought he wanted to stay like this with Father forever. Due to the swiftness of death that had left him unable to provide even a single night of care, no matter how much Father’s body might change, he had wanted to wear himself out fiercely for Father’s sake. Mother took out a white handkerchief from the small chest of drawers and spread it over Father’s face. Perhaps it was his imagination, but from that moment onward, Mother’s back seemed to have bent slightly all at once. And when he saw her leaving the room in that seemingly aged manner, moving slowly, Yashiro was once again overwhelmed by a surge of sorrow, struggling to hold back his voice. He bit into his own arm sideways and, suppressing his voice for a while, continued to shudder violently.

After morning came, Yashiro slept a little. And when he awoke around noon, his younger sister Sachiko’s voice was already audible from the direction of the kitchen. Yashiro went out to the inner room where his aunt and uncle and cousins had gathered, and together they set the date for the funeral. While Mother seemed inclined to keep Father by her side even a single day longer, Yashiro, considering the relatives’ inconvenience as well, tried moving the date forward. Mother did not raise any particular objections and obediently followed his opinion, so the funeral was set for two days later. After that, the death robe began to be busily sewn by the women’s hands.

When night came and the coffin was delivered to the house, everyone performed the ceremonial washing of Father’s body. Barefoot in straw sandals with sashes tied over their shoulders, he, his mother, his sister, and even his cousin who had joined them—all clad in attire as bold as warriors setting out on a vendetta through the snowy night. Though their faces bore tense solemnity, the unfamiliar strangeness of their garb made them exchange glances and share a fleeting smile. Then each began wiping Father’s body clean with alcohol. Mother and Sachiko wiped his head and chest while Yashiro attended to his torso and legs.

On his father’s body, blotches of pale purple had spread, and when he pressed the muscles with his fingertips, there was no elasticity—Yashiro thought that this was indeed no longer his father but an object transformed.

After they finished wiping him down and were attempting to lift Father into the coffin together, his back—damp with sweat and unnaturally warm—gave off a faint deathly odor that struck their nostrils. Then Sachiko, who had been supporting his chest, suddenly withdrew her hands. “Father’s still warm.” “Shouldn’t we have the doctor examine him again?” “I can’t accept that he’s dead.”

Seemingly bewildered by Sachiko’s forceful words, Mother likewise let go, “Yes, I suppose,” she said absently. For a moment—despite Father’s undeniable death—a silence persisted where no one voiced doubt. “Come now, let’s do it.” “If he’s still this warm, he can’t possibly be dead.”

Once again, Sachiko remained on one knee and looked around at everyone’s faces. “That won’t do.” “Come on, let’s put him in,” Yashiro urged the hesitant group. “But he’s still so warm.” “I don’t want to put him in like this.” “No—it’s certain now.” Yashiro lifted Father without hesitation, and so the group also helped him place Father into the coffin. The pillow too was paper-made and in the coffin, and the white wood of the hinoki cypress emitted a strong scent from amidst the artificial flowers and death robe. When large wreaths were also arranged alongside the coffin laid lengthwise in the alcove, the form of the funeral gradually took shape. It was a coffin that solemnly declared, “Behold, man is hereby settled.” That was the final lesson his father had taught Yashiro.

In the snow that had ceased falling, inside Yashiro’s house was a whirlwind of busyness. With relatives who had come from the countryside, friends of his father, and other company-related condolence visitors to attend to, he had no time to sleep; yet whether due to the initial shock of being struck by his father’s sudden death, even amid the busyness, he felt as though he were sitting there cradling something hollow—a sensation that lingered on. Mother was especially so; though his sister Sachiko, due to her convalescence, had been kept from directly involving herself in the busyness, she still busied herself with one thing or another in Mother’s stead.

Since the funeral had been entrusted to a skilled young banker relative as chairman, all matters proceeded smoothly without Yashiro’s knowledge. Of course, they had decided to hold the ceremony according to Father’s sect of Shinshū Buddhism, but he secretly thought that when his own time came, he would want it to be a Shinto ceremony. “I had just met your husband at the gate around noon and had a chat,” “And then for him to pass away that very night—I was so shocked, it made the world seem terrifying.”

While hearing the liquor store owner speak those words to his mother at the kitchen entrance, Yashiro was alone in his room donning the hakama pleated trousers for the funeral service. As the maid arranged a pile of condolence letters on the small desk, an envelope from Chizuko—recognizable at a glance—caught his eye. He immediately extracted it and tucked it into his breast pocket. Though he hadn’t yet notified Chizuko of his father’s death, her letter arriving by coincidence before the funeral gave him the impression that she too intended to attend the rites, regardless of its contents. Amidst the turbulent comings and goings of mourners in formal kimonos, Yashiro sensed an inexplicable warmth from his pocket as he remained gazing at the lingering snow in the garden. Had Father’s death occurred later, Chizuko might have been at the heart of his household by now, compelled to actively manage affairs. Even the sofa he’d recently purchased and delivered for her currently served no greater function than to discreetly seat guests in the parlor.

For him, his father alone was a source of pride, and he wanted to have Chizuko take a look at him beforehand.

Before long, the sutra chanting by monks from the temple began, so Yashiro lined up before the coffin alongside family members and relatives. The voices reciting sutras were richly solemn. Though he didn't fully grasp their meaning, he had always appreciated the teachings of Shinran, Shinshū Buddhism's founder.

It was a clear, warm day, and the bush warbler that always came was in the garden again today. He suddenly thought that the peaceful days when his father had been here had returned to the world outside today. Even so, what happens happens—thinking this, he soothed himself by considering that even this death might not be something extraordinary but rather a familiar presence that arrived somewhere within the day, and thus he found courage welling up once more.

The funeral service began around two o'clock. Yashiro stood in his position as chief mourner at the entrance, greeting arriving visitors. The black forms of attendees' cars flickered intermittently through snow-laden evergreens. Throughout the ongoing incense offerings, thaw droplets fell steadily from the eaves; sunlight glared off the garden snow, illuminating every face that passed through the gate—bright visages parting left and right. When the surge of incense offerings appeared to wane, Chizuko entered unexpectedly with Shiono. That day she wore an uncharacteristic formal kimono bearing family crests, its layered white collars lending her a more mature beauty than usual. With her obi crisply tied and posture impeccably straight, Yashiro momentarily felt he beheld a stranger—a pulse quickening as he watched her approach. Shiono advanced with social ease, eyes surveying the crowd, while slightly behind him walked Chizuko, downcast gaze fixed ahead. The white hem fluttering at her feet conjured an air of chaste refinement, tightening Yashiro's emotions to crystalline sharpness as he observed them.

The two of them came to where Yashiro and the others were and stopped. When Shiono silently bowed to him, Chizuko bowed to Yashiro’s mother; then, naturally and without any particular reason, her eyes met his gaze. “Thank you very much.”

Yashiro moved slightly forward and spoke quietly to the two of them. He sensed Sachiko keenly observing his face, but his mother—still under the impression that Chizuko was Shiono’s wife—returned a solemn silent bow before shifting her gaze to the next guests in line. When Shiono’s group had finished offering incense and emerged, Yashiro asked them to rest awhile. Maintaining his position as chief mourner, he watched Chizuko’s retreating figure walk toward the gate. A turbulent feeling—as though funeral rites and matrimonial vows had collided—overcame him, and he even regretted that letting Chizuko leave then might have preserved the ceremony’s solemn calm. Yet even if her parents still withheld consent for their marriage, should Chizuko alone retain her unwavering resolve to wed him now, his heart stirred fiercely with the desire to have her secretly gather his father’s bones—if nothing else.

Once the funeral service ended, there was no time to linger—the hearse arrived without a moment’s respite.

“Come on now—I need to hammer the coffin shut.”

The young funeral worker urged the family members, saying, Beside her father's smiling face amidst the flowers filling the coffin, Sachiko clung as she wept. Mother also cried. The young man shut the white-wood lid as if driving away peering faces, then hammered nails into it with a mallet. Before long, as he gazed at the sunlight shining upon the coffin being carried from the entrance toward the gate, Yashiro thought that this abruptness of departure now belonged to no one.

“Well, we must now go to the crematorium.” “That’s all for today—” Though Yashiro had wanted to ask Chizuko to collect his father’s bones, he ultimately couldn’t bring himself to say it. When getting into the car, he apologized to Shiono and Chizuko for making them wait. “How sudden.” “Was your father ill?” Shiono asked. “No—it was the day after I parted with you at the marquis’s residence.” “A cerebral hemorrhage.” “The doctors say this snow was to blame, but—”

Gazing down at the snow still lingering in the shaded parts of the road, Yashiro—no, it wasn’t just the snow—could not help but believe that his own uncharacteristic act of pleasing his father had been the primary cause that led to this death.

That too stemmed from an unexpected joy of his own that had occurred on the night he attended Shiono's gathering and been conveyed to his father. Moreover, the one who had first invited Yashiro to Shiono's gathering was none other than Chizuko. "If we wouldn't be intruding, we'd like to help collect the bones—is the car available?" Whether Shiono had sensed Chizuko's feelings or whether she had already mentioned it to him, Yashiro couldn't discern, but Shiono's thoughtful suggestion was more welcome to him now than anything else—he couldn't prevent it from showing on his face.

“But that’s truly unfortunate.” “Could you arrange the automobile seats for a moment?” Yashiro lightly bowed to Shiono as a token of gratitude, then said, “Please, feel free to sit wherever you like,” and led the two of them as he approached the automobile. With his mother and sister no longer remaining at home, Yashiro could not afford to concern himself with the relatives either; choosing from his position as chief mourner to have the two ride in the automobile, this came to seem to him the most important fact he should report to his father today.

“But will those behind us have room?” “For us to be sitting here like this...” Chizuko spoke hesitantly while gazing at the ornate decorations of the motionless hearse. Kawana—the young committee chairman—finished directing relatives to their assigned cars before finally boarding Yashiro’s vehicle. Upon encountering these two unexpected guests, he offered a perfunctory nod with a faintly suspicious expression and kept silent. “Thanks to you, everything’s been settled,” Yashiro thanked the chairman.

“Well, given how sudden it was, there were various oversights. Please excuse any discourtesies,” Kawana replied with a subdued smile, adjusting his hair’s shape in the window glass reflection. With the hearse at the lead, three cars soon followed in procession. Even en route, obstructions caused the vehicles to separate and vanish from sight intermittently. When Yashiro spotted his father’s coffin again amid the bustling streets, he felt relieved ease as if his father still lingered in this world—even now finding joy in their brief time together when his father had remained safely in the city.

At the crematorium stood several identical hearses. Clustered haphazardly like strays rounded up from the city streets, they occupied a conspicuously empty space where no human figures lingered. Beneath the glorious blossoms of an ancient red plum tree—its flowering branches arching triumphantly overhead—Yashiro’s father’s coffin joined this congregation of caskets that seemed to whisper clandestine secrets amongst themselves. Yashiro’s group retreated to their assigned teahouse to rest. Here at journey’s end, with no further urgency pressing upon them, they sipped tea in unburdened calm while conversations unfolded with serene simplicity. Wanting his companions to relax without sinking into solemnity, Yashiro deliberately steered their talk toward inconsequential matters.

“In the past, I used to think people often lived in places like this,” he said, “but now that I’ve had direct business here myself, I’ve come to realize it’s quite a decent place after all.” “How mercenary we are.” As Yashiro said this to Shiono beside him, everyone burst out laughing in unison.

“Since they burn everything here, there’s truly no place cleaner than this,” Committee Chairman Kawana added, surveying the surroundings with an air of solemn contemplation. This slightly elevated room shone as brightly as a sunroom, and Yashiro—exhausted from successive sleepless nights—naturally began to feel drowsy. Listening to the drip of melting snow from the eaves while gazing at clusters of red plum blossoms gathered around the golden hearse below, he felt he was witnessing an unapproachable beauty from another world in that solitary corner. For a time, he forgot his father’s death and sat entranced, drifting vacantly in blank reverie.

Chizuko had remained silent from the start, sitting primly in her seat beside Shiono. Yashiro had not yet introduced them to the relatives because he wanted to avoid fueling further confused speculation among the group—who seemed to assume Chizuko was Shiono’s wife—but within this gathering centered around his father’s death, they alone were outsiders with no blood ties. Even if their shallow grief was unavoidable, when he considered how they endured the long rest without even feigning enjoyment, Yashiro—through his dulled fatigue as chief mourner—finally began to pity them. And,

“I’m truly sorry about today.” He suddenly expressed his belated apology to Chizuko. “Oh no, I’m the one who—” When Chizuko glanced at him briefly and spoke softly with a downcast demeanor, he felt a definite joy—interpreting her words as an effort to share his grief—and for a moment, the thought of the still-unopened letter hidden in his pocket flickered through his mind.

When the notice came that the cremation was ready, the group left the teahouse. The evergreen leaves around the crematorium stood out with unusually vivid color there. The emptied hearse, having unloaded the coffin, crushed ice lying in the shade and departed. Then new ones came in behind it, and from among several identical coffins, when Yashiro identified his father’s and stood before it, the weight from when he had carried it suddenly reflected back from the desolate white square before his eyes—his chest tightened painfully as though being dragged down by a heavy thud. Without a sound, the iron double doors of the furnace swung open sideways, and his father’s coffin was crammed into the narrow opening as it was. When the door snapped shut and locked with a clang, like a cannon loaded to fire high into the heavens,

“Whose key is this?” “This key.”

The crematorium worker held up the key to everyone and asked. Then, after handing the key to Yashiro who had extended his hand, he immediately went around to the back to start the fire. Here again, everything that moved beneath the surface reached the height of monotony.

The group scattered into the square once more, wandering off in their own directions to regain composure. It seemed each person was both recalling sorrows once known and suddenly savoring their own lives anew—and Yashiro too found himself gazing at the boxwood's green leaves. The softness of small new buds emerging from tiny, hard leaves held his gaze unwaveringly with their beauty. “How old was your father?”

After a while, Chizuko came to his side and asked. “Seventy-one,” he answered. “Oh, I see. Today, after having the honor of seeing his photograph, I couldn’t help thinking I should have met him sooner.” “I also thought I did something regrettable. I had wanted you to meet my father at least once—oh yes, thank you for the letter today. I’ve been too busy and haven’t had the chance to read it yet,” Yashiro said, looking away from the boxwood buds and turning his gaze to Chizuko.

“I was worried that giving it to you at a time like this might have been inappropriate.” “Would you please not read that anymore and just tear it up?” Having plucked a boxwood leaf and placed it on her palm, Chizuko shifted her weight uneasily from side to side, and Yashiro found himself smiling faintly as he watched her.

“Why is that?”

"But it just feels strange. To have written such things when you're grieving..." He still didn't understand what she meant, but amid the grief that might have dragged him into unfathomable depths that day, he thought it was Chizuko's letter—uncontested—that had suddenly propped him up. Even if he sensed this grief would eventually plummet again from that point, for now the letter still held the power to sustain him.

Before long, smoke began to rise from the chimney on the crematorium’s roof. Yashiro’s body also felt hot, as if fire had been lit inside him.

“I just can’t believe Father is dead.” “He’s still so warm.” When he recalled how Sachiko had said this and resisted putting Father into the coffin with that stiff defiance, Yashiro thought it was just as well his sister hadn’t been shown the smoke now rising.

The smoke gradually grew thicker. Then from the long seam of the double doors on the furnace beside Yashiro’s father, smoke seeped out vertically, crept along the ceiling, and began scattering toward the square. As we watched, it transformed into a ferocious surge of black smoke that appeared like a figure tormented by rage and madness, then billowed out in every direction with relentless, terrifying blackness. The smoke that had blown into the evergreen trees surrounding the building seeped upward even through gaps in the layered leaves and kept ceaselessly trembling the small branches.

“That door’s broken, isn’t it,” someone said absently. Rather than such a settled matter, what everyone was thinking about were other delicate things, so no one had an answer to give now.

White plum blossoms mingled among the evergreen trees seemed to exhale smoke from their calyxes as though gasping for breath.

Even the crematorium workers made no move to repair the door’s seams, leaving it abandoned as it was, but before long, having seemingly expelled all it could, the smoke too ceased its billowing. After that, the group was next directed to the building’s furnace. The furnace workers, having just placed the bones into the urn after the furnace had raged with smoke, still felt their faces hot from the lingering warmth of the embers. Then, an iron plate resembling an operating table was pulled out, and upon it lay his father’s bones arranged like glowing embers harboring a faint dawn hue within. The beauty of those final transparent flames burning out was so striking that he nearly reached out to touch them with his hand, but in an instant they transformed into plain white bones devoid of embers. It was truly a rapid transformation of the flames.

“Please go ahead.” Yashiro bowed to everyone, then used bamboo chopsticks to first pick up the Adam’s apple bone and place it into the urn. Next, as they each took one or two moderate pickings in turn, he was able to discreetly pass his own chopsticks to Chizuko during that interval. Chizuko bowed to the bones, pulled up her sleeve with one hand, and with tense eyes picked up the chest bone. From the tip of the long bamboo chopsticks where a slight trembling was visible, Yashiro heard the dry clatter of bones falling into the urn—and for the first time thought that through this act, only his father had granted permission for their marriage.

After placing the urn into the plain wood box, the group returned by car in the same seats as when they had come.

Dusk was approaching, and the western sky had flared up in a brilliant crimson. In that brightness, the cloth wrapped around the bone box seared into his eyes with a vividness like that of a large wound. He felt the bone box resting on his lap press against his chest with the car's speed, and as he thought of his father now reduced to this altered lightness, he felt himself changing moment by moment, bleached by the whiteness of the cloth.

That was a sharp, unstable, hollow pressure, resembling the chill of stepping on thin ice.

“Even if something is called sudden—even if it comes suddenly—it still isn’t really like that, huh.” Yashiro blurted out, but realizing this made no sense, he immediately closed his mouth and looked up at the sky.

“Hmm.” “Something comes to mind.”

Shiono asked. “There is.” He had nearly started to say, “It might be my fault Father died,” but enduring it, he remained silent. Then he recalled that night after Father’s death when he was alone with Mother—her happy expression as she murmured, “Father died content. He was so pleased”—and suddenly feeling a stumbling pain in his chest, he involuntarily gripped the urn tightly with both hands. While straining to feel Chizuko’s warmth against his arm beside him, even as he tried to convince himself that Father had granted them permission, his sadness only deepened alongside the hues of dusk. With the car’s accelerating jolts, his loneliness seemed to leave Chizuko behind as he alone plunged further and further ahead.

“But your coming today was truly a blessing.” “It saved me.”

After a while, Yashiro suddenly spoke again to the two of them. That what supported the urn of his father’s bones pressing against his chest was Chizuko’s letter hidden in his pocket no longer felt like a random jest to him; apart from his sorrow, it had also been a heartfelt word of gratitude that had naturally slipped out. Yet, it was a gratitude that somehow verged on a scream.

After dinner was finished, all the funeral attendees left. When the helpers from the kitchen and others finished cleaning up and withdrew, the house became empty for the first time, turning into a quiet night suited to lamplight. Yashiro felt a wave of exhaustion suddenly wash over him; he slumped his body beside the brazier and lowered his gaze to the tatami's weave. On the night he had returned from abroad too, lying here like this, he had stared at the tatami's weave and felt a melancholy so profound he couldn't tell whether he existed or not—he now recalled this, and his current fatigue resembled that time. But suddenly he thought that the culmination of his journey had become this sudden "death of his father." The culmination was when Father's accumulated worries toward him, transformed into joy in an instant, immediately manifested as this collapse.

Even if he did not want to think of it that way, there was something undeniable that forced him to think so.

“Well, this has finally settled everything.”

Mother came feebly tottering on unsteady knees to Yashiro’s side and murmured. “Mr. Kawana truly did so much for us.” Sachiko too came out from behind her mother and said. Everyone was utterly exhausted, and those were the last words they let out with a sigh of relief. After carefully spreading out the funeral attendee list on her lap with her fingers, Mother pressed it to her forehead.

“I’ll live a long life now and tell Father everything I’ve seen.” “I must live a very long life—” Muttering to herself like this, Mother’s face looked oddly happy even now. Her cheeks, unlike the frailty in her bearing, still retained a soft glow from unwaning excitement.

“That’s right. That’s truly best,” Sachiko said to Mother with a laugh. In their strange serenity—this mother-child pair sporting at fate’s sketched pinnacle—Yashiro now found himself studying their faces anew: a beauty transcending sorrow had crystallized there. Yet he himself remained unyielding; a cold seeping through his marrow kept his head bowed on his arm. Sachiko had been exchanging whispers with Mother about funeral attendees when she turned toward Yashiro mid-conversation.

“Brother, there was someone who said something briefly at the entrance during the funeral service, wasn’t there? Who was that person? The gentleman who came with the young woman.” “That’s a friend from my time in Paris.” Yashiro did not want to be questioned about Shiono and Chizuko, so after giving this brief answer, he stretched out flat on his back. “That lady is beautiful. But there was something odd about her obi clasp.” “What kind of lady?” Mother asked. “Brother, you remember that man who came forward earlier? Wearing a morning coat but with that strikingly Western necktie. The lady who was with him.”

Sachiko said with a gaze sharpened by unspoken implications, but her mother only let escape a frail "Oh..." that seemed to drain away into the air.

“Those two went all the way to the crematorium for me. When they come next time, don’t forget to thank them, will you?” The candlelight before the Buddhist altar suddenly began to sway violently, so Yashiro stood up to trim the wick. Taking the opportunity as he said this—and remembering Chizuko’s letter too—he entered his room. The letter’s contents held nothing particularly noteworthy; after describing what had followed her parting with Yashiro at the Marquis’s soirée, it simply stated she had felt happy enough to write because her mother had been uncharacteristically kind to her that day. Yet when he read the simple phrase “for some reason, Mother has been kind to me today,” he finished it with a pleasant sensation like mist forming over warming water. As a memento, he slipped the letter between the pages of the historical text about Fujiwara no Mototsune that he had read the night before.

"Kanpyō 3, 1st month, 13th day: Fujiwara no Mototsune passes away." The page also listed death anniversaries; under the Gregorian calendar, the season would align precisely with now, and Mototsune’s fell ten days after Father’s memorial date, Yashiro noted. Upon checking the death anniversary of Onshi—Mototsune’s daughter—he found it recorded as Tenryaku 8, 1st month, 4th day. There was no particular meaning to this proximity of memorial dates. Yet when Yashiro realized the ancestor’s name Father had mentioned on his final night unexpectedly matched this Mototsune, he began to feel there was some significance after all.

However, even while doing so, he grew so exhausted that his eyes began to close, and he crawled into the bed that had been left spread out since the other day. And as soon as he fell asleep, he kept seeing dreams of his father as if continuing from when he had been awake. It was a dream where his father, who should have been dead, had half-risen and was looking around; but no matter how many times he tried to lay him down, his father’s figure would half-rise again before he knew it and gaze fixedly at some unknowable direction.

“Father, what’s wrong?” In the dream, he asked his father.

However, his father continued gazing at the same spot with that same calm, expressionless face. He too released his father and tried looking in that direction, but there was nothing to be seen—only utter darkness all around. Before long, he awoke. Even after waking, for some time that serene figure of his father would not leave his eyes. It was his father's most tranquil and beautiful expression, yet it was a face imbued with a dignity different from the one he had worn in life.

In the sky where the clouds had calmed, magnolia buds began to sway, splitting their fuzzy husks. The wind—swift as if bustling with spring preparations and dyeing the sky a soft white—swept past the buds in a haze fragrant like sudden bloom. Tips neatly aligned, all the shoots swayed and rustled together; day by day the sky brightened, and falling rain moistened skin with fresh warmth.

It was around this time that Yashiro received news from Chizuko that Higashino had arrived in Yokohama. A postcard from Shiono also arrived, stating that Higashino was somehow together with Makiko, and that Baron Hirao and his children were also aboard this ship.

On the day the ship arrived, Yashiro set out for Yokohama from noon. He had expected that those he met at Marquis Tanabe’s residence would each be going out that day too—anticipating another bustling day with a late return—but welcoming a ship proved different from greeting a train; feeling the fresh charm of sea winds, he had been eager for time to pass since morning. With his father’s death still recent—a period when seclusion had deepened loneliness within him—he thought exposure to sea air and immersion in travel’s transience might restore his vitality. Once his father’s forty-ninth-day memorial passed, he intended to return to his long-abandoned company work; yet recently encouraged by an acquaintance to teach history at a university, he now felt daily growing enthusiasm for work that made staying home unbearable. His father’s sudden death had struck just as Yashiro gained momentum—having submitted part of his essay “The Interaction Between Kentōshi Envoys and Modern Japanese Spirit” to his alma mater’s professor, hearing favorable responses. This death rapidly forced Yashiro to confront livelihood questions—even now on the Yokohama-bound train, he pondered balancing company work with teaching history. His architectural firm being his uncle’s meant receiving salary even during leave; while managing colleague relations made the job bearable, this very security bred self-reproach that hampered his performance.

When he arrived at Yokohama’s pier, Shiono was already at a window-side table in the harborside restaurant, eating while talking with the painter Sasa. Yashiro tapped Shiono on the shoulder from behind, expressed his gratitude for attending the funeral, and then sat down beside him.

“The view here is quite nice.” “It’s nice, isn’t it? That’s why I came early. The ship arrives at two, I hear. That’s the one over there—apparently it’s been anchored since last night due to an outbreak.” When Yashiro looked where Shiono pointed beyond the iron wall of moored vessels, a giant ship loomed a level higher, its white superstructure rising above the rest. Hundreds of seagulls flew nimbly between cranes and steel plates. The clear sky tinged the waves blue, and the reflected brightness brought a natural smile to his lips. The restaurant’s sea-jutting position evoked memories of days in shipboard dining rooms, and even now Yashiro found himself endlessly recalling landscapes he’d thought forgotten.

“Waiting here for two or three hours would be a pleasure.” “You must have all sorts of things to recall.”

“I can’t stand it anymore… It’s been this way for some time.”

The painter Sasa was also silent. From where the continuous waves spread out toward their farthest reaches, Yashiro too remained silent for a while, overcome by a melancholy that washed over him like water rinsing his skin.

“What is this strange sort of loneliness, I wonder?”

While staring at the multiplying small boats—the more he looked, the more they seemed to increase—Yashiro spoke. As Sasa shifted and laughed, sunlight fell on his sharp profile, and he could only follow with his gaze the white streaks traced by seagulls. Ships rounding the pencil-like red lighthouse at the cape’s tip to enter port; small steamers dashing sharply with glinting bow fittings; foreign vessels lined up with ash-gray hulls; oars deftly maneuvering between buoys; loading and unloading—the maritime scenery reflected in both window panes closely resembled every harbor along sea routes Yashiro had ever traversed.

"So none of you have your fathers anymore either." Yashiro felt his father's death through the sea that had severed itself from the world, suddenly recalling Shiono and Sasa's personal circumstances. He thought that had he beheld this very view when his father was alive, his emotional response might have differed slightly from what he felt now. "Yeah, so you've finally joined our group," Shiono said with a laugh.

“I can’t help but feel like things are a bit different from usual.” Yashiro gazed once more at the surrounding scenery. When his father was alive, there had been a long cord extending from behind him—a view he had carelessly observed while unknowingly drawing nourishment from that cord. Now that it had been abruptly severed, he began to feel an urgent, raw sadness toward these things becoming independent—the port buildings before his eyes, the ships, the houses lining the undulating streets—as if trees were spreading their roots directly into him. It was also a quiet courage, but even in the ceaselessly surging waves’ glimmer, he could feel each crisp breath resonating through them, pressing against and permeating his very skin.

“Last night, my uncle urged me to get married, and I’m wondering what to do.” “Separately, I’ve been coordinating with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to publish an overseas photography magazine edition, so I’ve been wavering since last night over whether to prioritize that first before marrying.” “What should I do?” Shiono asked Yashiro in a suddenly abrupt tone. Yashiro thought that life’s hardships were assailing this man too.

“But does it really matter which comes first? As long as your uncle is here.” “Yet I can’t keep taking money from him forever.” “Even so—” “Hmm... But if I do marry—I mean, I can’t shake this feeling war with China might break out. Don’t you think it will?”

Yashiro recalled that Shiono, due to his connection with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs while in Paris, had since been more sensitive than anyone regarding war. "I don't know about that, but even if a war does break out, marriage is a separate matter altogether. You shouldn't mix in other notions when considering this. Especially in the case of marriage—" Yashiro said.

“Is that so? Shouldn’t marriage require particular consideration in such cases? Don’t you think so, Sasa?” Shiono turned to the silent painter with a smile implying he too must be facing this dilemma now. “For me now—it’s primarily about living expenses,” said Sasa, squinting at the glittering waves. “I can’t paint at all anymore, so my position is harder than yours.” “But marriage is an eternal matter,” Yashiro countered, having considered both Chizuko’s situation and his own as he naturally voiced his opinion. “If you conflate it with unrelated problems, you’ll end up unable to properly consider either.”

“People are all different, aren’t they? However, I still find myself forced to think about it. Since I’m a photographer, if war breaks out, I’ll surely be the very first to board a plane—before anyone else. Then I’ll have to take my leave first. It’s more urgent for me than for you all.” “Since Japan has long embraced both tradition and innovation, well—if possible, I’ll get married too.” Yashiro had said this to dispel Shiono’s unnecessary hesitation about marriage. However, it seemed to resonate differently with Shiono. Appearing as a youth indifferent to women, he formed crinkles resembling shrimp between his eyes—revealing overt sarcasm—then suddenly,

“Well, how about yours?” Shiono peered into Yashiro’s face and laughed. For some time now, Yashiro had found that among Shiono’s expressions, it was this kind of smile—the one that severed one’s expectations and glided past—that left him feeling most unsettled.

“Mine is like a winter fan in summer—utterly useless,” “It’s rather vexing.” “But Usami speaks highly of you.” “Only that mother has peculiar notions—you see, being an adopted daughter herself, she’s obstinate. Once she latches onto an idea, everything else fades from her mind.” “In that respect, I do sympathize.”

Shiono had never once spoken about Usami before. Sensing the unspoken implications when he finally broached the subject, Yashiro suddenly wanted to discern the true nature of what had been thrust upon him and silently met his gaze. "When it comes to the Usami family, I don’t truly understand it well myself—there’s no way to learn about it except through you." Yashiro averted his eyes from Shiono toward the lighthouse and replied despondently. Yet in truth, he realized he had neither pursued investigations into Chizuko’s family matters nor ever felt compelled to do so. While part of this was negligence, it was also because he believed ignorance might yield better outcomes. Had he ever considered marrying anyone other than Chizuko, investigating and comparing families would have become necessary—but lacking such intentions, remaining uninformed proved more convenient. Even when curiosity arose, he preferred shutting his ears—a principle he applied equally to his own affairs.

“That Ms. Chizuko, you see—being the youngest child—has been doted on too much by both parents and siblings.” “What usually gets overlooked smoothly becomes all the more jagged when marriage comes into play.” “I’ve heard the Marquise is acting as mediator or something—that mother of hers does relish such arrangements.” “From where I stand, your silence makes perfect sense—but others won’t grasp it.”

When Yashiro considered how even Shiono—who had consistently pretended not to notice matters between him and Chizuko—had nevertheless maintained an affectation of aloofness regarding this particular issue, he found himself contemplating the depth of friendship between Shiono and Chizuko’s brother Yuki. He realized he was pondering the profundity of that friendship directed toward Yuki more than any such feeling extended to himself.

“I suppose everyone will be arriving shortly.”

Yashiro would divert the conversation and glance at his watch whenever the topic turned to Chizuko. By the time the welcoming crowd on the platform had begun to bustle, people familiar to Yashiro—such as the diplomat Hayami and the musician Asobe—also began to trickle in. Yuki and Chizuko arrived not long after that. When Yuki spotted Yashiro, this time he wrapped his usual carefree demeanor in earnestness and expressed his condolences.

“But I suppose it’s about time for you to depart as well,” Yashiro inquired about Yuki’s preparations for his trip abroad. “The horse chestnut trees have already begun to bud.”

Yuki removed the pipe from his mouth and gazed quietly out to sea, maintaining a faint smile as he remained silent for some time.

The allure of blooming horse chestnut trees—a fragrance that momentarily seemed to grant wings to youth—brushed past. It was the scent of spring, pressing against his chest with a sweetness so intense it stole his breath. "Usami, stop talking about leaving," Shiono said, his face twisting with excitement he could no longer contain.

“That seagull creature really does put on quite the alluring display. What do you think of the supple way it takes flight?” Yuki murmured as if discussing someone else’s affair, jutting out his chin in solitary delight. Then suddenly, pointing with his pipe at the anchored line of giant vessels, he added, “Is that the Baron’s ship?”

Chizuko pulled up a chair beside Yashiro, drew her slender knees together, and while removing her gloves, asked in a soft whisper, “Aren’t you tired?” To her hushed voice and eyes that seemed increasingly familiar, Yashiro offered brief thanks for her presence at the funeral. But suddenly—how had he spent all that time walking through Europe with this Chizuko without incident?—the thought struck him with such sudden, incomprehensible force that he found himself staring fixedly at her knees in astonishment. That this feeling should assail him now only intensified his awareness of the fervor possessing him, and with dazed bewilderment, he turned his gaze back to the sea.

“Have you booked a hotel? You’re not planning to return straight to Tokyo, are you?” Asobe asked Yuki.

Baron Hirao’s situation was unclear since he had his children with him, but the general consensus held that for those returning from long trips abroad, an immediate homecoming would prove impractical—they would likely stay at the New Grand tonight. On the corridor, the welcoming crowd swelled steadily. When the faces of Marquis Tanabe and his wife finally appeared among them, the impatience of waiting for the ship dissolved around Yuki’s group. Gathering by the corridor’s railing while facing seaward, their perennial witty banter began to flow.

“Do you know why Mr. Higashino and Ms. Makiko decided to return together? It seems clear enough, but I can’t make sense of it—there was nothing about it in the letter,” Yashiro asked Chizuko beside him. “It wasn’t written there. There are so many things I want to tell you, but I don’t have the courage to write them now. It only says my journey was a tragedy.” A yellow butterfly that had darted up from below fluttered between the corridor pillars, its presence vividly brightening the sea’s color under the spring sun. Gazing down at the diminutive sailing ship unfurling its sails beneath the railing, Yashiro became aware for the first time of the corridor’s unexpected height.

“But even calling it a tragedy, pairing her with Mr. Higashino feels somewhat—unexpected.” “There must be some reason behind it.” “Though when returning home, one doesn’t seek out traveling companions.” “That may be conceivable, but that Ms. Makiko is dangerous.” “Truly dangerous.” “I once learned my lesson through an opera incident.”

For Yashiro, it was imaginable that Baron Hirao and Higashino would return together, but the fact that Makiko had parted with Kuji and was on the same ship alone with Higashino was one of those things that remained difficult to accept. Of course, even without relying on direct letters from Kuji and Makiko themselves, Yashiro had come to understand through the news that reached Chizuko that discord had arisen between them. However, that this outcome had become the circumstances for Higashino and Makiko to return together was felt tinged with unsettling imaginings. It was a Western journey that shattered all the tools and customs one carried upon departing Japan, even transforming people’s very characters—yet even so, though Higashino’s surface may have appeared reckless, one could imagine that his underlying, unwavering prudence remained unchanged—but as for what kind of change there had been in that very prudence, this alone lay beyond anyone’s imagination. Makiko’s circumstances were especially deserving of sympathy in many ways. However, in any case, even if one tentatively included such matters in their imaginings and tried to infer from life abroad, the life that person led in Japan could not be understood. Moreover, this was not limited to her alone; indeed, Yashiro had likewise abandoned any attempt to understand the lives that Kuji and Higashino—once so close to him—led back in Japan. This was in part attributable to lingering Western illusions that had yet to fade, but more fundamentally, it was a traveler’s trait—something akin to wanderlust—shared by many others who found themselves perpetually haunted by a vague, all-encompassing notion that rendered any personal interest in individuals utterly insignificant. Plunged abruptly into the abstract world of the West—a realm utterly different in circumstance—they were struck by the sudden disarray of travel. Beset by indecision as the grounds for criticism shifted, they became afflicted with the malady of self-loss that naturally arises from such conditions, until even the torment of self-contempt transformed into resignation. Among the many who returned to their homeland as cripples unthinkable in Japan, Higashino was one who had not yet lost the spirit of an Oriental. In truth, the Western journey could be described as a continuous series of difficult derangements for Orientals, Yashiro thought, leaning against the ship’s railing and the mooring rope coiled around it. And as he looked over the group—Yuki, Shiono, and the others—he thought that these people too were a flock each suffering from some deep-seated ailment, but he doubted whether they could rid themselves of those afflictions while still alive.

“I heard there was a woman who suddenly threw herself into the sea and killed herself when the ship reached the lighthouse at this port—I’d heard about it from the chief officer around Colombo when I was going abroad. At the time, I couldn’t really grasp her feelings, but now that I’ve returned, somehow I’ve come to understand.”

Yashiro, seeming to find something that resonated with Makiko’s current circumstances, said to Chizuko.

“Over there, well―”

Chizuko also continued to gaze at the space between Makiko’s ship and the lighthouse.

"When the ship came through there, I felt all fluttery and happy—but I suppose there are those who feel the opposite way, aren’t there?" "Then perhaps that’s indeed how it might be." "It was when I crossed from Siberia into Manchuria." "I felt an excitement I’ll never forget." "I thought I’d become pure and innocent for the first time in my life, but—" Even as he spoke these words, Yashiro grew pained by how his own reason for not greeting Chizuko’s ship when it had entered this port now struck him as some self-serving trifle of a calculation.

And then, suddenly twisting his body toward Sasa, the painter seated to his right, he asked:

“What about you? I’ve come to think that traveling abroad is like walking around to detect what impurities or underlying ailments lie within oneself—or rather, how should I put it… It’s as if I’m illuminating every corner of myself, like undergoing an X-ray examination to detect my own flaws.” “That’s just something like a stone, y’know,” said Sasa, his usual sharp eyes permitting only a faint smile to surface.

“And a foreign stone at that.”

“I’ve been painting nothing but lotus since returning.” Sasa suddenly fell silent and pointed seaward.

The ship carrying Higashino and the others, which had been anchored offshore, began moving gradually toward them. As it was the largest vessel in the harbor, the small boats obstructing the channel fled and cleared a path. The bow emerging through them at an unhurried pace possessed a majesty worthy of commanding the crowd's full attention; its black hull bearing immaculate white decks resembled an approaching treasure ship with billowing sails, imparting a quiet expectation of beauty to all who watched.

The crowd overflowing the corridor erupted in commotion, with people waving hats and fluttering handkerchiefs. At first, the faces of passengers lining the deck merely appeared as a black streak, but as the ship drew closer—looming like a colossal structure—it dimmed the surrounding sky, calmed the waves, and steadily brought its magnificent long hull near. The briny scent, as if dripping from iron plates, drifted all the way to the corridor. The small boats that had scattered in retreat now hurriedly drew near again, some already beginning preparations to unload cargo. Those still searching for faces among the deck passengers and those who had found their targets once again flushed crimson and waved their hats wildly. As murmurs swelled from every direction, the ship—having far surpassed the corridor's height—came to an abrupt halt. Amidst the bustle of casting ropes and setting gangways, the welcoming group's enthusiastic clamor grew even more fervent; in contrast, the ship's passengers appeared strangely cold and quiet—a characteristic feature of this port on that day as well.

“There they are! Hey!” Shiono was first to spot Baron Hirao’s figure on the deck and called out. Though appearing close, the distance remained considerable—Shiono’s voice couldn’t reach the ship through the surrounding clamor. Even standing among foreigners, the Baron’s imposing stature dwarfed them as he raised one hand in a leisurely, magnanimous gesture, still seemingly unable to locate the group. Beside him, the perpetually expressionless Higashino parted his lips, his sun-tanned face turned this way. Makiko’s figure initially remained hidden until a fair-skinned woman with high-pinned bangs appeared—her hand resting on Higashino’s shoulder—peering out suddenly from beside the Baron. That was Makiko.

The ship disgorged water from its hull seeped with damp rust, as though finally concluding its long voyage. Around the ladder bridging ship and corridor, an emotion so palpable it seemed to carry a scent spread through the air while a flurry of hurried comings and goings persisted. White teeth flickered in and out of view without cease. Yet the interval between the ship’s halt and the passengers’ disembarkation proved a tedious, drawn-out affair.

“I should have come to meet you when you returned like this. Damn it.” Yashiro said to Chizuko. And then he waved his hat again toward Higashino and Makiko. Chizuko too remained silent and simply waved her handkerchief in response, but soon—pressed by the crowd frantically pushing forward from behind to make themselves known to those aboard—she found herself gradually forced closer to Yashiro. Yet this became an unexpected happiness for them both. Rather, it seemed Chizuko had seized this moment through the crowd’s momentum—as if reclaiming here and now the unsatisfying absence of Yashiro from her own homecoming when she had first arrived at this port by ship—and transformed it into a profound instant where not only she but Yashiro too lingered in a shared fantasy that refused to fade. No longer shy or hesitant, like two reunited under lamplight on some sanctioned day, they burned brighter through this delirious happiness that warmed them both. Even memories of briny scents from other ports now bloomed between them like flowers in season. Yet Yashiro realized how both imagining that this moment—their first meeting at this pier after parting in Paris to take separate eastern and western routes home—should have been exactly like this had in truth arrived just slightly too late.

“I have something I’d like to ask you—I’ve been asked to.”

Chizuko said as if she had remembered something forgotten, but immediately turned her face away—now drawn too close—and flushed crimson. "What is it?"

“But I’ll ask about that later.” Chizuko continued waving her handkerchief toward the ship—perhaps because disembarkation orders had been issued—as passengers on deck began turning their backs and scattering. When travelers descended the gangway, clusters of welcomers formed across the platform. Many offered handshakes with newly acquired formality, while others hovered shyly at a distance or lobbed sudden jokes through the crowd. Among them, Makiko swiftly approached Chizuko and clasped her hand. Yet Higashino bypassed such courtesies—he seized Yashiro’s shoulders in both hands, delivered one resounding backslap with a booming laugh, then pivoted squarely toward Chizuko.

“Did you still remember me?” Higashino lightly teased.

Baron Hirao hunched his back—his stately frame now showing traces of fatigue—and stood chatting with Marquis Tanabe, an unlit cigarette clamped between his gentle lips, while occasionally gazing at the ship he had disembarked from as though reluctant to part with it. Here and there, introductions of strangers and greetings seemed to have settled for a time, reaching an appropriate lull when,

“Well, we’re not getting anywhere just standing here like this. Let’s just head to the hotel for now.”

With that, Yuki took the lead and started walking ahead of everyone. The crowd’s vortex collapsed, and they began descending the stairs in his wake, but even then, everyone most wanted to hear new, unreported stories about the Spanish Civil War from the returnees. Baron Hirao was recounting, as he was asked, such matters as the influx of weapons into various countries gleaned from British newspapers and rumors, and the Spaniards’ own horrific situation of brothers divided between upstairs and downstairs exchanging gunfire.

“In any case, that’s the beginning of a world war.” “The war has already begun.” “It’s not a fire on the other side of the river.”

It was Higashino who interjected from the side with this remark. And then, he continued his subsequent words in a forceful tone. “Europe has already struck bottom.” “This time—mark my words—the Orient’s tsunami comes at last.” “We haven’t time to be wandering about.”

Even though they understood these were words still charged with excitement, the group fell completely silent, unable to pick up where Higashino had left off, and boarded the taxis below in a kind of uncanny shock.

“What happened to Kuji? Is he safe?” Yashiro asked after sitting next to Higashino in the car. “Oh, that one’s still such a child—he was wandering around Paris.” Perhaps interpreting “wandering” as some trivial childish errand, Shiono suddenly burst into an amused laugh. Higashino began to look slightly troubled but quickly added: “But when I think there are people who can love France as much as he does, I grow envious of France. I’d hoped they might love Japan even a third as much,” he said, “but love—this thing—is utterly beyond control. If such qualities exist in France too, then perhaps France might come to love Japan a little—that’s what I’ve been reconsidering lately.” “—It’s true,” he continued. “Just think how much we Japanese must thank the Greeks for Lafcadio Hearn having been in Japan.” Then, noticing the hue of sprouting buds on the Shinokake street trees,

“It’s nice—I’ve returned when the buds are sprouting. “No—I will pour my all into loyalty. “Loyalty and devotion—there can be nothing else for us. “This is a profoundly rich thing, I tell you. “However, the tendency for people to mistake this and make them think it’s something petty is precisely what we must guard against most. “In any case, that petty Japanese spirit alone is the most intense un-Japanese spirit there is.” Even after saying this, Higashino seemed compelled to keep talking without pause, as if possessed, continuing his ceaseless monologue alone in the car.

“While walking through foreign lands, I kept contemplating this notion of the Japanese spirit through and through—in the end, I concluded that the Japanese spirit means forgiving others.” “It does get angry when anger is justified, mind you—but then, how to put it—once the anger passes, that magnanimous power surges forth, a spirit that instantly washes away the rage.” “That is the Japanese spirit!” “That is the elegant radiance we call Yamato-gokoro.” “Without it, Japan would be darkness.” “Better to perish.” “Young men—stand up for this beauty!” “That alone will make your spiritual world beautiful.” “Where in any of this do you find falsehood?”

With that, Higashino said, tears welling in his eyes, and slammed Yashiro’s knee. From his struck knee, Yashiro felt as though hearing anew—from him—the pure call of heart he had sensed when crossing Manchuria’s border,

“I will, I will,” he answered, straightening his back. And he felt ashamed of himself for having entertained such unsavory imaginings about Makiko and Higashino on the pier’s promenade. Moreover, even had such things occurred, his present emotion now compelled him to consider asking Higashino to serve as go-between when he and Chizuko married—so thoroughly that he could conceive of no other suitable candidate. “After I returned, I heard you gave a lecture in Paris.” “Someone mentioned it... Ah yes—it was you, wasn’t it?” Yashiro asked Shiono beside him.

“A lecture? That was the day I broke into the most mortifying cold sweat of my life—truly a once-in-a-lifetime humiliation,” Shiono said. “That day made me realize how shame-filled living truly is. Yet paradoxically, it was also when I first came to admire the French—though—” After this utterance, Higashino fell silent again for reasons unclear. Yashiro attempted to ask what exactly Higashino had admired, but by then the car had already pulled up before the New Grand. Higashino alighted first, glanced briefly toward Yamashita Park ahead, then strode briskly past the hotel into the seaside park without entering. Yashiro followed close behind him.

“Before going abroad, I often used to sit on this bench here, gazing at the sea beyond while indulging in childlike daydreams. This time, I thought I’d try sitting on that same bench again to see what it would be like.”

Higashino passed by the fountain while saying this, circled around the young grass that had sprouted buds, chose one of the benches closer to the coast, and sat down.

“Here it is.” “I’m not the same man I once was, you know.” “What profound gratitude I feel!”

Higashino looked out at the sea, hands clasped behind his head as he leaned back, and spoke. Though his profile showed faint wrinkles around the eyes that made him appear somewhat aged, the light deep within them still held a youthful vigor untouched by weariness. With the garden's trees standing sparse in the distance, the fierce sunlight beat down on his forehead while below them an unmanned survey ship rocked on the waves. Beyond it, a sailing ship pregnant with sunlight fought against the wind, its hull trailing long ribbons of white foam. "You know, I feel remarkably well right now," he said. "So untainted it almost feels exhilarating—if only this could last forever. How about you?" Higashino suddenly leaned forward, peering into Yashiro's eyes as he asked.

“I felt the same way, ah.” “But once you recognize such an experience has occurred, I’ve realized this becomes profoundly important.” “Even now, I still hold dear the emotion I felt when crossing the border—this conviction I consider my own key.” “That must be so.” “If you were to doubt that—” Higashino fell silent for a while.

“But there are truly many who doubt that key.” “That uncultured plague—making people mistake such things for intellect and stripping them of all they have—is spreading through the entire world!” “I don’t know whose doing it is, but once this scourge takes hold, we’ll be marched straight into war any moment now.” “The whole world’s been festering with rot.”

The two of them had fallen silent. Around the ship Higashino had arrived on, visible in the distance, the unloading still continued and appeared busy. The two soon returned to the hotel, but Higashino explained that since he had already sent a telegram to his wife and children at his family home stating no one needed to meet him, he would have to go there tomorrow.

In the lobby of the New Grand，the group members were all gathered and waiting for the two to arrive. When the two came into view，white wine was poured into each glass，and everyone celebrated Higashino and the others’ safe return to Japan. Afterward，while the entire group was wholly occupied with stories of their respective memorable places，there were also many instances where they whispered questions and answers in hushed tones. Yuki’s presence was constantly enriched by those topics，but Makiko alone—due to her family home being in Yokohama—was frequently called away by phone calls even mid-conversation，and each time，watching Makiko’s face cloud over was a source of concern.

“Aren’t you busy? You should go home.”

Even when Chizuko, unable to bear watching any longer, urged Makiko, Makiko continued handling each phone call with a resolute expression. Yashiro thought this very anxiety—born from wanting to stay away even temporarily from the unbearable troubles that would accumulate if she returned home—was precisely what had always energized her in such situations, a habit persisting since her Paris days. Her family being an old Meiji-era trading house, and though Yashiro knew nothing beyond Hayasaka—her estranged husband remaining in Vienna—being an adopted son along with Makiko herself being adopted too, even these facts alone furnished circumstances more than sufficient to comprehend the household’s intricate complexities.

“However, I was rather surprised when I saw Japantown in America.” “Why, that place is no different from Osaka!” “There were public bathhouses with noren curtains, and when I entered a barber shop, they’d abruptly ask, ‘How shall I cut your hair?’—it made me nostalgic.” Baron Hirao suddenly declared this with a laugh, prompting everyone to release sympathetic chuckles. This baron, like Marquis Tanabe, belonged to the daimyō aristocracy; having initially studied sociology in Paris, he had gradually shifted into agricultural economics research and now focused on improving his ancestral domain. Perhaps because the younger of his two daughters had been born in Paris, his wife—a woman of Yamato-e-like grace—calmly observed her children still chattering in French behind their father. The noblewoman’s translucent complexion and sparing words gave her an air of melancholy stillness, but when she occasionally exchanged subdued whispers with the marquise beside her—whose Western-sharp features contrasted starkly—their pairing formed an elegantly balanced tableau.

“Come to think of it, among all the world’s metropolises, I thought Osaka was where people live most joyfully with constant smiles—but that place is truly a realm apart.” When Yashiro said this to Shiono, the group burst into laughter as if they had uncovered some long-concealed truth.

“How was Moscow?” Higashino asked Yashiro. Though nearly all present had lived abroad, not a single person besides Yashiro had actually seen Moscow. “It’s rather difficult to speak of that place,” “Once I casually wondered aloud why Muscovites looked so gloomy—just an idle thought—when someone suddenly shouted from beside me, ‘This one’s a Fascist!’” “In any case, throughout that long Russian journey, I recall not seeing a single smiling face—whether that stems from national character or some other cause remains my question now.” “Though that doubt alone rings true.”

“However, that one cannot even discuss such grave doubts with one’s own countrymen—why, that proves everyone in the world lives in trembling fear,” said Higashino, peering at the sea through the trees from the window. “In any case, what must happen has already happened. And whatever might save us now lies hidden somewhere.” “Smiling Osaka? Our savior?” Yuki interjected without pause, his teasing tone making everyone burst into laughter once more.

Such earnest discussions and casual chatter continued among the group from teatime until just before dinner, yet time passed with astonishing rapidity.

And the group moved from the lobby to the high sixth-floor dining hall and waited for dinner preparations on the balcony overlooking the sea ablaze with the setting sun. Behind the vast, spreading sea that changed color moment by moment, lights began appearing in the harbor as if chasing its transformation. In Yokohama’s twilight hour, the distant offing tilted into lapis lazuli, while ships’ crimson horizontal lines emerged on the water’s surface like necklaces. Yashiro recalled a Parisian dusk—when dining with Kuji in the Latin Quarter, Henriette beside them had suddenly snapped a stalk of pungent celery and sighed, “Ah, I want to go to Yokohama.” That had been the day before Chizuko’s arrival from London, when the two of them had been agonizing over selecting her accommodations—

From the direction of the pier where a dense forest of masts stood visible, a steam whistle sounded. At the balcony railing, Makiko and Chizuko stood slightly apart from the others, whispering something in hushed voices as a faint breeze rustled the hems of their skirts. The sea’s reflection finely illuminated their smiles—their snugly clinging skirts swaying with their movements—in a blazing moment that enveloped the surroundings. Beyond the vacant lot beside them rose the white walls of the abandoned Massageur Company building where Henriette had once stayed with her father.

Yashiro stood receiving the setting sun reflected on the white wall, watching the shadow of the green-painted iron fence bend and twist, when he suddenly became acutely aware of the loneliness inherent in ephemeral things. "Ah, I want to go to Yokohama." He wondered whether even that sigh Henriette had let slip stemmed from her desire to see that transformed abandoned mansion of hers. In her stead, he peered once more into the nest of dreams—still preserved intact within the heart of the teacher who had instructed him in conversation—that now resided within him. As the setting sun shifted position, the vast expanse of seaweed there turned black in an instant. The steam whistle continued sounding as it grazed across the water's surface where lingering afterglow still drifted. And with the fading reverberations of the clock's melody seeping deep into his being, the harbor gradually intensified its illumination.

“There are various things I want to discuss with you, Mr. Yashiro.” “Let’s speak... someday when circumstances have calmed.” Before seating herself at the dining table, Makiko approached Yashiro’s side and spoke in a voice suffused with resignation-like sadness.

“Please do come.” Yashiro had spoken briefly with intent to console Makiko over her unfortunate travels when he realized he had yet once—since returning—to utter such unreserved words toward Chizuko.

By the time the group took their seats at the dining table, outside was completely dark. Just then, a call came from Baron Hisaki—who had returned from Fujisawa—to Higashino, requesting that they wait as he would be arriving shortly. When the meal had progressed halfway, Baron Hirao, seated next to Marquis Tanabe,

“How have things been lately with the busyness in your hometown?” asked Baron Hirao. “Still the same,” Marquis Tanabe responded in a superficially calm voice, but Yashiro understood that given his role as chairman of the prefectural residents’ diverse gatherings, the sheer volume of work—spanning industry, education, manufacturing, political affairs, and more—was no easy matter even when excluding interactions with fellow nobles. At first glance, even what appeared idle must harbor unseen busyness somewhere—and this was true not only of Yashiro these days but of everyone gathered here. The Marquis was particularly devoted to childcare and educational initiatives for the prefectural residents, and when it came to enriching the library’s collection catalog, he seemed not to spare any direct effort. Throughout the nation, the richness of the Marquis’s prefectural library was widely renowned, and the completeness of his childcare initiatives and his promotion of scholarships were equally famous.

“I spoke with Mr. Higashino about various things during the voyage,” said the Baron, leaning toward the Marquis while still holding his knife. “While I of course greatly commend endeavors like yours, Tanabe—enriching libraries and zealously promoting education and childcare—I must say that after advancing my sociological research, I’ve returned convinced that the fundamental approach to developing my home prefecture in a sound direction must first and foremost prioritize municipal festivals and encourage them.” “I believe this should extend to agriculture, art, other production relations, and especially industry. Now, my ideas may seem idealistic compared to your realist approach—but idealism isn’t necessarily unrealistic. In fact, I might even boast that I’m more of a realist than you.” “But setting that aside—even when considered from the perspective of agricultural economics—the success of Japan’s mainland’s intricate, intensive agriculture is fundamentally rooted in village festivals, a fact that no one can dispute. So even when it comes to the oft-discussed large-scale agriculture of overseas territories, I believe we must develop even the science that will naturally intervene in these areas in such a way that festivals are not forgotten. This is how I’ve come to think about it.” “In other words—a science festival.”

The group, who had been wondering what he would say next, found themselves at a loss for words in response to the Baron’s unexpected remarks, their faces betraying a faint hint of disappointment as they smirked and fell silent. Just then, Chizuko alone suddenly seemed to remember something, raised her head, and gazed meaningfully at Yashiro beside her—but when Yuki abruptly said, “I’d like to become a lord,” the group’s uproarious laughter erupted at that moment, and she too fell silent once more. Yashiro could not forget Chizuko’s gaze, and from beneath the continuing laughter that followed, he leaned toward her,

“What is it?” he asked quietly. “When we were waiting for the ship at noon, I said there was something I wanted to ask you, didn’t I? It’s about that matter.”

Even as Chizuko was saying this, the others around them had each begun talking about different things, so fortunately it seemed their conversation would conclude without being overheard. What Chizuko wanted to ask about—indeed, what she had recalled was quite natural—concerned a matter her brother Makizo had asked her to address: the method of cutting heihaku paper offerings that Yashiro had discussed with Makizo during their time at a mountain hot spring in Echigo. This pertained to the aesthetic purity of faith—how ancient Japanese who believed cascading heihaku created through endlessly unspooling cuts in a single white sheet represented the universe’s form still enshrined these paper streamers beneath mirrors at shrines today, venerating them as divine embodiments. For Makizo the mathematician, this aspect appeared central to Yashiro’s discourse; after returning to school, he seemed to have recounted it to his seniors. However, the technique of infinitely cutting downward through one sheet was said to share critical challenges with the continuity problem in Hilbert’s topology—then the foremost issue in set theory within global mathematics circles. Moreover, since this unsolved problem fell under projective geometry—the most innovative field emerging in mathematics—Makizo had requested Chizuko ask Yashiro where he had developed his research methodology for these heihaku. As Chizuko relayed this intricate topic to Yashiro, her words faltering slightly,

“Wait—can’t let you two over there whisper unnoticed. What’s this about?” The Baron—who shouldn’t have been listening—leaned toward Yashiro as he spoke. The diners along both sides of the long table fell silent at once, turning toward Chizuko and Yashiro. Between Makizo’s mathematicians and the returnees from abroad, Yashiro felt the world’s gaze snap toward him. Tension prickled his spine as warmth kindled in his chest.

“Because you began discussing festivals immediately upon returning, I too ended up making various realizations—and now matters have grown rather complicated.” At that moment, Yashiro laughed while saying this to Baron Hirao. “What’s this? What were you discussing just now?” Higashino, who had apparently overheard portions of Chizuko and Yashiro’s whispered exchange earlier, pressed the question. Yet as Yashiro met Higashino’s gaze—those eyes now turned toward him bearing a tranquility and tenderness that made him wonder if a man’s eyes could truly become so beautiful—he continued staring back for a prolonged moment,

“Oh, it’s nothing worth mentioning,” he said with a laugh. “It seemed to be about set theory, but they say Shinto paper offerings resemble set theory—I’d like to ask about that.” And Baron Hirao showed no sign of ceasing his leaning toward the two.

“Ah, that? Well, that’s…” Yuki, who had already heard something of this from his younger brother Makizo, moved his fork alone with an expression that seemed to wish Yashiro would refrain from broaching the topic—one he found difficult to credit.

Yashiro had already lost any interest in speaking about this matter now as it was. The first topic had been too outlandish and not only failed to arouse intellectual interest but also seemed likely to disturb the peace of mind of those gathered there, so even the words that were about to escape his lips were painfully suppressed.

“I don’t really know much about set theory,” said Yashiro. “Well—when I visited an Echigo mountain hot spring with Mr. Yuki’s younger brother once, I happened to mention that method of cutting heihaku streamers I’d read about.” He paused before adding: “Since Makizo specializes in mathematics though—it seems they questioned him professionally about it.” “Exactly,” interjected Yuki through mouthfuls of food. “He analyzed it through his specialist lens.” His brusque tone deliberately stifled further discussion.

“However, if it’s specialized, wouldn’t that make it all the more interesting? Let’s hear that one,” said Baron Hisaki, showing no sign of backing down. Asobe, who had been irritably restless for some time now, kept his lips glistening with grease as he listened to the ship whistles from the harbor and turned toward the foreigners entering the room. However, on that night at the Marquis’s residence when he and Yashiro had fallen into something resembling an argument, Baron Hirao had not been among the group—and thus remained unaware of how bothersome the two could become.

“During my university days, I had a friend who specialized in mathematics—but as he pursued his ascetic practices, he gradually became like a hermit,” said Baron Hirao. “There was a man who grew able to fast effortlessly and see hell or heaven at will. He would often perform purification rituals alone too. According to him, fasting meant nothing at all—it’s when people treat it as some grand endeavor that they fail. He claimed those who thought that way would fall ill or die midway through. But if you simply approach each day’s practice as routine and perform it calmly, it becomes effortless. That gave me many enlightening hints, I must say.”

It was Higashino, more than anyone, who found Baron Hirao's words amusing. "Can one see hell and heaven?" "That's all well and good." "But why can't such people pass it on to others once they're severed like that?" "Wouldn't it be wasteful if there's no continuation?" "In any case, it seems such people inherently possess the disposition—even if unaware themselves—for a halo to suddenly appear behind their heads." "Well, everyone here is rather unqualified, I suppose." "From what I can see, no one here has a halo."

Those around the table laughed while glancing at their own heads. "Perhaps even Shintō paper offerings were cut from blank paper by such people under some inspiration," said Yashiro in a voice now resonating with genuine sincerity. "Otherwise, a single sheet of paper couldn't last so long." "I believe mathematics is precisely like that," he continued. "Its beauty lies in being purposeless and free of self-interest - that very absence of purpose makes it beautiful."

Yashiro said this and dripped lemon juice onto the plate of tiger prawns. However, he realized he had naturally countered Asobe using the same method—the one through which Asobe had dealt him a decisive blow by expounding on Newton’s spiritual alignment with Puritanism during their debate at the Marquis’s residence. Asobe, too, seemed to recognize this immediately; casting a fleeting sneer from above the mimosa flower clusters spilling across the tablecloth, he said: “But such things are mere coincidences—suspect ones at that. Especially when relics from prehistoric antiquity match such refined modern geometry—it’s inconceivable to us.” “Nothing but fantasy—a delusion.”

“Well, we both have our credulities in wanting to think so—but if that’s true, then even Newton is a dream.” “Yet if humans must believe in the beauty of such dreams—like Puritanism aligning with Newton, or Galileo and Descartes aligning with Catholicism—then shouldn’t Japan’s Shintō paper offerings aligning with some mathematical pinnacle be just as valid?” “Shintō paper offerings are mathematics itself.”

Yashiro stared at Asobe’s increasingly derisive expression and, resolved not to accept defeat tonight under any circumstances, felt the fork and knife in his grip harden naturally. “But do you truly believe such things existed in Japan’s ancient past?” Asobe asked, looking directly at Yashiro once more. His face had already taken on an earnest severity, as if angered. Confronted with this version of Asobe, Yashiro suddenly understood that even his opponent’s sincerity was inevitable. It wasn’t just Asobe—for their generation raised on Newtonian dogma, overturning such convictions proved no simple task. Yet the realization that even among their contemporaries—men like Makizo—a vibrant new sensibility had awakened, one capable of finding profundity in Shintō paper offerings, layered fresh emotion upon Yashiro. This revelation struck him as astonishing, and even the white tablecloth before him began radiating a serenity that soothed his heart.

“Well, we’ve arrived at the point where we must think most honestly,” Yashiro said. “Given that you and I, through some twist of fate, have come to this point, let us avoid sentimentality as much as possible and marvel at the new mathematics of ancient civilizations. After all, as long as there exists a beautiful form that will or emotion cannot alter—” “Well then, I’ll have the honor of carrying the Shintō paper offerings someday,” Asobe said calmly, stirring the mayonnaise on his plate.

Though Yashiro had essentially come out on top against Asobe in this moment, he regretted the inadequacy of his own persuasion—a victory won through having clearly provoked anger. Though it pained him to realize he had forced Asobe to end with such an insulting tone, today’s debate still proved better than that night at the Marquis’s residence. The most powerful weapon—supremely convenient for Yashiro to persuade Asobe—had been brought from Makizo by none other than Chizuko herself. Moreover, unlike that night at the Marquis’s residence, Chizuko now revealed delight in how Makizo had been drawn toward the object of Yashiro’s faith, appearing genuinely pleased as if this concerned her personally. The radiance in Chizuko’s expression as she drew nearer to faith alongside him became Yashiro’s own radiance—and this very thing stood as one he had yearned for ceaselessly.

“The greatest benefit I gained from returning with you was studying haiku above all else,” Baron Hirao said to Higashino. “First off, it’s good because it makes one not want to argue anymore. If haiku were spread throughout the world, I thought the world would become unrecognizably beautiful—but you know, Bashō’s philosophy… why, it far surpasses Confucius’s! Being both serene and ever-changing—it somewhat resembles Bergson and also connects to Shintō paper offerings.”

“Yet, there’s hardly a place in the world with as many disputes as the haiku community.” At Higashino’s words, those around the table once again erupted into laughter. Yet this was something that could not be swept away with mirth—it lingered in Yashiro’s heart as a sentiment resonating with matters far weightier than haiku. The Baron, appearing to sense this simultaneously, nodded solemnly to himself and remarked,

“That the fiercest debates dwell within the most tranquil matters—now that’s Japan through and through.”

“That’s because it’s a cherished wish to make logic and psychology blossom at their extremes.” “In other words—it’s purification required for receiving Shintō paper offerings.” “We debate because impurity must not exist.” “But this isn’t limited to our debates—any argument conducted by Japanese people ultimately becomes purification.” “War or peace—if you examine them properly—they’re all equally purification.” “There exists nothing beyond this.” “Evil or good, manzai comedy or ball-balancing acts pushed to their limits—this simply defines us Japanese. Anyway—since even we’ve finally returned beside Shintō paper offerings—we’d naturally want some festival.”

After saying that, Higashino speared the shrimp’s face with his fork and—for some reason—instead of eating it immediately, gazed at it affectionately for a while. “This road—no one walks it; autumn dusk,” Asobe sneered to himself in displeasure. When Higashino was about to say something to Asobe sitting beside him, Baron Hisaki emerged from the elevator and—guided by a bellboy—approached him.

“I called the shipping company, but since they said the arrival would be delayed, I ended up lingering too long in Fujisawa. However, I made an assumption that it was probably here—and indeed, I was right. Well, I’m glad you’re all safe and sound. You’ve all worked hard.”

Baron Hisaki, who appeared more artist than tycoon, greeted Higashino thus before surveying the faces around the dining table. "My, my—everyone has gathered," he said, turning eyes brimming with unguarded affection toward Yashiro. The group's conversation then shifted back to harmonious tones. Having already dined at the Yokohama branch office, Baron Hisaki merely moistened his lips with wine before directing toward the silent women a light yet deft topic meant to invite laughter. As befitted the eldest present, his expression—showing meticulous care for both sides of the table—keenly conveyed the perpetual cares of this wealthy man.

However, from this moment on, Yashiro felt he was no longer his usual self. That was because he had naturally recalled his father’s death—and precisely when he had come to believe that his meeting with Baron Hisaki just before his father’s death had caused it. Moreover, this held no malice toward the Baron—indeed, interpreted as goodwill, it became a quality that only intensified its force—and yet, somehow, with the Baron himself now before his eyes, Yashiro found he was no longer his former self.

“Baron Hisaki, how old are you?” The memory of his father’s joyful eyes when he had asked Yashiro this question, and the humble gesture of tilting the sake bottle toward him—all these things that had been his father’s irreplaceable joy at the time—now reached Yashiro not as joy but as dewdrops of inconsolable sorrow that dripped and gradually spread through his heart. After finishing the meal, they moved to the balcony-side room and changed seats. Yashiro took a chair away from Baron Hisaki and gazed alone at the harbor. From his position, he could see the sharply flickering lighthouse beam through the innocent shoulders of Baron Hirao’s daughters as they chattered in soft French. Their figures somehow evoked Freesia blossoms. As he waited for the revolving light to return, Yashiro recalled first seeing these children in a Parisian restaurant corner shortly after his arrival. The light’s slow rotation suddenly reminded him of the vivid hue that had emerged when his father’s bones turned to fire. Though this sentiment followed his imagining of delicate flower stems, the girls’ figures before his father’s death-light appeared even more beautiful—quivering with vibrant breath.

“Baron Hirao, were your daughters born in Paris?” Baron Hisaki asked this after apparently hearing the natural French spoken by the two young ladies.

“Yes. These daughters here—they’re seeing Japan for the first time today. Instilling everything in them will be quite the ordeal from now on. After all, in Paris there’s this children’s game where they wait for letters from sweethearts—watching it gives me chills at times.” Without waiting for Baron Hirao to finish speaking, the young ladies continued their guileless chatter even as it dissolved into everyone’s laughter.

“Whenever children are mentioned, I too would meet children abroad who were about the same age as my own and make a point of playing with them. To sense a nation’s vitality for growth, there’s nothing better than that,” Higashino said to Baron Hisaki. “Quite so—children from any country are all equally adorable when young, but once they become adults, why do they turn out so different? Some become thoroughly detestable.” “Where exactly do children and adults begin to diverge? It makes for an exceedingly subtle research problem.” “This is something I too, having reached my age, sometimes find myself brooding over—whether I myself have become such a detestable person.”

While Yashiro listened to Baron Hisaki’s words without truly hearing them, he found himself gazing once more at the lighthouse light—a truth he had forgotten was indeed real for him. Yet this resentment—too profound to resent—appeared as a thread of fate tumbling down from heaven, and even the flickering light that slowly rotated through the delicate shoulders of the girls seemed increasingly like a lamplight faintly revealing his father’s final smile, its glow imbued with sorrow as it pierced inward.

“You know, Father really did pass away so joyfully.” Beside Yashiro, who held his father’s corpse, the face of Mother—who had been so overjoyed—would not leave his eyes. However, no one knew of all that had occurred—every last thing—for they were merely flames of joy and sorrow that blazed unseen in his heart, destined to vanish with his own death.

Yashiro did not want others to see his eyes, which had grown moist, so he made an effort to avert his gaze from the room. And he thought that if possible, he would slip away alone without a sound and return from this place, but the group's conversation showed no sign of ending, and such an opportunity did not readily present itself. Before long, Higashino, who had stood up and vacated his seat, returned, “Ah yes, Baron Hisaki—I’ve been meaning to ask you earlier—according to Yashiro’s theory, the central part of Shintō paper streamers and mathematical set theory are equivalent. Since you specialize in mathematics, I had assumed you viewed set theory’s concept as a single unified entity.”

And once again, he dragged Yashiro’s name into the open before everyone. “Hmm, what could that be—” Baron Hisaki tilted his head slightly and peered at him—who had been struggling to stay hidden behind others until now—as he inquired, “Mr. Yashiro, Mr.ashiro—what exactly is this theory of yours?”

“Well, I don’t really know either,” Yashiro blurted out and laughed. Amidst the group’s laughter, Chizuko too briefly turned a smile toward him—but suddenly, only Chizuko alone showed sorrow on her face and stared intently at Yashiro.

“You’re being awfully quiet again tonight. Ah—so you were looking at the ship’s lights from there and remembered something?” Baron Hisaki said, making the laughter swell further. Yashiro turned his flushed face away from them all and gazed at the ships’ lights. The anchored vessels of Higashino’s fleet—still illuminated and strung along the wharf—once more summoned nightscapes of those harbors he had sailed through with Chizuko. “Amusing yet soon sorrowful—the cormorant boats.”

Those verses of Bashō that always rose to his lips with thoughts of travel also drifted up together, yet the gazes fixed upon Chizuko and him by the group remained unrelenting and oppressive. “However, a harbor’s night view truly makes one contemplate things—it’s only natural. A renowned French poet—Valéry, I believe—once said there’s no greater happiness in life than sailing into port after port with a lover. Essentially, a port is where land and sea meet mouth to mouth—that’s why entering it with someone brings such joy,” said Higashino, gazing out at the sea. “Youth is fortunate—you still have countless opportunities ahead. But I’ve none left now. It all ends tonight.”

At Higashino’s unexpected, anguished words, everyone fell utterly silent, as if doused with water. “However, that ship embodies the form of ‘where there’s a beginning, there’s an end,’” said Baron Hisaki, promptly making everyone laugh again. “So that’s what you mean by your set theory?” “I’d like to hear that point clarified,” Yuki promptly countered. “No—this is precisely set theory. “There was a mathematician named Radamacher, was there not? He posited that if you have a set of men in one room and a separate set of women in another, and they dance—then when pairs hold hands such that none remain unpaired through neat arrangement—it establishes a one-to-one correspondence, proving equal numbers of men and women. This method of proof forms the very foundation of set theory.” “It’s rather like sailing into port by ship.” “In the one-dimensional plane, all conceivable numbers can achieve one-to-one correspondence with every point on a straight line.” “This principle of equal quantities constitutes what we might call the gateway to set theory.”

“Then does this mean a lone bachelor like me gazing blankly at ships in the harbor—such a case doesn’t even pass through set theory’s gateway?” said Yuki, his features beginning to show the stubborn determination of one gnawing his way out from mathematics’ domain.

“However, the hopes of single people like you become the driving force that moves ships.” “That driving force causes objects to become continuous—in other words, it weaves into existence the three-dimensional world by giving a plane both width and thickness.” “Returning to our earlier point: it was Cantor—that remarkable mathematician—who demonstrated how to express the product of one-to-one correspondences at the gateway of set theory in algebraic form as 2^X. From there, the mathematical world was turned upside down from its foundations, plunging into great upheaval.” “The happiness of sailing from port to port with a lover—that happiness on a plane—became an antiquated dream, and a strange world emerged where neither planes nor solids existed, making everything terribly complicated.” “The publication of Cantor’s set theory was in the year 1877, so it’s possible that even in the West, around that time at the end of the nineteenth century, marked the beginning of great upheaval.” “Nothing in this world makes as honest a confession as the world of mathematics.”

“In that case,” inquired Marquis Tanabe, who had remained silent until now but seemed increasingly intrigued, “how exactly does the outcome of that mathematical upheaval relate to the shape of the ritual streamers?”

“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it,” “However, now that you mention it—this isn’t merely interesting, but rather something profoundly stirring.” “Indeed—to what period in Japan would the Christian year 1877 correspond?” Baron Hisaki asked, surveying the group.

“Around the tenth year of Meiji,” Yashiro answered. The moment he spoke, he realized those years marked a pivotal turning point for Japan as well. Recalling the phrase “light comes from the East,” he remembered how Japan at dawn had gradually intensified its radiance across the world from that time onward. Baron Hisaki, exhibiting his characteristic habit when deep in thought, removed his glasses and remained silent for a while with a sharp expression before speaking again.

“In any case, when viewing the shape of ritual streamers as geometry—where a single sheet of paper continuously shows both front and back while hanging infinitely—the relationship with modern set theory is established. Therefore, the key seems to lie precisely in that continuity.” “However, that is quite a considerable problem indeed.”

Baron Hisaki stopped his explanation briefly at that point, but in his effort to condense the complex problem into something manageable, the gleam in his eyes seemed to grow increasingly intense from that moment.

“As I mentioned earlier, this business of lovers holding hands in one-to-one correspondence belonged to the realm of planes,” said Baron Hisaki. “When this concept developed further and people began considering similar correspondences that could join hands even in three-dimensional space, it caused utter confusion where distinctions between solids and planes vanished. Then later emerged Hilbert—that eminent mathematician. He abandoned Cantor’s method of considering one-to-one correspondences through joined hands when comparing dimensions like planes and three-dimensional spaces. Instead, he developed his theories by focusing on continuity at those junctions—treating planes and solids as continuous entities, much like sailing through port after port where land and sea meet mouth to mouth. This raised the most difficult new problem: what cutting method allows infinite continuous division of a single sheet of paper? Essentially, I believe the shape of that cutting method has come to match ritual streamers, creating precisely the situation you described earlier.” He paused. “Yet it remains perplexing. While mathematicians depict the universe’s form as a Möbius strip using paper shapes—and indeed that strip resembles ritual streamers—I must study this further. But truly... what a mysterious country Japan is.” His voice trailed off. “Could it trace back to Egypt? Those ritual streamers...”

Baron Hisaki, who had rested his head against the chair and stared fixedly at the ceiling as he spoke, seemed from that moment to have entered a world entirely separate from the group; his smile had vanished, and only his lonely eyes fluttered rapidly. “However, if that’s how things stand,” he said, “then granting humanity the happiness of journeying from port to port has indeed come to resemble ritual streamers. The discussion has coalesced remarkably well.”

Yuki lit his pipe and spoke, but now there was no one left to laugh at him; in the room chilled by sea night winds through glass panes, the group had fallen strangely silent, as if drawn to a blank sheet of paper. Baron Hirao took out his notebook and said, “1877 and— “Cantor, I see,” he muttered and wrote it down. “And I never imagined, on the night I returned, that things would take such a turn. However, this has given my research some direction at last. Mr. Higashino, how about your field of expertise? And what about the period around 1877?” he inquired.

“Well of course—it was an era when both solids and planes vanished from this world.” “After all, Meiji 10 was the time of the Satsuma Rebellion.” “Back then you had Takamori’s wife gaining popularity by returning seven hundred yen in condolence money, courtesans in Yoshiwara parading in Western dress—and come to think of it, that was precisely the year the Mathematics Company was established in Yushima.” “Ninety members.” “Medical companies emerged too.” “Companies with capital of seventy thousand yen, fifty thousand yen—they began sprouting up everywhere.” “That year saw bold newspaper headlines like ‘Yanagihara Naruko Delivers Crown Prince’—I’ve seen that somewhere.” “I remember because it ran alongside articles about the uproar over Saigō Takamori’s missing head—rice was two sen five rin then.” “Yet even so, when French orders came for sake from Atsumi Peninsula, people were astonished.” “In any case—the year Mitsui held its founding ceremony, the year Yokosuka launched its first warship.”

Even as Higashino spoke emphatically with uncontrolled vocal pitch, Baron Hirao’s daughters had already begun dozing off in their chairs. Makiko, who had been fidgeting restlessly until then, seized the moment to stand up and announced she would take her leave first since her house was nearby, bowing to the group. At this, many others started saying “In that case, I’ll go too,” and spurred by Makiko’s farewell, they abruptly rose from their respective chairs. As those remaining tried accompanying everyone to the elevator entrance to see them off to the lobby below, something lightly struck Yashiro’s shoulder from behind. When he turned, it was Baron Hisaki.

“You should stay here tonight. When I tried sending that promised telegram the other day and had Mr. Tanabe inquire about your situation, I ended up holding back upon learning of your bereavement. My deepest condolences.” With that, the Baron returned to his usual smile and bowed gently. “Thank you very much.” Yashiro managed to return the courtesy properly at that moment, yet felt a heat-dazed bewilderment as if steamed by sweltering air, his body remaining standing there as though composed.

“But you must now be free from your duties, I presume? And your father’s illness?” the Baron gently inquired. “A cerebral hemorrhage.” “Ah, that is truly regrettable. How old was he?” “Seventy-one.” “Then there’s little difference between him and me. It may soon be my turn as well.” Standing before the Baron, who laughed lightly yet revealed subtle shifts in demeanor, Yashiro suddenly felt a weight within himself as if his father stood beside him—the sentiments his father had held toward the Baron during his lifetime now imposing themselves upon his very posture. He felt as though his father were chastising him for his bearing; within him swirled a distinct turbulence unlike what he had experienced days earlier at the Marquis’s residence. As his expression threatened to stiffen, he steadied his heart into its usual composure and hastened back.

“Tonight’s discussion was truly splendid. I would have liked to inquire in more detail, but as there are many friends here today, I shall take my leave now.”

Watching everyone enter through the elevator door, Yashiro also said this to Baron Hisaki and then entered after them himself.

Asobe and Hayami decided to return in the Marquis couple’s vacant car, but Yashiro, feeling fatigued from the gathering that had lasted since noon, opted to forgo the overcrowded vehicle and walk instead. However, when Yuki suddenly declared that he alone would stay behind at the hotel with Baron Hirao and the others, Chizuko ended up returning ahead of them.

“It must be a souvenir from Mr. Makuraki.” “I’m certain of it.”

Chizuko had correctly guessed Yuki’s intention to stay overnight and walked with Yashiro. In addition, Shiono and Sasa were also there. They all appeared weary as they continued walking in silence along the mist-thinned night path. When they reached the estuary near the sea, their feet came to a natural halt on the bridge without anyone prompting. As they gazed at the faintly whitened haze of harbor lights, Sasa let out a soft sigh. The cold iron of the railing reminded him once more of those nights from his journeying days. Yet on this day, when Yashiro recalled the news about Chizuko that Makizo had brought him, nothing gladdened him more. The fog over the estuary where the sea stretched open resembled a white fan spreading outward at its edges, invigorating him. He thought this would be an opportune moment to discuss with her the proper formalities for proposing marriage at her family’s home, but with others still present, even that proved unfeasible. Even after stepping away from the bridge railing and walking onward, Yashiro remained tense for some time while seeking an opening to broach the subject. After emerging onto the bustling street too—whenever someone tried to pass by their side—his shoulder would brush against Chizuko as he moved aside, until he ended up guiding her toward one edge of the road. “Allow me to see you home tonight,” he ventured.

Chizuko, who still seemed not to grasp the meaning, merely glanced at him and smiled—but in that moment, Yashiro thought the vividness of her dimple, intensely illuminated by light on one cheek, held the same beauty he had first seen aboard the ship. "I intend to send an important letter within the next two or three days. When I do, please—even if it’s just you—give me a firm ‘yes.’" "Is that acceptable?"

Chizuko did not reply and gave a slight, brief nod. After alighting from the municipal railway, Yashiro and his group of four took several turns along dark streets until they had become so disoriented they could no longer remember the direction from which they had come. In the middle of the road stood a single Japanese evergreen chinquapin tree, its bark oozing glossy resin, solitary and exposed. On the split half of that gnarled trunk with knot holes, the light from the police box shone. Yashiro thought it was the familiar tree and police box he had seen when secretly coming here and alighting from a car some time before.

As he approached, he struck the trunk of the chinquapin tree fondly, as one would strike a horse’s neck, and muttered to himself, “It’s not far now, ah. This is a familiar tree.”

That was a renowned tree. Though its height couldn’t be discerned at night, the branches overhead spread across the entire road, forcing Yashiro and his group of four to split to either side as they passed through. It was around the time when roof tiles appeared damp and heavy with moisture in the quiet alley lined with earthen-walled fences. “Have you been here before?” Shiono asked curiously.

“I’ve passed through here once before.” “Autumn, was it?” He recalled the lofty loneliness and weightless buoyancy he had felt on that night when he had rushed here straight after returning from abroad, even before going home. Tonight’s path seemed far more solid underfoot compared to that time, and he pondered how many more times he would walk this way in the future. However, come to think of it, he realized that less than a year had passed since he first met Chizuko on the ship. If choosing this night path were the result of seeing what could not be fully seen, hearing what was unfamiliar, and doing what could not be completed—all within a single year—then he thought the gateway to Chizuko’s house, soon to come into view, must surely mark an entrance to either hell or heaven for him.

“Today we spent looking at the sea all day, but it wasn’t just any ordinary day.” “When I saw Mr. Higashino’s ship entering the harbor, I realized a full year had passed since our departure—but you see, that dreamlike year of ours turned out to be an intensely lived practice.” “Everyone—that wasn’t some illusion. It was lived reality.” “Even my dead father—and your fathers too—spent their whole lives resolved to go see it at least once while they lived, only to die without ever doing so. Yet one way or another, *we* made it real—we carried it through.” “And what do you think? For two whole generations to finally notice a single sheet of ritual paper streamers—”

Yashiro struggled to speak and suddenly fell silent at the end, then a verse naturally escaped his lips: "A single remaining sheet of paper—my father’s spring." It had been his first verse since composing haiku with Higashino, Kuji, and the others in Brougny Forest, but even without fully grasping its meaning, he walked with his head down, muttering it for some time. When the Ken'ninji-style fence of Chizuko’s house—its palm rope knots still fresh—came into view, Shiono said to her, “Well, I’ll take my leave here. Goodbye.”

“Thank you very much.” “But won’t you come in for a moment?” “It’s not so late yet.” “Won’t you please come in—”

Chizuko’s voice held its usual casual tone when addressing Shiono, whom she often invited in, but Yashiro sensed in the darkness that she hesitated slightly—seeming to consider his unease at meeting her mother inside for the first time. “What should I do? Shall I take you up on that?” Shiono asked, looking at Yashiro again. Though it was Yashiro himself who had proposed in Yokohama to escort Chizuko to her house that evening, having no intention whatsoever of entering inside, he found himself at a loss for a reply and instead said, “But it’s late now—let us part here,” coming to a halt.

“But won’t you come in and have some tea just—”

This time, Chizuko said to Yashiro with a clear smile. At this moment, her earlier hesitation had vanished, revealing the bold transformation of a woman who had instantly resolved to accept what was to come. It was this same Chizuko who, with equal composure when attempting to cross the glacier in Tyrol, had relentlessly drawn him into the ice. However, in any case, passing through this gate now was a slightly reckless act. It was a situation that prudence would have dictated avoiding, but after Chizuko disappeared through the wicket beside the gatepost and Shiono followed without consultation, Yashiro felt that departing alone would only leave behind an air of dubious suspicion. With a casualness unbefitting what should have been a momentous occasion’s gravity, he too slipped through. And as he trod upon the expanse of pale white sand—despite the tension that rendered even his minutest movements palpable—there was also a carefree ease reminiscent of a traveler’s wanderings, so much so that he even began to feel curiosity about meeting Chizuko’s mother, whom he had yet to see. Precisely because it was the mother who had persistently rejected Yashiro, he faintly sensed a competitive spirit about meeting her for the first time, and at the grand entrance’s threshold, he removed his shoes along with everyone else.

At the switch at the end of the tatami corridor to the right from the entrance, the light came on in the reception room slightly lower than the hallway. Yashiro looked around the familiar room wrapped in thick walls that created a sense of separation from the adjacent room, then gazed at the garden for some time.

“This painting is by Sasa. You must have seen this scenery for sure.” Shiono pointed to the Parisian landscape painting hanging above the mantelpiece and said. The painting depicted what seemed to be a back alley near the Panthéon, but the beauty of its unwavering, precise brushstrokes—while reflecting Sasa’s stubbornness—also revealed his character through its vivid portrayal of one struggling to maintain limpid purity. “At any rate,” Yashiro said while still facing the painting, “seeing how the color tones exhibit such delicate affection suggests this must be a view he constantly gazed upon from his own room.”

Sasa nodded with a deliberate smile and a murmured “Mmm,” his white teeth revealing his joy at reuniting with his own work; even after sitting down, he still refused to look away from the painting. In the room’s corner stood a grand piano, while shelves along the wall held several ceramics that seemed to reflect Yuki’s taste. Among them were a thick-walled African-style water jar, a white teacup from Qing porcelain, a Murasakino tea bowl from Japan, and beside these, a single lidded Gyerong bowl from Korea. The Gyerong Bymo bowl stood out as the most exquisitely beautiful, its selection—along with the restrained avoidance of larger pieces—revealing a fastidious connoisseur’s harmonious refinement that made for deeply satisfying choices.

Chizuko brought tea and snacks. The family seemed to have already retired for the night, and the lamplight shining into the garden was dim, with no light coming from any of the rooms. When Chizuko went back inside and came out again, this time she brought cheese and beer.

“Though this marks your first visit here, Mr. Yashiro, I’ve found nothing proper to offer tonight.” “Forgive me.” Yashiro found more worth in Chizuko’s thoughtfulness of not summoning the live-in maid than in her words themselves. The damp-laden glow of this room—separated from the adjacent chamber by thick walls—reminded him of a Parisian night long past, when they had returned to their own quarters after an absence and known a similar respite of ease. As if trying to recapture the lamplight’s fragrance from that time, he slowly turned his head to survey their surroundings. Then, compounded by the mental fatigue of having no rest since dawn, he abruptly feared that should they marry now, the paths where fragrant things now passed would be cut off and disappear.

“Mr. Higashino was remarkable tonight.” “True peace is finally coming.” “When he said that—that expression he made—there was nothing like it,” Sasa said, plucking a piece of fresh wagashi.

“But that Baron Hisaki was quite something,” Shiono said. “Explaining ritual paper streamers and projective geometry through metaphors about sailing between ports—that’s no ordinary feat some run-of-the-mill old man could manage. At that moment, I remembered something rather unpleasant—nearly brought it up too—but thought better of it. After all, that old man gave Chizuko, Ōishi, and me hell back in Paris,” he added with a bitter smile, abruptly revealing this unexpected recollection.

"Why?" Chizuko asked, her expression mirroring Yashiro's own bewilderment. "You know, that soirée at the Parisian Finance Minister's residence," Shiono continued, addressing the group. "That was the night Baron Hisaki and I nearly broke our backs getting these canned salmon exports approved. Trying to sway French legislation meant facing an impregnable fortress. We finally managed it after pulling all-nighters for days—though it left me with nervous exhaustion for weeks afterward. But ah, remembering those hardships..."

As he listened to Shiono speak, Yashiro came to think that one of the reasons Chizuko had cut short their time in Tyrol and returned to Paris had also been due to her circumstances—her being urged by Shiono to attend that soirée. Moreover, even regarding the incident at the opera involving Pierre, the secretary who had troubled him, and Chizuko, it similarly seemed to have originated from that soirée at the minister’s residence; yet all these beginnings were things that now made perfect sense to Yashiro through Shiono’s present words. And,

“What was that about?” he blurted out involuntarily, his eyes remaining fixed on Shiono’s face for some time. In truth, where his own layered joys and sorrows converged, there Baron Hisaki had existed all along—utterly unaware. Rather, it was now that he found himself growing ever more astonished at this eerie, profound bond between them—a connection too intimate to put into words for others.

“That’s not it.” “You wouldn’t understand.” “The hardships we endured back then,” said Shiono, who himself seemed burdened by numerous recollections of that time. “Well, thanks to you all, I ended up suffering hardships too,” Yashiro countered with a laugh, refusing to be outdone. Then, facing Chizuko with a touch of sarcasm, “Have you heard from Mr. Pierre since then?” he inquired. “Once,” Chizuko answered with a slight shrug before adding, “I’ll show you later,” her hands moving with an uncharacteristically alluring grace as she opened the beer bottle. Yashiro detected something vengeful in her demeanor and, feeling momentarily stifled, found himself unable to muster a retort.

“Oh right, speaking of Mr. Pierre—come to think of it, he might very well be arriving in Japan around now.” “He said there’s nothing as enjoyable as going to Japan, you know.” “That man is hopelessly in love with Japan.” Shiono said this with oblivious nonchalance, entirely unaware of the subtle clash of emotions still arising between Yashiro and Chizuko.

“No—it’s better if Mr. Pierre doesn’t come anymore,” Yashiro said, transmuting even the anguish of a stifled breath into amusement as he gazed at Chizuko’s face.

“Please don’t say such things and drink.” Chizuko poured beer into Yashiro’s glass, but even this slight advantage in such moments—now enhanced by the graceful technique to admonish a man—made him wonder with renewed astonishment whether even this had been nurtured at soirées unknown to him. As he turned back, he faced the faintly blushing smile that had risen to her eyes.

“Well then, let’s drink this one glass for Mr. Pierre.” “After this, no more.”

Yashiro first drank a glass at this moment and faced Shiono, “You know, this Ms. Chizuko here was quite fond of Mr. Pierre.” “Even though you were always right there, you were too preoccupied with a mechanical thing like a camera to notice,” he said with a laugh. “Do you like Mr. Pierre, or do you love him?” “Well, you’d have to ask this person.” “Huh? Which one, Chizuko?” Shiono asked, leaning his face forward with an uncharacteristic clumsiness that only surfaced in such matters.

“Well, I wonder...” To Chizuko’s reply—which treated the matter lightly as something now past and not requiring serious inquiry—Yashiro realized there had likely been several similar episodes between them in her past. Such matters should have deepened Yashiro’s anguish, yet instead stirred an unexpected sense of triumph—whether from Chizuko’s character itself, he wondered, or the trust cultivated through generations of Catholic discipline that valued unwavering integrity even at life’s cost. Whenever such doubts arose, Yashiro would recall the Catholic cathedral he had visited on a Florentine hillside. That Sunday, within Fiesole’s cavern-like interior, rows of candles illuminated a group of black-clad girls with uniform white collars chanting toward a golden cross held aloft. The chorus’s power—reverberating through sunlight-starved vaults—resounded like some tremendous instrument echoing in stratified thunder. This sonic force struck Yashiro’s chest with uncanny pressure as he stood at the entrance, driving him back outside as if repelled; yet that fleeting glimpse of perfectly aligned sacred vestments convinced him he’d witnessed Western beauty untainted by modernity. Contemplating whether Chizuko too belonged among those Fiesole chanters, Yashiro felt no urge to counterattack regarding Pierre—rather, that medieval choir’s solemn golden grandeur seemed a realm beyond humanity, its merciless severity toward exclusivity leaving him with an unattainable, almost resentful longing.

“There’s a poem by Abe Sadato that goes, ‘The agony of tangled threads through the years,’ but seeing how you say things like ‘Well, I wonder…’ makes you quite the skilled poet yourself—just like Sadato.” “Even if you aimed an arrow at Yawata Taro, his poetic skill would save his life.” “Let’s keep it Japanese-style with Taro.”

Yashiro said this and laughed, glancing at Shiono who wore an expression as though drawing a bowstring at Chizuko.

“Would that please Mr. Pierre?” Shiono laughed. The relaxed mood of leaning back in chairs tightened at footsteps passing through the corridor—likely someone who had been asleep now rising. Yashiro worried it might be Chizuko’s mother. If Chizuko had told her mother about the three guests, she would have hesitated whether to appear—but given the late hour, Yashiro concluded she must have invited them after planning to inform her mother of their names once everyone left. Still, he thought coming to this house remained premature. Soon, in a dark corner of the garden lawn, light from somewhere other than the reception room’s spill illuminated the thick trunk of a solitary fir tree standing there.

Then, following the clattering sound of sliding doors being opened, the door soon opened.

“Oh my—this is rather... Our apologies for visiting so late,” Shiono said as he smoothed his hair and stood to address the woman who appeared to be Chizuko’s mother. “Well now, you went through the trouble of seeing him home.” “Since Yuki called to say he wouldn’t be returning tonight, I had retired early with that expectation.” Chizuko’s mother spoke to Shiono in measured tones without once glancing at Yashiro, though she unconsciously straightened the collar of her raccoon-dog-and-chrysanthemum-patterned kimono. The slightly drooping corners of her narrow eyes—unlike Chizuko’s—her plump cheeks bearing a capricious air, and particularly the shadow cast by her long lashes all exuded an affluent composure. While her features more resembled Yuki’s overall, Yashiro instantly recognized that her calm, pale eyes—gentle yet disinclined to readily accept others—marked her as the household’s foremost authority. Chizuko promptly introduced Yashiro to her mother. At this, Chizuko’s mother let her smile fade and stared fixedly at Yashiro before bowing wordlessly. With a faintly fearful expression, she lowered her gaze and began surveying the floor around them,

“This child is rather willful, so she says she must have caused you all various troubles.” "Oh, this child..." Without laughing and while repeatedly adjusting her collar as she spoke, a slow smile gradually appeared. Yashiro saw that smile and, for the first time, thought she must be someone with whom he could share a mutual understanding. “Auntie, are the preparations for Usami’s trip abroad already done? You must be quite busy,” Shiono inquired.

“That man is so carefree—whether he’ll go or not remains unclear,” she said. “Just the other day Mr. Fujisawa came urging him to take that person along, but he replied, ‘If I bring someone like you along, all my misdeeds will come to light—I refuse.’” “Did Fujisawa visit?” “He became an executive this time, did he not?” “So they say.” “I’ve only met that person’s mother once at a parent-teacher meeting—I hear she’s ill now.”

Shiono and the others’ familiar mannerisms spoke of childhood friendships cultivated over decades. Yashiro listened to these exchanges with fresh curiosity while growing conscious of his recent connection to the Usami family—should the day come when his marriage arrangement with Chizuko were finalized, he mused, Shiono’s position would shift to mirror his own current standing as an outsider. There coalesced in that moment a stagnant weight resembling loneliness yet twisted through with complications. Still, Yashiro reflected that had he sullied Chizuko during their travels abroad, this encounter with her mother would have become a night of far more repugnant torment than his present unease. As things stood, he remained unchanged—a traveler with unblemished companions—yet this very thought made his web of apprehensions appear suddenly like stains exposed to light. Once more he found himself marveling at how maternal dignity revealed itself through such delicate nuances.

Between Shiono and Chizuko’s mother, the conversation continued for a while longer, centering on stories about parents—mainly involving Yuki and Shiono’s elementary school parent-teacher meetings. None of these stories were familiar to Yashiro, but when the conversation turned to a certain Yamashina—though there was nothing particularly noteworthy about it—he noticed Shiono’s responses becoming oddly hesitant and evasive, frequently starting to turn toward him only to visibly struggle to suppress his expression. Though it had nothing to do with him, Yashiro found it strange that he too was growing inexplicably restless. And sensing there the faintest hint of an intervening obstacle impeding the progress of his marriage arrangement with Chizuko—interpreting even the Usami family’s unavoidable confusion as containing an indirect intent to explain themselves, while recognizing that the mother’s difficult position was likely not without one or two such instances—Yashiro, throughout their conversation, found himself wanting to distance his ears from their words as suspicion took root, and pressed his lips to the beer glass.

“Chizuko, wasn’t there anything else? There’s only this cheese,” Chizuko’s mother said, looking back at her daughter. “As for other things—I wonder if there are any. I’ll go look.” Chizuko left her chair with a lightness that seemed to perceive unexpected thoughtfulness in her mother’s admonition. “I wonder if they haven’t gotten moldy—pulling out such strange things like that.” “—That child doesn’t notice anything at all unless it’s her own favorite things.” “She has such unfortunate habits,” said Chizuko’s mother, her gaze now stripped of the humble reserve expected when a mother discusses her child.

“You already know that, Mother,” Chizuko said from beside the door.

“Oh, were you still listening?” “Bring something delicious quickly!” Shiono called out brashly toward the door, his loud voice successfully dispelling the lingering stiffness in the parlor all at once. “This talk of food reminds me—during the strikes in Paris, Chizuko and I struggled terribly just to get a single cup of coffee.” “Every shop had its shutters closed—you couldn’t drink or eat anywhere.” “Thanks to that, my stomach improved somewhat, but I suppose we suffered the worst of it.”

For Yashiro to say such meaningless things to Chizuko's mother had required considerable effort. First and foremost, thinking it held no meaning whatsoever, he had chosen topics like food, when suddenly Chizuko's mother— "Your stomach has been unwell, I hear."

With a startled expression, she refrained from laughing and looked at Yashiro as if interrogating him. Indeed, this was an unforeseen blunder, Yashiro thought. “It’s not exactly that it’s bad, but when you keep eating Japanese food over there for a while, anyone’s stomach would get upset. And yet somehow they say that if you don’t eat it at least once a week—if you suddenly break free from the dependency you’ve developed on Japanese rice—you’ll ruin your health. But in fact, on days when I eat rice, my stomach feels heavy—and it seems I’m not the only one who becomes somewhat gloomy and withdrawn. After all, eating what’s local seems to be what’s best for the human body.”

It wasn’t that he had forced an explanation, yet he couldn’t entirely avoid offering one—caught in a dilemma, Yashiro felt the difficulty of his position, distinct from that of an ordinary guest, grow more acute, and he thought this suffocating tension was indeed something he had never experienced since birth. “It seems someone else had already mentioned such a thing.” “When Westerners come to Japan and eat Western food, they gradually lose their intelligence—that person remarked something quite interesting, you know.” “Oh my, I suppose that’s how it is,” I thought, “but that must be the case indeed.” “And so I heard that when those Westerners began partaking of Japanese food here, their minds recovered splendidly again, just as when they were in their home countries.”

Even for Chizuko’s mother, the fact that she had seldom encountered trying situations like the present one was evident in the halting cadence of her speech. Yashiro realized that in this situation, even as both parties concealed their flaws, they must maintain this delicate equilibrium of gradually revealing them bit by bit as necessary; otherwise, this marriage would never come to fruition. He thought that putting on an air of understanding everything might undermine all their hard-won efforts, and that maintaining the demeanor of a first-time guest who knew nothing at all was in fact the natural means to navigate this peculiar predicament with Chizuko’s mother.

After a while, Chizuko returned to the parlor with asparagus and sausages. Yashiro understood he should try not to drink much beer in front of her mother, but in such a mentally taxing situation, what he needed most was something that could dispel his unnecessary wariness.

“Mother, you should go to bed now,” Chizuko said with solicitousness. “Then I shall take my leave first. Please, everyone, do stay overnight if it’s convenient. Now, you must extend that invitation properly.” As Chizuko’s mother said this to her daughter and stood up, she added, “Since Mr. Yashiro’s stomach is unwell, you mustn’t press him to drink more beer.” Chizuko appeared unable to immediately digest her mother’s abrupt remark,

“It’s all right with him,” she said with a brief smile, but as soon as her mother left the room, she turned to Yashiro, “You told Mother such a thing? That your stomach was unwell?” she asked.

“My stomach really isn’t in good shape after all. I just let it slip somehow—right, Shiono? Perhaps we should take our leave for tonight,” Yashiro said to Shiono while glancing at the clock.

“It’s fine. “It’s too late to go back now, so let’s have them put us up here,” Shiono stubbornly insisted for some reason. “You really shouldn’t get carried away with your antics again tonight.” “I’m a timid soul, you know.” As Yashiro was saying this, from beyond the corridor came the sudden sound of Chizuko’s mother calling out again, “Chizuko! Chizuko!” twice. Chizuko tightened her expression as though listening intently, said “Yes,” and promptly left the room; then Shiono leaned toward Yashiro and lowered his voice,

“It’s all right. Let’s celebrate,” he said, clinking his glass against Yashiro’s with a hand trembling from considerable excitement. Sasa, who had been slouching deeply in his chair the entire time, straightened up and joined them. And “Felt like I was forced to witness surgery—exhausting.” Smiling, he too clinked his glass against Yashiro’s. “Before I knew it, you two had given me your brutal remedies.” “I’ll take care from now on.” Even as Yashiro spoke these words, he recognized how Shiono’s bold actions tonight shared common ground with his efforts during their Champs-Élysées days—yet precisely because this overly straightforward assistance had produced visible results, he felt unease. But once Chizuko’s mother disappeared from view and the tension dissolved without conflict, he found himself slipping back into the carefree ease of hotel life that would continue their journey tomorrow—a state perhaps so ingrained he could only recognize it at such moments. Reflecting on this, he marveled at his own strangeness.

“Mother, you look so happy. ‘Everyone must stay overnight’—that’s her strict instruction, you see. Please.” When Chizuko returned, she looked at each of the three in equal measure and laughed.

“When you say that, I suddenly feel lonely. Should we go back, eh?” Shiono looked at Sasa. “I came tonight to see this painting, so I’m satisfied now.” Sasa grinned and gazed once more at his own landscape painting on the wall. Yashiro felt grateful in his heart, thinking that while Chizuko’s mother had shown him goodwill in various ways, he had also, unbeknownst to him, benefited greatly from the efforts of those like the Marquise and Makizo working behind the scenes. However, as he realized that everything was turning out favorably for him and Chizuko in this way, the more he found himself recalling his father’s death and feeling a growing sense of loneliness.

“Lately, whenever I think about something significant, I’ve developed a tendency to end up thinking about my father’s death as well—it’s become impossible to consider life purely on its own terms anymore.” “Maybe it’s because I’m still a novice at losing my father, I suppose.” Even as Yashiro said this, the tightly tapered part of Chizuko’s crossed knees, visible up close under the lamplight, lingered poignantly in his eyes with an unusual intensity, impossible to look away from. He thought that such a gaze of his could indeed be called desire, but since his father’s death, as his sorrow intensified, a habit had also formed of suppressing the urge to let his eyes linger on Chizuko’s body. This was due in part to a certain reaction he wished to resist—whenever he recalled the smell of death from holding his father’s corpse, another phrase would surge up almost impulsively—*All things are but pretexts devised by those doomed to die, who deem them truths*—this famous Greek dictum now seemed spoken especially for him, and contrary to its terrifying meaning, it had lately become a potent source of nostalgia for human flesh within him.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave,” Sasa said and rose from his chair. Then Shiono also stood up. “Oh, won’t you all stay the night?” “I’ve already made preparations,” Chizuko said to both Shiono and Sasa. They seemed reluctant to leave and lingered hesitantly, but carried by the momentum of having stood up, the three were somehow herded out to the entrance. Though uncertain whether any trains still ran, they walked along the night road toward the station regardless. When Yashiro reached the chinquapin tree by the police box, he stroked its trunk once more, looked up, and muttered, “No matter what, you must touch things with your hands to understand them.” As he repeated the Greeks’ words—“those doomed to die”—again and again in his heart, though there was no particular resemblance, he recalled the form of those ritual streamers—their infinite continuity and the depth of that eternally silent space they embodied. Yet as he walked deep in thought, the streamers—whispering no such needless things to anyone—showed both front and back, hanging white and limp in stillness that seemed to tell his heart: “Bring all you possess to life and offer it to heaven,” settling damply near his core. This tranquility belonged not to him alone—it was the singular, unmistakable form that those fated to die must contemplate at least once. To Yashiro, roads seemed to extend endlessly from such things, and even this very sidewalk he walked now felt like one strand binding itself to that essence.

After Yashiro’s father’s forty-ninth-day memorial had passed, the cherry blossoms began to bloom around then. Following his mother’s wish to enshrine the divided remains at their ancestral temple in Kyushu and Honganji Temple in Kyoto, Yashiro waited for the day of his westward journey. Though it was expected that either his mother or sister would accompany him—and despite Yashiro insisting there was no need, considering Sachiko’s post-recovery fatigue and awaiting Chizuko’s response—Sachiko still wanted to go.

“Kyoto might be manageable,” he said, “but Kyushu would still be too much.” “Then just to Kyoto.” Sachiko said. And remembering his words from when she had once visited him at the hospital—when he had encouraged her to take in Kyoto’s beauty as well—she now used them as a shield to persistently trouble him. Sachiko, outwardly flamboyant with a penchant for clowning around, would burst into tears every time her father’s belongings appeared. She would say she had dreamt of Father again and burst into tears. When teased by her mother, she would thoughtlessly get angry, calling her non-crying mother strange.

“I just can’t shake off this sadness, no matter what I do.” “People say time makes resignation possible, but I don’t feel that way at all.” “Every day I only grow lonelier and lonelier,” Sachiko said, her voice heavy with dejection. “If I take you along, you’ll start crying again the moment we enter the Osaka Mountain Tunnel.” “Then I’ll cry!” Though Yashiro had initially spoken those words in jest, he now genuinely felt that entering the tunnel his father had built would stir profound emotions within him. He thought enshrining his father’s remains in the columbarium at Hongan-ji Temple—overlooking Kyoto’s streets—might bring peace to the spirit of the man who had realized the Uji River hydroelectric project powering this city, yet he wondered whether even those lights might become another cause for Sachiko’s tears.

Around the house, though there were not particularly many cherry trees, even the small trees that usually went unnoticed had burst into bloom in rapid succession. They claimed the sky with fierce momentum as if calling to one another, spreading through garden interiors and exteriors, both sides of paths, even into storehouse crevices—a natural magnificence proudly reaching its annual zenith. Until spring arrived, Yashiro had drifted through days with mere anticipation of seasonal routine, but when cherry blossom time finally approached, he found himself overwhelmed by unexpectedly vivid bursts of floral commotion—so intense that Kyoto's famed urban bustle might pale in comparison—making him fear suspicion when securing lodgings and yearn to escape this blossom season altogether.

One day, Yashiro went to consult his uncle the president about inheritance matters he wanted to settle before leaving for Kyoto. Though this uncle was on his mother’s side and thus did not interfere much in Yashiro’s household affairs, he often brought up marriage topics whenever they met, leading Yashiro to maintain a policy of avoiding meetings unless absolutely necessary. However, after his father’s death, this uncle’s wisdom proved most valuable in handling stock certificates and tax matters. Uncle Teikichi showed Yashiro photographs of his own daughters’ school friends and acquaintances’ daughters, seeking his opinion—an act that could also be interpreted as fulfilling a request from Yashiro’s mother. For Yashiro, who these days wished his uncle would show more interest in arranging marriage prospects for his sister Sachiko than in being enthusiastic about finding him a bride, even Uncle Teikichi appeared displeased when the conversation tended to shift toward subtly reporting Sachiko’s full recovery instead.

“You mustn’t let the tide’s timing slip by.” “Even if a bride’s face seems unremarkable, time will gradually mold her features through proper upbringing.” “Those from families with established pedigrees remain the safest choice above all.” Believing he had discerned Yashiro’s true intentions, Uncle Teikichi did not neglect to drive home the needle into his heart—where Yashiro showed no enthusiasm for marriage. That day too, after concluding discussions about market prices and transfers of Yashiro’s stock certificates, Uncle Teikichi naturally guided their conversation toward matters concerning the Takigawa family—the shared ancestral home of Yashiro’s mother and uncles. Her mother’s family were samurai-descended landowners whose substantial regional holdings included not only stocks but tenant farmers and forested mountains—considerable movable and immovable assets that differed from those of Yashiro’s or present-day Teikichi’s households, requiring only the maintenance of inherited properties to accumulate locally specific bureaucratic duties. To this situation came news of the adopted heir—a self-proclaimed man of the new era—who had startled his wife by declaring his intention to release the family’s wealth for society’s benefit once true authority passed to him, a development that now became part of Teikichi and Yashiro’s discussion.

“What people call new eras will always exist,” Uncle Teikichi said, “but even when you think yourself new, before you know it you’ve become old-fashioned.” “Why, even we were once the new era ourselves.”

Uncle Teikichi laughed. Even this uncle—a slightly plump, round-faced businessman with thinning hair—bore traces of having been steeped in Westernizing ideologies of civilization and enlightenment that had stirred society since the Rokumeikan era; on his alcove wall hung a scroll received directly from Fukuzawa Yukichi bearing the inscription "independence and self-respect," which was often displayed there. When the new era of civil rights and freedom championed by Teikichi and others—having absorbed the aftermath of the Great War in Europe—approached the expansive period of Taisho capitalism, the tumultuous sprouts of socialism that arose in tandem grew rampant, and the adopted sons of the Takigawa household found themselves engulfed by the rising clamor of these voices. In every relative’s household without exception, the ripples of the impending new era had reached them in some form; yet beneath it all, a deep-seated sentiment—unchanged since ancient times, like a natural current—also flowed steadily. Amidst this, as Yashiro observed his relatives, he found it strangely remarkable that not a single daughter in any household had ever caused a romantic scandal that disrupted the unique tranquility upheld by their family traditions. Each and every one had taken brides chosen by their parents, married as instructed, and raised their children flawlessly as they advanced toward old age. Looking around, if one were to name any anomaly, the only one was Yashiro himself.

“Ah.” With that fresh astonishment, Yashiro suddenly found himself reconsidering the singular unconventionality between himself and Chizuko. In truth, he thought, it was settled that from this point onward he would press forward with Chizuko alone, disregarding all parental efforts and relatives’ encouragements. When Uncle Teikichi had spoken of how even new eras inevitably grow outdated—referring to Takigawa’s adopted son—Yashiro felt certain those words had actually been aimed at the solitary stain now darkly staining himself. From the outset, Yashiro had detested this new era’s praise of “being true to oneself.” Yet within the virtue of all his relatives having remained loyal to their surroundings, that he alone should persist in self-fidelity and pursue his own romance—even if branded a new-era egoist—left him without defense. Though he conceded the logic held—that this was love unchanged since antiquity and thus unavoidable—he had to acknowledge an enduring thread of discomfort remained. Perhaps he too, chasing this vision of personal happiness, had ultimately crossed overseas like those others. —Thinking this, Yashiro abruptly realized his capacity for laughter had begun fading from this very moment.

“Through my work, I’ve traveled to every corner of Japan’s regions, and at this age, I’ve finally come to grasp the distinctive qualities of my own hometown.” “At first, I couldn’t stomach that petty, obstinate conservatism—but no, I’ve come to think it’s not quite so simple after all.” “This may sound like provincial boasting—forgive me—but I believe the place that’s best preserved Japan’s traditional ethos since ancient times is our own corner of Tohoku.” “Of course, it has its flaws too.” “In honesty and simplicity, there’s a tenacity that rivals any other region.” “But once you commit wrongdoing here, no amount of good deeds afterward will ever be accepted.” “That’s where we differ from your Kyushu homeland.” “Kyushu—now that’s a curious place. However much mischief they cause, they never dwell on the past.” “Call it living for the moment if you will—or magnanimous open-mindedness in kinder terms.” “That’s why men like Saigō Takamori emerged from there.” “Working in architecture as I do—what do you make of this?” “You’ve been overseas—you must understand.”

Teikichi leaned forward slightly from his chair with a youthfulness belying his age and continued cheerfully alone. "That good civilization pouring into Japan from foreign lands created today's Japan—partly because we're an island nation, but I think another reason is those eminent foreigners who recognized Japanese sincerity wanted to contribute their efforts for this country." "No one would offer their knowledge or life to wicked people, you understand."

“I think so too,” said Yashiro. Rather than admiring his uncle’s perceptiveness in noticing this point, he considered it a rare recent development that Uncle Teikichi’s attitude—which had never previously acknowledged him—had changed so markedly. Even so, Yashiro remained unable to shed his lingering discomfort, his voice often growing subdued as if retreating into restraint. “With my mother from Tohoku and father from Kyushu, I’m overburdened with virtues.”

Unable to laugh, Yashiro muttered as if to himself and devised a way to excuse himself from Teikichi’s presence. Having had his words cut short, Teikichi laughed quietly before falling silent. As both men found themselves unexpectedly gazing at white cherry blossoms peeking over the neighboring fence, Teikichi’s second daughter Shinobu entered carrying black tea. Yashiro had heard this second daughter too had received a marriage proposal, but realizing how proposals now ceaselessly emerged for every marriageable girl filling the streets within his view, he suddenly saw the calm of ordinary daily life transformed into an extraordinary spectacle. It resembled this season itself—when the turning tide arrived, and buds long held within each person began unfurling all at once.

When returning from Teikichi’s house in Koishikawa, Yashiro did not take the bus immediately and walked under the cherry blossoms. Lamplight shone between the lower branches and treetop blossoms, filling the long night path with clusters of floral light. The branches hung motionless under a brightness that seemed to stain his forehead, yet Yashiro’s spirits sank low. As for Chizuko’s recent letter—she had written that since her mother met him, she had abruptly changed, now mentioning his name at every turn; though their marriage plans now progressed smoothly enough to call favorable, he felt himself twisting even this joy into an oppressive weight, and the blossoms’ appearance under the night sky looked unlike any before.

However, Yashiro did not believe this oppressive weight would persist much longer. Rather, he thought it was his own willful stance—the single-minded conviction that upon finding the right moment to tell his mother about Chizuko and obtain approval for their marriage, he would naturally secure her consent—that now bore down on him as an oppressive burden. That this inevitable premonition of further distressing his mother should come so soon after his father’s death made it all the more painful for Yashiro. Moreover, the mental strain of needing to conceal Chizuko’s Catholicism from his mother clung to him unrelentingly from that moment onward.

In truth, he had intended to broach the matter of marriage by letter to his mother immediately after completing the enshrinement of his father’s remains at their journey’s destination; he had refrained from bringing his sister along to Kyoto and had also wanted to leave her at his mother’s side—but on this night, even employing such strategies for a journey yet to come felt desolate, and the floral light he gazed up at was too dazzling. A lingering sorrow remained, as if the joy had already passed.

When Yashiro returned home, Sachiko came upstairs with the documents that had arrived during her absence.

“Here.”

“The letter.” Something about his sister’s voice—its tone more deliberate than usual—rang out. Yashiro immediately sensed that among the documents was one from Chizuko, but he did not look in that direction. “You don’t seem well. Did Uncle say something?” Sachiko did not try to go downstairs and sat down beside him, watching his face.

“The cherry blossoms were blooming beautifully everywhere,” he said, then abruptly lowered his gaze to the documents but still made no move to pick them up. “Uncle told me I should go to Kyoto too, didn’t he?” “No, there was no such talk.” “That’s a lie. I asked Ms. Shinobu over the phone to make that request. There must have been a discussion about it.” Yashiro thought he had briefly touched on that matter with Shinobu, but the contents of the documents before him—still unseen—weighed too heavily to answer his sister. He felt an unpleasantness at the thought that if Chizuko’s reply suggested she might accompany Yuki during his Kyoto trip, his current response to Sachiko might need alteration. That wasn’t all. In Sachiko’s eyes awaiting his answer lay a sharpness that had already discerned Chizuko’s letter’s contents—and bared claws toward whatever stood between brother and sister.

“Tonight Uncle and I had an unusual discussion about culture. “He wasn’t the type to say such things to me—maybe this is the cherry blossoms’ doing after all,” Yashiro said with a laugh. Yet considering this, he thought it no wonder everyone showed some disturbance during this flowering season. When he realized Sachiko must be similarly affected, he scrutinized his sister’s face and manner anew, then urged her with repeated “Tea, tea,” attempting to send her downstairs.

“But just read the letter already.” “I’m worried.” Sachiko pushed the documents toward him again, urging. “It has nothing to do with the letter.” “That’s why I thought it would be a problem if there was one.” Exasperated by Sachiko’s relentlessly intrusive pestering, Yashiro irritably repeated, “Tea,” more forcefully this time—but then, struck by the absurdity of his own behavior, he suddenly burst out laughing, “If you want to see it so badly, go ahead and read the letter.” “I haven’t even looked at it yet.”

Having said that, for the first time he broke the seal on the documents before his sister. As anticipated, among them was a letter from Chizuko. It stated that since there would be an opportunity to visit Mr. Higashino’s house tomorrow, they wished Yashiro to come if convenient; yet even this simple matter carried complications—Chizuko’s mother had written of her growing insistence to meet him again, and faced with such sudden change in a woman’s disposition, he found himself unable to feel pure joy alone, sensing instead a faint unease that furrowed his brow.

Sachiko, seemingly sensing Yashiro’s unsettled state, said nothing more; after bringing up the tea, she immediately descended and did not approach him again.

That night he stayed up alone until late. He began writing a letter to Chizuko but abandoned it halfway through due to lack of motivation, instead turning to examine photographs and maps collected in his research album. These photographs—both commissioned by President Teikichi for investigation and serving as essential materials for Yashiro’s own studies—depicted shrines demonstrating the gradual transformation of Buddhist architectural styles embellishing our nation’s most pristine ancient structures from antiquity, while the maps exclusively indicated their remote mountainous locations. In the shrines’ forms captured by these photographs, even the slightest discernible stylistic detail invariably revealed an era that had assailed each structure anew. And the reality born from these successive struggles—uncontested—now exerted definite influence within his present self.

As Yashiro looked at these photographs, he naturally began drawing out the spiritual implications they held for his present life. Then, setting aside the architectural questions within the images, when he considered what truly troubled him in this new era of his existence, he realized it was his attempt to conceal from his Hokke Buddhist mother the necessity of revealing Chizuko’s Catholicism. Though disclosure seemed permissible from the start—since truth would inevitably emerge—the difficulty of adding a Catholic spire to a syncretic Shintō-Buddhist Gongen-zukuri structure demanded unprecedented effort even when viewed purely through architectural formalism. Even if war’s flames were to consume it countless times over, as long as this hybrid form existed in Japan’s reality, the day would surely come when through layered ingenuity—layer upon layer—even this would undergo Japanization.

While matters of Catholic architecture were not directly utilized in his work, even within the organizational department of Teikichi’s architectural firm where Yashiro was employed, the issue of architectural Japanization remained a constant source of concern and a natural and passionate research subject that grappled with its inherent challenges. From the Asuka period’s era of direct imitation of Chinese and Korean architecture through the Nara and early Heian assimilation phase to the late Heian completion of Japanization demonstrated at Byōdō-in Temple in Uji—this sequence had repeated itself even within the brief temporal span through which Yashiro and his contemporaries were living: from early Meiji’s era of direct imitation under Westernization currents through Taishō’s assimilation phase to the present Japanization age. Moreover, this pattern was not limited merely to architectural aspects; even in the spiritual realm it remained unchanged. From the Asuka period to modern Shōwa times, no matter which cross-section of these brief epochs one examined—beneath the process where efforts belonging to each era were exerted, suffered through, and nurtured onward—there necessarily existed another force that naturally guided this progression.

"That’s it—the thing I want to know," Yashiro thought. Yet over these past days his thoughts—centered on his father’s bones amid overlapping concerns from his mother, sister and uncles—were consumed by preparations to bring Chizuko into their household. He had surely tried countless times to escape her influence and steeled himself to break free—yet this force only deepened further while rendering all will, wisdom and action powerless—what could it possibly be? Still he had to acknowledge its presence: a peculiar yet intensely cohesive power that gripped his heart and drove it relentlessly forward.

Apparently, it had rained during the night, and cherry blossom petals floated in the puddles. Yashiro looked up through gaps in the sunlight at the maple's pale crimson claws. The persimmon buds swelled softly with loosened twists, making him suddenly aware of his morning appetite, but these recent mornings—since the bush warbler that had come daily until his father's death had vanished—even the veins of the garden leaves appeared to resemble his father's blood vessels. As he circled the garden and noticed the white peony his father had planted scattering its petals, a sudden pain made his eyes dart, and he slipped into the thicket. Even after opening the back gate and walking along the chilled path through the bamboo grove, the whiteness of the crumbling peony blossoms pursued him relentlessly. Amidst sharp stripes of sunlight trapped in bamboo joints that undulated like waves, he lit a cigarette and walked while searching for shoots crowned with dead leaves rising from the earth.

When Yashiro emerged from the bamboo grove onto the wide road, a stubborn-looking old man in his sixties was asking directions from a girl of seventeen or eighteen tending a bonfire. When the girl answered something, the old man looked around while maintaining his spread-legged posture. And in a shrill voice brimming with astonishment: “Huh—so this is it? This here?” He tapped the ground with his bamboo cane. “I last came here thirty years back—what a change! You hadn’t even been born yet back then.”

The old man, this time peering at the girl’s face, showed no intention of looking away. Under the old man’s piercing gaze that seemed to demand, "Where were you back then?" the girl could offer no answer—she could only blush in embarrassment. Yashiro thought that if thirty years of time’s passage were earnestly etched upon one’s countenance, then even this vaguely observed scenery before him might take on that old man’s frenzied, almost maddened intensity. Indeed, if after thirty years had passed, he were to go abroad again, he would surely be astonished by the unexpected changes, he imagined. And when he thought that by then he would likely already have children of his own, he found himself wanting to confront those children—"Where are you now?"—with the same intensity as the old man, making even this afternoon’s scheduled meeting with Chizuko feel imbued with profound meaning, an ordinary act between two people that could not be treated carelessly.

In the afternoon at the appointed time, Yashiro went to Higashino’s residence. According to Chizuko’s letter—which considered the inconvenience their separate arrivals might cause the guests—they had decided to meet first at Matsutaka Park nearby; spotting the white signboard, he entered. The park was a small garden remnant of a daimyo mansion, with an elongated pond untouched by artificial embellishments lying beneath mortar-shaped trees that slanted inward, surrounded by overgrown narrow paths—a place of rare metropolitan elegance among the city’s parks, inconspicuous yet fitting for waiting.

Yashiro sat down on the wooden bench by the edge of the pond. No one was in sight, and a maple branch that had sprouted buds hung down from above his head. The pond’s surface was entirely covered with densely packed water lily leaves, and in the center, two islands buried in reeds could be seen. As Yashiro gazed at the pond, he felt a sense of familiarity and suddenly recalled the oval mural at Monet’s museum in Paris that he had forgotten. It was a room whose walls were entirely covered with paintings of water lilies floating on a marsh, but at that time he had thought it resembled a scene from somewhere in Japan—yet now he found himself instead perceiving it as a view from somewhere in Paris. At that time, he and Chizuko, burdened by hunger from having missed a meal, had irritably rushed into the water lily room—

“Haha, to think there’s an actual place just like that room here—” Yashiro, utterly amused, muttered this to himself. Moreover, when he thought that Chizuko from that time would soon come there as well—whether it was the conception of Monet’s masterpiece, said to have been dreamed of out of love for Japan, or even if it was this marsh he was now looking at—none of it struck him as particularly inconvenient; he seriously pondered this. If Monet truly had always dreamed of Japanese water lilies as they say, Yashiro came to think, perhaps he had branded the late painter’s dream upon himself and secretly brought it here in his place.

Before long, Chizuko descended from the back gate, dressed in a kimono unlike her usual attire. Her figure, clad in a purple kimono with crisp arrow-feather patterns and a straight-backed posture, was reflected on the pond’s surface as she descended the steps beside the boxwood tree. She touched the still-tight hydrangea buds in the thicket, circled around the path, then came over and sat down beside him on the wooden bench.

“Lately, going out has become easier.” Chizuko rubbed her forehead lightly while gazing at him sidelong. Yashiro noticed a strangely mature-looking, relaxed smile that had come over her—he sensed that Chizuko’s prolonged mental exhaustion was finally beginning to ease. He complimented how well the kimono suited her and, after a slight pause, thanked her for the letter. “Is it really true? That everything with your mother went so smoothly?” he inquired.

“My mother is that sort of person, you know.” “I sometimes wonder if even you might feel sorry for her, you know.” “And what’s funny is, one moment she’s so absorbed in worrying about your stomach problems, and the next she keeps calling out ‘Mr. Yashiro, Mr. Yashiro.’” “There are times when I’m alone that I feel like my stomach skin might twist itself into knots.” “But it’s all right now.”

Chizuko said only the last part in such a small voice and lowered her eyes to the surface of the pond. Ripples spread outward from where a small fish had surfaced to gulp air, their ceaseless succession creating a sound like rain falling into water. “But being trusted this much is troublesome again,” he said. “You should start saying that from now on as well. In fact, I’m not someone you can take credit for.” “The other day was quite amusing too,” she replied. “Since Mother kept talking about you so much, Brother Yuki—in his usual way—said you’re a bit too serious and that it must be such a hassle. Then Mother got angry and retorted, ‘That’s because you’re not being serious enough!’”

“Ah, that’s precisely where my misfortune lies—I’m always overestimated by others.” “But this one is an utterly hopeless tragedy—” In the reassurance that their marriage was as good as settled, Yashiro let out such a light sigh. Despite being in high spirits, he found himself slumping against the wooden chair—perhaps due to fatigue from having reached his destined place—as he gazed at the bark of a red pine growing in the grassy field across the shore. A cluster of ferns dangled over the marsh at the water’s edge where cherry blossom petals had gathered. Through a gap in the thicket to the right, the legs of a swing—its base billowing with wind—could be seen leaping high, white against the sky.

“Please decide the date for the ceremony.” Chizuko asked Yashiro, who remained silent, with a softness tinged by dissatisfaction. Even having been cornered this far, he couldn’t fathom why he himself—who had never once broached the subject of their marriage—now found Chizuko’s abrupt leap to inquiring about the ceremony date not particularly strange at all. “When would be good?” He murmured just those words as if to himself and turned his gaze back to the pond.

“We must consider your family’s recent bereavement, and I don’t know.” “That is also a consideration.” “Then autumn it is.” Yashiro agreed, thinking it would likely be around that time. Though it seemed other important matters he ought to mention were crowding in, even after thoroughly searching his mind he found nothing—everything else appeared vaguely like matters best left to others—and as he traced the sagging chains of the iron fence around the pond with his eyes, he tried again to think of what needed to be said. For a while before their silent figures, quiet spring sunlight shone upon water where carp swam in circles, churning mud with their tails.

“My mother seems to have taken notice of you as well, but I intend to bring it up again myself properly and then ask Mr. Higashino to act as our go-between—that’s what I have in mind.” “It may seem like we’re proceeding slowly, but when you consider it properly, it hasn’t even been a year since we met.” “One could even say a year is somewhat too soon.” “But your reason for taking things slowly is primarily due to your father’s passing, isn’t it?”

Chizuko asked with a gaze that detected something lacking in Yashiro’s unenthusiastic demeanor. He answered that it was so. And though he thought he ought to feel more uplifted now, the tranquil marshlight—swayed by a breeze through reed shoots’ tender buds—had instilled in him a composure so profound it vexed him, until he even began to feel an apologetic reserve toward Chizuko.

“When will you depart for Kyoto?” “I intend to go soon.” “Please return as quickly as possible. If I wouldn’t be intruding, I’d like to accompany you—Mother would surely approve. But since there may be considerations on your side, I can politely refrain if necessary.” Chizuko placed her parasol tip against the tabi seams and spoke while crouching forward, as if scrutinizing Yashiro’s expression beside her. Since before his father’s death, Yashiro had indeed told Chizuko that visiting Kyoto together would be educational for them both—thus he had no proper grounds to refuse her now—but this journey involved carrying his father’s bones. For such a qualitatively different trip from their usual excursions, he found himself unable to issue invitations with sightseeing cheerfulness, resolving instead to await her explicit insistence before responding.

“Last night, my sister threw such a tantrum about this—insisting I absolutely must take her along. While Kyoto might be manageable, if we’re going all the way to Kyushu too, I find myself unable to readily agree.” “But it’s only natural your sister says she wants to accompany you.” “Please do take her along.”

Chizuko seemed to have keenly sensed the vague disagreement that had occurred between Yashiro and Sachiko the previous night, and her sudden smile felt incongruous with their surroundings. Yashiro left his feelings about finalizing the Kyoto trip unresolved in that same ambiguous state; even this dilemma—being unable to push through decisively in either direction—he felt would soon pile up as oppressive weight once he fully immersed himself in family life. All the while, he watched the methane bubbles ceaselessly rising and bursting beneath Chizuko’s pristine white tabi on the water’s surface—a sight he had been gazing at earlier yet had momentarily forgotten—and as he did, his resolve solidified within him: surely no matter the difficulty, nothing could remain unilluminated beneath the light of day. Yashiro felt as though his feet had finally reached the bottom of the old marsh, and saying, “Well, shall we go?” he rose from the wooden chair. And then, he asked Chizuko if seeing the water lilies in this marsh reminded her of anything.

“Oh! Right—I’ve been meaning to tell you earlier—look, you know, about the Tuileries—” Chizuko suddenly looked at Yashiro, her eyes sparkling. “Monet’s museum.”

“Yes, yes—Monet’s museum. I remember how we sat on that center bench like frogs, both of us starving.” “It truly was a place like this.” Like an embodiment of the philosophy that even past events become reality when recalled, the moment they spoke these words aloud, it manifested with the weight of truth. The two of them began circling the dense clusters of water lilies in the marsh, as though upholding their shared memory. Yashiro recounted how Monet’s love for Japan verged on madness—how he had filled his own residence with Japanese aesthetics—and how the crowning masterpiece of his life, which he had quietly passed away yearning for within his unfulfilled dreams of Japan, was none other than this marsh of water lilies they had seen.

“But you didn’t say such things back then—you’re the one who called this a painting of hell,” Chizuko laughed with a somewhat teasing tone.

“Back then, they wouldn’t even let us have a cup of coffee, so I ended up saying something rude in frustration.” “However, if what Monet believed to be heaven was contained within those water lily paintings, then perhaps this old marsh truly is more of a heaven than that hell we experienced that day.” Even as he spoke, Yashiro listened to the wind passing through the red pines; when he looked up toward the bright sky from the mortar-shaped hollow, cherry blossom petals came scattering down. From the marsh path, they climbed up to a small grassy knoll and, finding themselves reluctant to leave once more, sat down as if by mutual agreement to gaze at the water lilies.

“Let’s come here from time to time, shall we? “I’ve grown fond of it.” “It’s so quiet here, and there’s no one else around, you know.” From between the fingers of Chizuko, who leaned forward as she spoke, new grass sprouts extended, and the black ants’ staggering movements crawling over the downy hair of her wrists evoked a vivid distraction in one about to enter matrimony. Yashiro became aware of his joy growing more substantial moment by moment—something unusual—but suddenly felt it accompanied by a slender stream that inexplicably transformed into sorrow, and he turned his eyes from the ants down to the water lilies. The ripples drawn by the water strider resembled rain falling into the marsh.

Higashino’s house stood on elevated ground not far from the park. From its broken gate stretched a long front garden overgrown with weeds, through which rose a tall colonnade of pedestals bearing remnants of floral decorations. This brief glimpse of the residence vividly reflected Higashino’s eccentric yet dignified character. According to Chizuko, Higashino’s wife—a poet from a Kansai zaibatsu family—remained confined to their villa in Suma with her personal attendant due to poor health, rarely venturing to Tokyo; Yashiro now learned for the first time that two of their three children stayed in Suma while only the eldest son, raised by a wet nurse, lived with his father. Considering Chizuko had acquired this information through Makiko, Yashiro inferred that Higashino and Makiko’s relationship since returning had grown closer than he had previously realized. Though Higashino had entered decline as a writer, ceasing his flamboyant output, his bold style—occasionally defying expectations—endeared him to imagination-driven circles while alienating scientifically inclined writers. His growing dedication to the washi paper sideline likely stemmed from both his idiosyncratic tastes and commercial motives—indeed, his overseas travels appeared less literary pursuits than efforts to expand washi distribution channels.

Inside the house, even after ringing the doorbell, there was only silence for some time, and no answer came. As Chizuko wandered around to the backyard and was gazing up at the beautiful apricot tree that had bloomed alone amidst the weeds, the entrance opened from within, and only Higashino’s large face peered out.

“This home does seem very much like you.” “It’s obvious right away.” Yashiro had no intention of offering formal greetings to this Higashino and spoke in a relaxed mood from the start.

“It must look rather desolate, I suppose.” “I was rather taken aback myself when I returned.” Following Higashino, who had spoken thus, the two crossed a deserted corridor, passed through a tree-filled courtyard of the main house, and were shown to a mezzanine parlor in the detached building. There, in the vast garden, only tall pampas grass grew thickly, and on one corner of the lawn that overlooked the fields' edge, that detached room seemed to float. “With this, this room is just right when it rains,” said Higashino, who seemed surprisingly pleased with it as he slid open the room’s shoji screens.

In the sealed glass cabinet, dozens of large antique inkstones, inksticks, and other old stationery items jostled for space. Among them hung a pair of scrolls by Bada Shanren and a print of horse racing at Auteuil, while on the plaque above was inscribed “Meishi Sansō” in Meikaku-style calligraphy—unexpectedly earnest in its execution. Chizuko first approached the shelf, surprised by the collection of inkstones. Then Higashino laughed and said that inkstones were his only real assets, taking out a bluish-black inkstone carved with a dove’s head and stroking it with his fingertips as he declared this to be Meishi. He also stated that, having returned to Japan, one must deeply contemplate paper, writing brushes, ink, and inkstones to understand Eastern civilization, and that here lay hidden the most exquisite flower of culture. The antique inkstones visible directly on the shelves were mostly Japanese inkstones, but the fact that their varieties spanned the entire country also served as a clear reflection of Higashino’s comprehensive character. Ōmi’s tiger-stripe, Kōshū’s rain-edge, Nagasaki’s Wakata, Fukui’s red valley, Suruga’s horseshoe—Higashino’s brief explanations leapt efficiently from one to the next, and whenever he reached a notable piece, he would pause as if reconsidering it himself and murmur in admiration.

“What do you think? Why don’t you do a little studying and try calligraphy again?” he said to Chizuko with a smile.

“Then, does Ms. Makiko also practice it?” asked Chizuko. “Since Hayasaka has become my disciple, I intend to make him do it by force.” “However, her haiku has come quite far.” “It still retains a severely Taishō-esque collapse in character.” “I’ll fix that with this inkstone, you know.” Higashino’s eyes, seated at his desk wearing a brown sleeveless garment, bore a cool smile beneath his open forehead glowing from within. Yashiro took down Meishi from the shelf, placed it on his palm, and examined the silkworm-like mottling on the inkstone’s surface by holding it up to the light before asking whether Higashino’s haiku name was also Meishi.

“Well, I suppose it just turned out that way before I knew it.” “Since my wife’s name is Katsuko, I initially tried being clever with that ‘came, saw, conquered’ bit in Latin—vici, you know—to make it snap.” “But gradually, I came to prefer inkstones.” “Lately, since Meishi is a Chinese inkstone, I’ve been thinking of renaming it with a Japanese name—something like Meishi Hermitage.” “Since names are best left to others, I’d appreciate if you’d think one up for me.” Even as Higashino’s jokes shifted tone like musical modulations, they briefly contained a melancholic laugh from his personal history—something Yashiro found intriguing.

"But that would be too pitiful for your wife," said Chizuko, briefly looking up at the plaque. "However, it seems my wife prefers ink over me." "She has quite a collection of fine ink indeed." "I've been trying to find a chance to steal some for myself, but this one here remains stubbornly unyielding." "After all, unlike an inkstone, ink diminishes the moment you touch it." "Once I secretly tried grinding my wife's prized Ming-dynasty ink with this Meishi—ah, that tactile quality sent a jolt straight to the marrow!" "So I tried writing a clumsy verse——"

“What haiku was it?” Yashiro asked.

“May the stems of rapeseed flowers be praised—on the anniversary of Sanetomo’s death, I think it was.” “For me, that verse achieves a well-crafted subtlety.” “A haiku must be nothing less than a drop that naturally trickles from that tender, delicate fineness born when inkstone and ink cling perfectly together.” “With a plop came the sound, and the ink’s scent bloomed pungent.” No sooner had Higashino said this than his expression suddenly shifted—and quite abruptly, for reasons unclear—

“When is your wedding, you two?” Higashino asked Yashiro. The question was so abrupt and disconnected that Yashiro could only laugh without answering. “Still, you two will marry sooner or later,” Higashino continued. “When that time comes, I intend to present a poem written with this Meishi as my gift of celebration. I’ll compose it using water drawn from the Isuzu River and select my wife’s prized Ming-dynasty ink for the writing.” Yashiro felt profoundly grateful, yet in that instant he realized—Higashino’s entire discourse on inkstones and ink had been an elaborate metaphor for their romance all along. Such seemingly trivial matters gained retrospective significance through Higashino’s alchemy, transforming even their daily routines into artistic gestures that had perpetually vexed Kuji and Yashiro since their Paris days. Yet time and again, after being swept along by his whims, they’d discovered his methods were indeed the most efficient path. This moment proved no exception.

“The truth is, I have a request regarding that.” Yashiro shifted while maintaining his earlier laughter. Then Higashino—perhaps having intuited Yashiro’s unspoken words—murmured “Hmm” and fixed his gaze at a midpoint between Chizuko and him with avian intensity. “I’ll come ask properly another time, but hearing it from you makes it feel rather lacking in artistic sensibility,” Yashiro said with a laugh, glancing at Chizuko beside him.

“Congratulations. “However, my wife is asleep and can’t come out.” “Instead, I’ll have Hayasaka come out. If that’s acceptable, I’ll do my best.” To Higashino, who had responded immediately, Yashiro bowed his head and said, “That’s fine, please go ahead.” But he felt keenly that his habitual tendency to lag behind in such situations had been exposed once again, and for a while, he was consumed by self-loathing, his surroundings seeming to blur into a dark, narrow haze. Even during this time, Higashino—believing it proper to respect the wishes of both families’ parents, even if the mediator’s arbitrary conditions might be acceptable to the person in question—kindly deferred the matter until the outcome of further discussions. And then, at the end, he said this and laughed again.

“Anyway, the two of you are the sort who make people go out of their way.” “That’s your well-established reputation, you know.” “You all probably aren’t aware, but after you leave, wherever people gather, they stir up endless debates with rumors and speculations about you.” “In the worst cases, there were those who, upon returning to Japan, told me to destroy your marriage while refusing to acknowledge any need for it.” “Do you understand what that means?” “Why is that?” Yashiro asked. “Because you did what no one else could do.” “When you didn’t get married abroad and went back divided between west and east, Kuji made an amusingly ironic remark about it.” “Those two fools are probably squeezing the earth between them right about now, but thanks to that, Kuji said even I’m feeling suffocated.”

“What would you know about that concept?” Yashiro blurted out with a wry smile.

“However, well—rather than suffering by doing what anyone can do, there’s more meaning in suffering by doing what you cannot.” When Higashino’s voice dropped to a low, subdued tone as he said this, Yashiro perceived it not as a comment on his own situation but as Higashino muttering about himself. Even after Higashino stood and left the room, only the lingering echo of his words remained; once Yashiro sensed Makiko’s shadowed presence there, matters he couldn’t immediately discuss with Chizuko hung in the air, and the afternoon light in this mountain retreat showed no sign of breaking through the gloom.

Yashiro took down an old inkstone with a striking presence from the shelf and gazed at it. As the elegant chill of the stone's weight seeped through his palm, he sensed disordered shadows beneath—something still restless and turbulent—and upon realizing this disturbance too originated from Chizuko's presence behind him, he waited watching the haze of fingerprints on the inkstone's surface, glistening like motes of dust, gradually clear. As he remained motionless, from the luster radiating off the inkstone emerged the streets of Paris's Auguste Comte district. When he thought how that entire avenue had looked just like this, he recalled that final Parisian night when they'd parted—how he'd walked through rain to reach that spot and slumped onto a bench—and now felt himself holding that anguished figure from then in his hands, gazing upon it. Releasing his hand from the inkstone, he looked back at Chizuko. Leaning against the handrail while gazing at garden pampas grass, her alluring purple arrow-feather kimono—today fastened with a heavy obi—rested as though it might chime if struck.

“Even being a disciple of Ms. Makiko isn’t easy for Meishi Sansou, ah,” Yashiro said.

“She might come today.” “It seemed like she was on the phone just now.” “However, even if that’s acceptable, whether it’s all right to speak about Kuji in front of those two is the difficult point.” “But such a thing—Mr. Higashino even mentioned Mr. Kuji earlier, so I think it’s fine,” Chizuko said, looking up at Yashiro. “Still, Ms. Makiko probably isn’t like that.”

Even though there was no longer any connection, Yashiro still could not banish from his vision the amicable exchanges between Kuji and Chizuko from before he had known her. In Chizuko’s case this was one matter, but Makiko and Kuji had shared a life akin to marriage. That the four of them—now excluding Kuji—were gathering without outsiders was an experience unprecedented not only for Yashiro but for all involved. What surfaced through each mind’s turbulent thoughts—though resembling shifting travel-scapes of mountains and rivers—pierced through unmistakably as human forms. Yet looking back, he marveled that he and Chizuko had truly come this far. And Kuji’s old jest about them—“Those two fools might as well be squeezing the earth between east and west”—when recalled now, revived the fierce image of their passions then: coiled and inseparable like two serpents in grotesque embrace. That they should now be the pair peering into grasses here—thinking this, Yashiro felt a sword still sheathed somewhere in his tail’s length. But this blade would surely be drawn someday to cut through flames. Were it a divine sword, it might even become an iron spire reaching heavenward.—Yashiro considered how these yearnings and fantasies mirrored every man’s ceaseless aspirations. Without them, those passions that scorch men’s flesh would be mere putrid carrion.

"I am the serpent."

While thinking this, he raised his eyes from the grass to the sky.

When Higashino came out carrying matcha, he mentioned that Makiko—who had returned to her family home in Takagimachi—would arrive shortly, and asked if there would be time for everyone to gather and dine together that evening. After expressing his gratitude, Yashiro requested to be shown the water from the Isuzu River that had been mentioned earlier.

“The Isuzu River’s water quality is supreme.” “Inkstone connoisseurs customarily draw water from its lower reaches during the coldest winter days for their stones, but I administer camphor injections to mine to prevent bacterial growth.” “When prepared this way, the ink’s hue proves remarkably fine.”

Having said that, Higashino took out an antique Kobanko jar wrapped in a fukusa cloth from the shelf. After finishing the matcha, Yashiro held up the egg-shaped jar as if in offering. When he shook it slightly, the weight of the sloshing water sent a refreshing shiver through his torso down to his armpits, and he bowed his head.

“This too has somehow come to look like the Earth,” he murmured delightedly to himself, then listened to the sound of the water like a child. Furthermore, Higashino explained that differences emerge not in inkstone water’s quality but in the beauty of ink’s hue and its release when ground, adding that he possessed waters collected during his travels—domestic ones naturally, but also those from every foreign land he had visited. Yashiro had once read about a shogun’s wife having inkstone water brought from Kyoto and deemed it excessive refinement—yet through Higashino’s account now found himself marveling anew at how profoundly one might immerse in such meticulous daily endeavors.

“In that case, working with brushes and paper must be quite demanding too.” Chizuko too appeared genuinely moved. “Once I begin on this subject, there’s no stopping,” Higashino said. “Brushes alone come in thousands of varieties—too many to count. I commission craftsmen to make exactly what I prefer.” Having spoken, he fell silent. Chizuko—evidently recalling her tea ceremony training—completed the fukusa handling with practiced subtlety. After bowing to the Kobanko jar and testing its weight with a gentle shake, “I do hope you’ll compose a poem using this soon,” she whispered, setting the vessel back on the desk without a sound.

Higashino watched Chizuko’s demeanor for a while, nodded faintly, then—as if to himself—said, “That will do,” stood up, and retrieved from the back of the cupboard a square glass bottle scattered with golden star patterns. And then, “This is water from the Jordan River, procured by an acquaintance who journeyed there.” “I’ve heard you’re Catholic, so I’m showing this to you.”

Having said that, he placed it before Chizuko. It was water indistinguishable from ordinary freshwater, yet to him it seemed like water that had cleansed Christ’s body—a realization that startled him and sent unease coursing through his chest. When he glanced sideways at the faint tremor in Chizuko’s exposed nape, an eerie restlessness with nowhere to settle made him exhale a single “Hmm.” Like light skimming the facets of calcite, the water held a void at the bottle’s midpoint, motionless under pallid sunlight. Chizuko made no move to touch the bottle. Her face had paled slightly as she tightened her collar, her back hunched as though recoiling while she kept her eyes fixed on the water. Higashino, seemingly oblivious to the tension between them, casually retrieved a half-folded sheet from the back and unfolded it for them to see. The five characters inscribed meant nothing to Yashiro—he couldn’t even identify their origin—but Higashino’s offhand gesture finally loosened the knot of emotions lodged in his chest.

“This is written in the Israelite language—it reads ‘Immanuel,’ you know. The meaning is ‘God is with you.’” “The person who translated the Bible wrote this with that water and gave it to me.” "They bear a slight resemblance to Tibetan script—quite fascinating, don’t you think?" “This seal was carved from a stone broken off from the Jordan River at that time.” “It’s written on the back.” When I looked at the note on the back as Higashino had instructed, it stated that in early autumn of 1920, at the age of fifty-six, he had used water he himself had drawn from the Jordan River, and in mid-autumn of 1931, he had inscribed it. It stated that the seal on the right shoulder was carved in Luxor, Egypt, and the seal at the left hem was carved in Beirut, Syria. The fact that he had gone so far as to prove this was even more ill-timed, Yashiro thought. And as he watched Higashino lay out these numerous items like instruments of torture, Yashiro found himself growing strongly suspicious—no, convinced—that this man had already seen through the troubled parts of both Chizuko and himself, and that his unspoken intent as their matchmaker was to surgically dissect the rift between them now, before it festered further. Indeed, when considered this way, even Chizuko’s act of paying her respects to the Kobanko jar and holding it up reverently before Higashino’s quiet nod of approval—“That will do”—likely stemmed from his sense of responsibility as their matchmaker: having witnessed what needed to be seen, he now sought to fully acknowledge his role. Indeed, the inevitable tragedy that should have arisen between them was something that would reveal itself someday, no matter how they tried to conceal it. Yashiro steeled his resolve: Higashino’s underlying intent—which sought to make both Chizuko and himself endure the terror of confronting the truths they ought to see now—was something he too must face unflinchingly. Even so, with Higashino maintaining his innocent expression while suddenly dropping this upon them as was his habit, Yashiro found himself unable to quell the backlash of having been threatened. Even if Yashiro understood this as well, he began to feel somewhat sorry for her—for Chizuko, who must still have been inwardly startled and flustered. However, on such a day as this, the fact that they had coincidentally come to Higashino’s residence—equipped with all the tools to confront them—was something he still could not determine as either fortunate or unfortunate for the two of them, and he found himself repeatedly wanting to say something. “Are you also a Christian?” Yashiro asked, feeling an urge to pull out the old gauze from the already incised wound.

“No,” Higashino remained silent for a moment. “I once looked after the child of the person who gave me this. This is a token of gratitude.” “But tell me—when one receives such fine words, how did you feel at that moment?” said Yashiro, as a counterattacking stance—one that also sought to sort through Chizuko’s distress—gradually took shape within him. “I didn’t think anything particular of it.” “However, since this wasn’t something I had desired myself, I resigned myself to thinking it had finally come to me.” “You see?” “After all, it comes to everyone once.” “That’s no ordinary matter.” “Yet what has come cannot be helped.” “This is neither will nor spirit.” “Because it’s the soul.” “Gratefully, I accepted it.”

Higashino’s composed manner of speaking contained something—something buried deep within his chest that Yashiro still couldn’t grasp. “Grateful?” “Hmm—” Higashino nodded silently while observing Yashiro, then continued: “But you must understand—this represents the very struggles of our Japanese people. “It concerns nothing else. “Precisely for this reason, even our gods must have recognized it, bestowing their gentle approval with a ‘Well done.’ “For me, the religious spirit of foreign lands can only be perceived in this manner. “Any other way of sensing it—no matter how eloquently phrased—would appear false to me. “If it were visible, there’d be no need for such methods.”

“Then when it says ‘God is with you,’ does that mean you take it as those gods being our country’s gods?” Even as he posed the question, Yashiro felt his face grow hot, but convinced this was where Higashino’s performance would crack, he stared unblinking into the man’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Higashino answered with a peculiarly quiet tone just here. Then, still calmly gazing at the water in the square bottle: “But when you say such things, people won’t approve. They call it subjective. Yet no matter how objectively you examine it ultimately you can’t escape identity—that subjective thing. To settle on ‘Throughout heaven and earth, I alone am honored’—that’s human knowledge’s marketplace.” Having said this, Higashino fell silent briefly. Then rolling the paper again: “Since receiving this water and calligraphy I’ve always thought—in all earnestness—this must mean Japan’s gods too have gone over there. Otherwise I’d lose even my sensory capacity to perceive the world. Yet those across would similarly conceive their own gods. Into such a world where human sensibilities can’t be measured science abruptly manifested erecting objectivity’s tower—that abstract tower of identity. Well—if buildable might as well build it. That was humans growing bored. What they call Sai no Kawara.”

“In that case, we can do without the camphor injection,” Yashiro said with a light laugh. But when he glanced at the Jordan water now, it appeared ordinary again. *Alright!* Yashiro thought, rejoicing that he had finally survived the day’s crisis. However, at that casually spoken remark of his, it was now Higashino who unexpectedly revealed an unguarded moment of honesty, laughing with eyes darting busily as if trying to recompose himself in an instant.

“When injecting camphor into this water from the Isuzu River, I too actually thought very carefully. "But water decays quickly, you see. If bacteria were to multiply, it’d be a waste, and yet discarding it would be even worse. So I approached it scientifically. "If you don’t torment your own spirit a little, an honest spirit risks becoming fixed. "In short, not allowing the vital point to become fixed is the battle against myself.”

Yashiro silently committed to memory the pliancy of Higashino’s explanation—anticipatory and articulate as it was—but offered no agreement; still, sensing where his suffering resided, he thought: *The vital point is beginning to harden.* Then Higashino suddenly patted his knee lightly and said, “Ah—I forgot to tell you this,” but whether out of consideration for Chizuko’s ears beside him or not, he did not continue and instead tightened the mouth of the old Banko fukusa. Yashiro felt a leaden unease at Higashino’s repeated ambushes today, wondering what he would say next, yet still waited for the words that would emerge from him.

“The other day at the New Grand—this was after you all had left—” “Various matters concerning you all also came up.” “At the end of that, Baron Hisaki asked whether you would be willing to join his company.” “He told me to inquire with you once.” “I mentioned that you weren’t suited for the company and opposed it for the time being...” “It seems the Baron has his own considerations—that’s precisely why he wants you to join.” “In that case, I understand—but in return I joked whether they’d offer high pay since I’m a Higashino University graduate.” “But then they immediately said to leave it to me.” “To me.” “Isn’t that amusing?”

Higashino said, grinning as he observed Yashiro’s face. “So how much will you give me?” Though other companies were one matter, circumstances had rendered Yashiro’s resolve to work at Hisaki Company unshakable from the moment he heard of it—hence his asking so bluntly about the salary, albeit as a joke. “So I replied we should make it unpaid,” Higashino said. “It’s the truth. What do you say?” Reckless as the proposal was, consideration revealed prospects rich in implication. Yet with it being unpaid, this consultation now dwelled in the realm of human relations where refusal lay beyond rational consideration—Yashiro felt confronted by an insoluble problem. Still, the nebulous boundary between Higashino’s earnestness and artifice held a warmth that made him waver. Moreover, within Higashino’s eyes lurked a sharp laugh—its gaze fixed upon the vital point of this marriage—and as one especially adept at awaiting responses, he had no doubt also tossed into play the matter of Yashiro’s company entrance exam.

“In any case, so as not to let the vital point become fixed, could you allow me to delay my response for a while?” Yashiro replied. “Hmm, but they’re dead serious,” Higashino remarked tersely, then began methodically arranging the items on his desk. Yashiro watched Higashino’s retreating figure in the Jinbaori coat as he stood up. In that rapid technique of hurling stones—large and small—to obscure himself through successive diversions, Yashiro felt a weariness and loneliness that eroded his very sense of self. The prospect of enduring hours more at dinner with him now loomed as an ordeal demanding extraordinary fortitude.

As dusk approached and the voices of Higashino's children could be heard from the main house, the three left home. The dinner was at a restaurant that served Higashino’s favorite duck dishes.

Passing through the entrance lanterns whose lights reflected on the rising tidewaters of the Sumida River, as they ascended to the second floor, Makiko was already there. She seemed to meet with Higashino regularly, and they exchanged no greetings between them. Yashiro, partly because he and Makiko had stayed at the same lodgings in Paris, still felt a sense of familiarity when they met. Even so, as she stood beside Higashino, Kuji’s presence clung ceaselessly behind her. When they spoke, the habits and emotional connections that had been maintained precisely because Kuji existed between him and Makiko had now abruptly shifted to Higashino, making every interaction feel awkward for the time being. Makiko, who was also aware of this, seemed uncharacteristically reserved, and their conversation did not flow smoothly on either side.

They divided the sukiyaki pot into two—Makiko and Higashino, and Chizuko and Yashiro. When the pots had grown hot and the oil’s surface began seeping and crumbling, Higashino declared they should compare it to the duck from that famous restaurant along the Seine’s banks, asserting this one was in no way inferior—if anything superior—and became the first to express delight, alone in his enthusiasm. When the group fell silent, he explained how to eat the duck, criticizing their improper methods while meticulously overseeing every detail—the soy sauce quantity for the grated radish, the ideal tenderness—issuing precise instructions. The meat they ate under Higashino’s guidance proved indeed several times more flavorful.

“With this, though it’s already somewhat past the season... I truly wish I could have let you taste those from January and February.” Higashino kept lamenting as if it were his own creation while continuing to monitor even the charcoal beneath the pot. Whenever someone picked a questionable piece of meat, he would flick it from their chopsticks with a “No, no,” and direct them to a more suitable one.

“I’m surprised,” Yashiro said. “Is this place you frequent an old establishment?”

“And how long have you been coming here?” Yashiro asked with admiration. “I’ve been coming here for ten years,” Higashino replied, “and I can tell you that even the most seasoned maids in this establishment are less skilled than I am at selecting the meat, adjusting the charcoal, and portioning the grated radish.” He particularly praised the restaurant’s strict and conscientious selection of vegetables. After detailing the origins of each premium ingredient—scallions from Jōshū, carrots from Kyoto, seaweed from Ōmori, shiitake mushrooms from Izu—Higashino declared that the duck here alone qualified as a work of art, until even his explanations began to grow somewhat tiresome at that point.

“However, you know, among Japanese artists, I believe farmers are number one.” When Higashino followed this with his sudden declaration—though characteristic of him—it resembled a condition where expressions of exact scientific truth had no choice but to become paradoxical. To Yashiro, it felt as if some desperate anguish was churning and overflowing within.

“With that approach of yours, Ms. Makiko must be getting scolded about her haiku too by now,” Yashiro laughed.

“That’s right—the Professor has praised my haiku only once.” “And that’s the haiku I dislike the most.” Seeing Makiko’s smiling face as she cast a fleeting glance toward Higashino from Yashiro, he thought she still could not quite be called Higashino’s disciple.

“That haiku of yours from that time is excellent, Makiko.” “The morning of waiting reflects blue fallen leaves in the mirror—that’s how it goes, you see.” “You see? It captures the Luxembourg morning well.” “It also has a quiet intensity lurking within—tinged with a slight desperation, you see.” Without needing to wait for Higashino’s explanation, Yashiro felt that the haiku—with its automatic expression of “mirror reflects”—vividly captured Makiko’s resolve on the morning she parted with Kuji, as if plucking off green leaves with delicate hands. And now, wanting also to know the shifts in Makiko and her companions’ emotional states from that time, he requested that they recite a few more of her other haiku.

“There were various others too. ‘A winter journey aggrieved by unraveled packing’—well, this one also has its merits.”

“That one was corrected by Sensei,” Makiko said, shrinking her neck slightly and looking down after speaking. "This haiku has an interesting meaning beyond just being a poem—it concerns matters between Kuji and me." "But if I don’t tell this story, it really loses much of its flavor." Higashino looked at Makiko as if consulting her about whether to tell a story before recounting an episode from when Kuji came to his lodging during their separation. According to his account,Kuji—having heard of Higashino’s impending departure from Paris—asked him to take Makiko back while explaining their circumstances had reached an irreparable state. Though unclear in cause,Kuji reportedly declared he would pack Makiko like luggage and insisted on her repatriation despite inconvenience,citing her preexisting wish for poetic feedback. When challenged about packing competence,Kuji expressed confidence,prompting Higashino’s jest about carving bag corners for haiku-fueled recovery—a traveler’s anecdote where humor unexpectedly materialized into reality.

“But that anecdote detracts from the haiku’s beauty—it’s no good,” Yashiro said.

Higashino remained silent. Though Yashiro understood that he—rather than evaluating the haiku’s quality—must have chosen one of Makiko’s verses to clarify his longstanding stance toward her, he still found no joy in it. Particularly, Kuji’s flippant jest at that moment—though they were travelers—caught his attention, making even Makiko’s Western dress beside him seem to harbor creases of diminished refinement, while he sensed a tarnishing haze as the anecdote’s stain seeped into what had initially been a hauntingly beautiful poem.

“There was a haiku from when the Queen Mary rocked on the Atlantic—‘Rolling that strips even the core from winter roses’—that sort of thing existed too.” “The ship’s rolling back then was quite something, wasn’t it?” Higashino said to Makiko, his gaze now unusually bright with reminiscence of their cabin from that time. “Honestly, I truly thought I might die then.” “I’d never experienced such violent rocking before.” Makiko’s expression softened as she turned to Chizuko beside her. Yet Yashiro thought this haiku of their swaying luxury cabin not only evoked Higashino and Makiko’s pleasant voyage, but also laid bare the perilous undercurrents of that night—a work of gorgeous craftsmanship. By contrast, Yashiro now felt afresh the loneliness of his solitary journey through Siberia’s desolate expanse and lowered his gaze.

The bird hotpot shared by Higashino and Makiko burned vigorously, and from the moment the haiku about the violently rolling cabin emerged, their atmosphere gradually transformed into something lively and cheerful—yet amidst this, Chizuko remained inexplicably silent and withdrawn. Yashiro occasionally glanced at Chizuko, but each time she averted her gaze from him and grew more despondent. Through eyes that had been pursuing insights into Higashino and Makiko’s relationship, Yashiro perceived in Higashino’s seasoned, bold method of selecting haiku—abruptly cast before him—a retaliatory fascination lurking toward Chizuko and his own youth; yet precisely because he had not anticipated this resonance would surge toward them like towering waves, he felt profoundly isolated. Moreover, with the pair across from them sitting aligned before their separate pot—poised to resolutely embrace Epicurean refinement—their own pot’s combativeness smoldered with a secret Stoic resolve. But weighed down by Chizuko’s gloom, even the charcoal fire seemed to crumble, and peering into the pot left them naturally dispirited.

“Two butterflies flying single-mindedly—if only there were waves—this was a piece from Boston, I suppose.” “With such an excess of vigor that sadness comes to dominate—so to speak.”

Higashino continued. It was no longer casual speech. In Higashino’s boldness—which carried a blunt jest declaring he would inevitably lose to Yashiro and the others’ youth—Yashiro suddenly felt this matchmaker’s loneliness was no longer abstract. Yet even as he recited it, the haiku held a strange power—intertwined with an invocation that might uplift their despondent selves. And when his conviction that it was indeed the latter grew stronger,

“I’ll take it. Thank you.” With that abrupt declaration, Yashiro addressed Higashino. “Well now—” Higashino’s expression finally brightened with evident pleasure. Yet the women—apparently interpreting Yashiro’s remark as reciprocation for Makiko’s butterfly-paired intimacy in Boston—suddenly broke into laughter. Yashiro joined their mirth effortlessly, recognizing this interpretation as both natural and inevitable. “Our pot here remains utterly lifeless. Stoke the fire for us, would you?” Yashiro urged Chizuko, lifting the pot’s handles with both chopsticks. Chizuko twisted her neck awkwardly under his attention, brushing ember ashes aside as she adjusted the coals, her movements still hollow and listless. Watching her languid hands, Yashiro sensed this malaise stemmed not from Makiko’s exquisite haiku but from some persistent unease lingering since before they’d left Higashino’s residence—then realized it must be residual anguish from their encounter with Jordan River water at Mayukosanbou. If such were the case, he mused, this wound wouldn’t heal in mere days; simultaneously, the mountain retreat’s aqueous chill washed over him anew.

“Two butterflies flying earnestly—if only there were waves—how splendid,” he said, as if to blow away his tangled thoughts, envisioning the bright sea and vast waves from which they would take flight, feeling compelled to urge Chizuko beside him to prepare her wings to fly alongside. Soon Chizuko seemed to perceive his joy and straightened her posture. The pot too gradually came to a good boil. Yashiro secretly hoped she had not forcibly corrected her posture. He became filled with the desire to quickly clear away all murkiness between them.

After the blossoms had scattered, the cherry trees' leaves revealed their sudden starkness. Upon pale red calyxes where pistils lingered like whiskers, the filtering sunlight exposed spring's deepening—a season tinged with blossom-fall weariness and lonely beauty. Yashiro watched an errand-runner take eyedrops from his coat, apply them, and depart, then thought how this season—poised between fallen blooms and leafing trees—held an indescribable loneliness. He had resolved to broach his marriage to Chizuko during bedtime's quiet hour, waiting since dawn for nightfall—yet even as sunset neared, imagining that moment brought such peculiar embarrassment he faltered. Why should speaking one word feel so shameful? Disgusted by his own timidity, he wandered alone along the dusk-filled lane beside his house. Testing his composure by crushing new buds between his teeth, retracing his steps endlessly, he wondered if Chizuko too had forced through such awkwardness—only now marveling at women's courage. When he reached where cherry petals lay scattered like pale foam,

"Ah."

And for the first time, he murmured this and came to a stop. From the cold depths where transparent twilight pressed in, the whiteness of the petals permeating his eyes made him suddenly forget even the matter of marriage. It was a truly magnificent, unexpectedly beautiful world. The surface of the path—still untrodden by others, dappled like a fawn's coat—bore a softness free of dust and faintly dampened, growing more suffused with petals the longer one looked. "This is perfect." "This is a good omen!" he muttered again.

The road, as vividly white as a dusting of snow, still stretched endlessly onward. The brightness shining from below made his eyes nearly close, and with thoughts scattered beyond focus, Yashiro descended the slope. At the foot lay a river where water flowed through grass strewn with wind-scattered cherry blossoms. In the thick foam swirling downward floated clumps of gathered blossoms, tossed by the rapids’ plunging current; these floral masses traced white circles ceaselessly, whirling without pause.

As Yashiro gazed down at the water from the wooden bridge’s edge, a housewife in her mid-thirties passed by, carrying a heavy bundle in one hand and cradling an infant—born mere days ago—in the other. The swaddled infant swelled as if ready to burst from its mother’s arms, the thickly padded cotton wrap’s collar gaping open with each step she took. Though not an extraordinary sight, as he watched, the lip-like collar of that thick yuzen-dyed wrap kept spreading wide enough to block the mother’s view; she would pause, clamp the fabric between her teeth to tug it closed, then resume walking. The scene resembled a parent bird that had gathered food now desperately cramming it into its chick’s beak—and Yashiro found himself transfixed by the mother’s figure for some time.

Under normal circumstances it might have been different, but precisely because he had resolved to tell his mother about Chizuko that night, the parent bird's appearance struck him as revealing his mother's unseen hardships—a realization that pierced his chest. Yet now he felt no inclination to seek special meaning from such scenes. Rather, he perceived himself as no different from an infant still swaddled—likely to throw childish tantrums—and could only think that no matter how time passed, children would never consider matters beyond their childish realm. Even if he could articulate all logical arguments, words now seemed utterly unnecessary before his mother—his chest grew transparent as gratitude surged within him. A wind stirred the forest treetops. After watching the setting sun sink while glinting off the schoolhouse windows, Yashiro turned homeward. Though he had descended the slope earlier with heavy resolve, he now reentered the house with carefree ease reminiscent of boyhood mischief. Dinner preparations awaited at home.

After finishing his meal and taking a bath, even as he waited in his study for the customary time when his mother would call for tea, he briefly thought about how to first broach the subject with her. However, even after thinking it through alone, he could not seem to find the right way to begin, and resolving to leave it to the course of events and let his lips move as they naturally would, he steadied his nerves.

Before long, voices of his mother and Sachiko could be heard from downstairs. Their conversation concerned the neighboring household with its unhealthy obsession for cats, and during pauses in their talk, Sachiko’s carefree laughter continued to ring out brightly. The women-only neighboring household kept five cats, one of which had died that morning. When Sachiko went to offer condolences with a bouquet at this funeral, the entire family had reportedly cried in unison—a scene his sister now reenacted through exaggerated voice mimicry and gestures, her laughter tinged with playful mockery.

As if to douse that lively laughter with a splash of water, the thought of bringing up the matter of marriage now made Yashiro falter even at descending the stairs. However, thinking that continuing like this would only prolong his indecision indefinitely, and seizing the opportunity presented by his timely hesitation, he descended the stairs of his own accord with the resolve to confront his own weakness head-on. With an air of casually picking up a cat, he sat down quietly beside the two of them, their laughter still lingering, and first asked Mother for tea.

“I was just about to call you.” Sachiko said, taking over for Mother and brewing tea in the teapot. “Brother, you were listening, weren’t you?” “It’s a cat funeral.” “It’s exactly like a human one.” “The neighbors,” Sachiko said, shrugging her shoulders and lowering her voice only for that part before giggling again in amusement. “But if you leave it at that, it still counts as a good deed.” “They couldn’t possibly sustain it.” “They’re such gentle souls,” Mother said, stopping her laughter.

“But if they grieve and cry that much over a cat, I wonder what they’d do if a human died.” “They couldn’t possibly grieve any more than that.” “Well, Mii-chan, when they became like this and started wailing, I had no idea how to offer my condolences—it was so awkward!” “Apparently, none of them even ate anything that day.” “They burned incense, offered flowers, and even had a monk come.”

“Now, now,” Mother chided Sachiko’s rising voice. Even if it was merely a cat’s funeral, Sachiko’s insensitivity in speaking of such things so soon after their father’s death was distasteful to Yashiro. Yet Sachiko, who had grieved and wept over their father’s death more than anyone else, would become so recklessly buoyant in brighter moments—oblivious to that very sorrow—a contradiction that perplexed him. Mother brought sweets and placed them before the two. Yashiro drank his tea in silence while waiting for Sachiko’s chatter to subside, but she continued prattling on from one topic to another. As he listened to Sachiko’s skillful stories—about friends, relatives, and gossip concerning the neighbor’s maids—all designed to amuse, Yashiro tried to resign himself to the fact that with his sister present tonight as well, it would prove impossible.

When the conversation finally waned and everyone fell silent, Sachiko suddenly began staring intently at her brother. And then, her eyes glittering oddly as if disgusted, she removed her elbow from the table and pulled away from him as if to keep her distance, “What’s wrong, Brother?” she asked. For his sister, who would normally notice even slight changes immediately, tonight’s realization had come too late—yet even so, fearing she might have already perceived something, Yashiro felt his heart begin to race.

“About what Uncle mentioned the other day.” “Forgive me for being abrupt.”

Yashiro began addressing his mother rather than his sister and fell silent for a moment. Mother only murmured “Hmm,” keeping her gaze lowered as her expression grew serene. “The ceremony can be held whenever—but could you entrust my marriage matters to me?” When Yashiro had spoken this far, he suddenly felt no need to say more. Staring at his fingertips caressing the turquoise rim of the Oribe teacup as if scrubbing it clean, he sensed another sorrow dissolving within his body that burned as if boiling. Yet simply thinking everything was settled now, he no longer awaited his mother’s response.

“If it’s someone you love, then that should be fine.” Mother spoke in a low voice, as if she had long since determined her answer for such occasions, then blinked rapidly and continued gazing at the tatami with the same expression. He felt warmth spread through his body from the very core. A soaring excitement welled up within him. “Thank you very much.” Yashiro set down the teacup and bowed deeply once with formal precision. “I’ll explain everything properly later—she’s someone I met abroad. She’s also the one who helped gather Father’s bones.” When he said this, Mother suddenly nodded, a faint smile touching her lips as she murmured a quiet “Hmm.”

“I’m truly sorry.” He bowed his head again, now filled with remorse. Then he immediately stood and walked to the family altar in the adjoining room, where he lowered his head deeply in reverence to his father. As he began climbing the stairs, passing his mother who had come to the altar moments after him, he felt something sever between them with each step he took, tears welling up. With a heartache like abandoning the urge to turn back and yielding to the current, he suppressed his voice and wept.

Even as he sat alone on the second floor, the fear of parting from his mother still lingered. At this moment, Chizuko—unseen yet having drawn him in so intensely—seemed detestable, and against the neatly arranged form of their achieved marriage taking shape before him, he came to feel a profound loneliness that bowed his head like a weighted stalk.

For two or three days, Yashiro did not write to Chizuko about having obtained his mother’s consent to their marriage. He had previously declared to Chizuko that obtaining his mother’s approval was no difficult matter, and while events had indeed progressed with that confidence, this had only amounted to confirming his own internal resolve for the time being. Even with no firm private agreement yet from Chizuko’s household—and though prepared to bear full responsibility should things fail—Yashiro felt compelled to hold back tightly on the reins, dreading the pain even his mother might suffer. The true counterpart was not Chizuko but her mother. The anxious possibility that circumstances might abruptly reverse at any moment, for any reason, still loomed vividly in Yashiro’s mind. Were he to write Chizuko now, above all else he wanted to lay bare both his joy and that unease without restraint.

However, here a matter had arisen that made him reluctant to write the letter. It was, after all, a matter of concern—that Chizuko was Catholic. It wasn’t that he was now hesitating to marry her because she was Catholic. As a Japanese person myself, I no longer hesitated over foreign religions like that; now that I had entered into this, I felt a strong interest in observing it honestly as one element within myself—even wanting to re-examine it—and courage too. However, if Chizuko were to learn by some chance of the Yashiro family’s unique history—destroyed by Ōtomo Sōrin of the Catholic forces—and conversely, if Mother were to discover Chizuko’s Catholicism, anticipating the panic that would ensue, he could not help but hesitate over whether he should inform them now. Even if that were nothing but groundless anxiety, if he were to clearly state that fact now, this marriage was more likely to collapse than to come together.

Yashiro could not forgive his own impurity—knowing full well that elements capable of nullifying the engagement were present within this sacred act of marriage—as he concealed that truth from both Chizuko and his mother. Even when he tried to write to Chizuko exactly as he had received his mother’s permission, it was always that emotion that made him cast aside his pen. Events from a distant past—unrelated to the life he had obtained—now squirmed back to life, tightly restraining the arm that had begun to write the letter. He wondered whether it was the ancestors’ spirits warning them to prevent mishaps or a sign that this marriage defied approval; even as he entertained such thoughts and grasped the pen anew, it still proved futile. The more he tried to suppress his delusions, the more vividly a single transparent eye gazing from afar pressed upon him.

“Go ahead and lie—I’ll crush you.”

The eye pressed on. “However, I have not yet written even the truth—let alone dare to tell lies.” he responded. Yet even as he answered thus, it seemed the origin of that distant eye gazing upon him did not lie in the remote era when Yashiro’s family castle had fallen. It came from somewhere far beyond—a spirit-like presence piercing through from outside the history amassed in his memory—an eye of lucid stillness akin to time itself, indistinguishable as light or wave. The father he had seen in a dream on the night after completing the funeral rites—who kept rising halfway despite being laid down repeatedly—had stared toward a distance that now aligned perfectly with this manifested eye’s direction. For Yashiro, who lately believed all phenomena arose from such distant sources, his gaze naturally turned there whenever urgent decisions demanded judgment. It existed beyond this world yet within it. Thus, whenever he sensed this eye, both Chizuko’s Catholicism and his mother’s Buddhism would lose their meaning to him, habitually dissolving into a commingled void.

In the letter he was to send to Chizuko, Yashiro wanted to try writing about his thoughts on this concept of "emptiness" that had come to appear to him in such a way—in a manner she would properly understand.

“That you’d think everything here was a mistake—that you always felt that way... somehow it gives me this... this unpleasant feeling.” Yashiro thought it proper to address in his letter those words Chizuko had spoken when they parted in Paris—words he still needed to answer. Now that he had returned, he found himself convinced that his decision to resolve all matters from abroad only after coming home had indeed been correct.

Yashiro ultimately wrote a letter to Chizuko. In it, after laying out his various thoughts—including how one must not resent one's own life as Christ had done, and that had Christ been born in Japan, he would under the most scientific consideration have occupied the position of Takayama Hikokurō—he appended these words before concluding:

“Regarding the tragedy of my family, I initially did not want to tell you. However, I imagined a day when you too would see with me the ruins of my ancestors’ castle—destroyed by Catholic cannons—and envisioned your sorrow when beholding these ruins that would belong to your children’s ancestors. Thus I resolved this at least must not remain concealed. Should this strike your heart ever so deeply—I wish now to lay bare together with you this quiet dread we must someday confront. Yet for my part, there are many things for which I should be grateful to Catholicism. First among them—that my ancestors’ castle was destroyed by the first cannons ever used in Japan. This sacrifice was a grave and necessary one, more indispensable than any other. Though now it has become but a meager sacrifice vanished from all minds—has there ever been one more crucial for modern Japan? Within the devastation of that first moment when they felt gunpowder’s explosive force, there must have resided a cry that perceived—before any other—the secret of some unseen will transforming the world. That this land where the first great explosion resounded happened to be my family’s castle-fortress—I cannot bring myself to view this coincidence as mere happenstance, for that would insult my ancestors. That descendants might perceive this as glory could be seen as my own sentiment of rejoicing in defeat—yet having felt our nation’s remarkable essence where every defeat transforms into scattered blossoms rather than remaining defeat, I believe this understanding came ultimately from my travels abroad. Should you interpret such things as mere sour grapes—then I would lose all capacity to comprehend my country’s beauty. And with it, the joy of our present fate that seeks to bind us together.—I wish to climb with you soon to my family’s castle-fortress—now nearly vanished—lie among its weeds, and smell the earth as we did in those Parisian woods.”

Though his desire to soften the terror he would inflict on Chizuko played a part, Yashiro was now glad that this had allowed him to become bold without deceit, and after reading it over many times, he decided to send the letter.

A letter from Chizuko arrived a week later. What it revealed was not the joy Yashiro had anticipated, but rather a state of mind filled with anguish and terror. She wrote that after reading his letter, she had first described the anguish of realizing her own lack of qualification for this marriage; that even now she remained unable to dispel this feeling; and that should she marry in response to Yashiro’s joy, she would continue living in terror of some dreadful event surely arising in the future—days passing where she could hardly sleep deeply at night.

“Am I to rejoice, or am I to grieve?” “That the family of the one I believed in—of all families—should be one that fell victim to Catholicism in such a way I could never have imagined in my wildest dreams—what a misfortune this is for me!” “When I first read your letter, I was so terrified that I felt as though my body might fly apart.” “Still, fortunately, I was not yet a person of deep faith, as you might imagine.” “It is simply that my past was my past—knowing nothing, following habit alone—and I have merely continued in my present state of mind.” “As you say, I have earnestly considered that I must not resent my own life—but must I also not resent this suffering of mine?” “Or perhaps I wonder if such thoughts of mine are what might be called the torment of a twisted heart.” “At a time when I should be rejoicing, what a sorrowful letter this has become.” “I wrote and tore up [letters], but no matter how many times I wrote, the tears would not cease.” “Since returning from abroad, I imagine you are angered that I have yet to internalize the many teachings you so graciously imparted. Even as someone as vague as myself, I have pondered your words all this time—yet now, all of them come rushing back at once. As I am reminded of the depth of your kindness, I grow all the more sorrowful.” “Though enveloped in the joy of your family’s approval and my own family’s consent, I alone have still fallen into this darkness of heart—I beg your forgiveness.” “And regarding this matter too, I must selfishly ask that you wait until the day this turbid state of my heart may be cleansed before we proceed with marriage.”

Chizuko Kōichirō-sama

After finishing Chizuko’s letter, Yashiro felt an urgent impatience that compelled him to send a reply immediately without delay. She appeared to have fallen alone into a pit and to be struggling desperately; he sensed an irreparable danger closing in on her—one that could easily lead to grave error with the slightest provocation. At the same time, this same danger was drawing near to him as well. Yet this urgency resembled smoke from his heart—a restlessness that could not be quelled—and suddenly there reawakened within him the same irritation he had felt when approaching the Manchurian border.

Fortunately, it was still mid-morning at this very moment. Yashiro opened the window and stood by the railing. The rounded back of the maid doing laundry by the well and the reddish hue of hands in the washbasin—where soap bubbles foamed under sunlight—conveyed a healthy vitality. Even as he looked down, the brisk movements of those hands—their chilblains from winter now finally healed—evoked a faintly hopeful suggestion, and he immediately thought, "Ah, that's it." Then all the books about Christ he had ever read surged up in his mind at once. Without hesitation, he pulled out the first volume that caught his eye from the study shelf, flipped it open without choosing a particular spot, and looked at the passage that first drew his gaze this time as well.

"I desire compassion, not sacrifice." It was an excerpt from Hosea 6:6 of the Old Testament. He opened another page without critique, and there was a subheading titled "The Decisive Summons." "If anyone cometh unto me, and hateth not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple." Such were the portions of words—Luke 14:25-26—filled with extraordinary intensity that now came forth. At this moment, Yashiro intuited that the single character "I" signified not Christ himself, but God. He thought that if this "I" were misunderstood—as religious leaders claimed—to mean Christ himself, it would be tantamount to sowing tragedy across the earth. However, this fact—the present agony of what we call the West—was a part that would soon become the world’s agony, and it felt like the very root of an error that held no falsehood.

“Ah, this is a major problem for the entire world.”

Yashiro, feeling he had suddenly collided with a problem too vast to handle, let out an unreserved sigh. However, for him, it was now an imminent and perilous urgency that demanded desperate handling. And indeed, even considering only Japan itself, due to this slight error, over the forty-year period from Tenshō 10 to Kan’ei 9, tens of thousands of Japanese must have been slaughtered. Moreover, it had continued flowing onward undisturbed in exactly the same form.

"I desire compassion, not sacrifice." How could one who speaks such profoundly compassionate and elegant words elevate this "I"—interpreted here as Christ himself—into something that drives people to slaughter multitudes? Yashiro recalled the redness in the maid's hands he had just observed below. Use your hands. Use them properly. Move them through the countless sunlit bubbles as each moment demands. Cleanse what is impure.

Yashiro felt these teachings within the sunlight now descending upon him. He could not help wanting to rescue Chizuko from the hands of those sinister monks. As he stared down his prey like a creature bristling its scales, he felt a physical shudder—the sword contained within his body gradually rising as if threatening to burst forth from his mouth.

“I am writing this letter now, yet your sorrowful face floats before me. What I directly perceived as my god among visible phenomena at this very moment was sunlight. There exists no greater truth than this in this instant. This light is indeed my light. Since I exist here as I am—nowhere else—you have allowed me to share various joyful moments of life through light. How many delights there were—I realize now. I give thanks to my own deity like the ancients. When I say this, there will surely be those who laugh, claiming you know not the world’s light. Yet wherever we go in this world, light falls upon us because we exist here to shine. This was our crucial experiment—yours and mine. Could any illusion appear more truthful than believing light to be some universal entity belonging nowhere, without ever sensing this? That violent fantasy of perceiving light where one does not exist—this has dwelled in all Western minds since antiquity. They believed it unchanged and vanished utterly. What is this beautiful magical seed? “Even when writing what might seem foolish sophistry to any eye—these very words—this letter follows my having perused Newton’s abstract theories about light’s principles and colors positing seven hues within light itself; or rather Goethe’s contentious research arguing light only shines when meeting luminous matter; along with historical studies tracing these debates from Greece onward. Regarding light, I align with Goethe’s school, yet found much reference in nihilistic passages—seemingly fated to vanish—quite altered from our countrymen who perceive light as moral duty. Please read some of these yourself. Then you shall surely discover that my strange argument, while donning sophistry’s guise, resembles an affectionate whisper—the light of a sincere human act. In truth, regarding light, scholars since antiquity have beguiled themselves, spawning countless victims. It mortifies me so that I even feel insolent defiance—who could possibly shatter these human contemplations of mine?”

Even in the Gospels it states thus:

“I desire compassion, not sacrifice.” This word is correct. “The evil monks surrounding this have sacrificed this true compassion for a thousand years.” “Please believe in your own true light as soon as possible.” “You must not become a sacrifice to illusions.” “It is precisely because there are things that shine within us that we can receive and behold the light descending from heaven—hence even the term ‘Omitakara’ is employed.” “Please sense the place where our light—this unassailable, substantial light, reminiscent in some way of Goethe—holds divine will.” “If you do so, it will become vividly apparent that even in each of these other nations, despite differences in color, there exist things that shine.” “This is the foundation of peace.”

“Let all nations obtain their place.” These are the words of our ancestors that gathered all the light of our land. What a delicate yet magnificent phrase—boundlessly penetrating, cradling within it the very root of light and transcendent power! This too has continued unbroken since antiquity, remaining unchanged even now. This abstraction that simultaneously embodies reality—could there exist any words more peaceful than these for saving both body and soul? Could there be an ideal shining brighter than one that takes as its fundamental vow—while embracing countless variations of change—the ceaseless return of pure phenomena flowing within them? That only the healthiest ideals prove imperishable must be, from any perspective, the fundamental law governing this consistent world of phenomena. This truth admits no doubt. I repeat: Please believe with all your heart that only through pure faith in your own light can you fully recognize the light of other lands. I earnestly hope you will not entertain effeminate misgivings that mistake this for arrogance—I believe few races have poured out such affection upon foreign nations as we Japanese have done, and I secretly count this as our virtue. This is clearly recorded in history—an unfeigned love, pure and innocent. Precisely because of this did our ancestors grieve more deeply than any others over the decline of foreign realms. And you yourself are one who has unwittingly inherited a fragment of that profoundly elegant and noble spirit. “I write this letter without the slightest intent to attack you.” Please read these words calmly.

Two butterflies take flight—such is the light, ah.

Yashiro

Ms. Chizuko

Yashiro wrote the letter in one breath. At times he nearly forgot he was addressing Chizuko at all, but upon finishing felt relief wash over him even as weariness took hold. If this failed to stir any emotion in Chizuko, he would need to decide his subsequent course of action—what attitude to adopt thereafter. Moreover, precisely because this letter contained elements that might corner Chizuko further upon receipt, laying everything out at once risked planting seeds of terror. Yet now was no time for hesitation. Convinced one must loosen the strings of long-clutched bags in crucial moments, he resolved to send the letter by express mail.

A reply came from Chizuko on the second day. In her response, not only did she find no grounds to object to Yashiro’s letter from her own perspective, but she also expressed gratitude for having read it repeatedly and having learned much through it. What stood out was how she described feeling a jolt of awakening upon reading his words about them being emissaries bearing part of that elegant and noble heart; how she regretted never having been taught such vital matters by anyone until now; and how she humbly acknowledged realizing for the first time that she might not even be worthy of becoming such an emissary herself. While unremarkable in content, the letter sincerely conveyed her guileless disposition.

Yashiro felt an even stronger sense of kinship—like that shared by those who had crossed distant seas together—toward Chizuko, who had maintained her silence throughout despite having every opportunity to resist had she wished to. If Chizuko had been a woman who never left Japan and remained as she was now, he thought, their relationship might have ended then and there. In this regard, he rejoiced at how his patience—which since returning had strived during each meeting to drop hints, soothe tensions, and blend observed differences—had finally begun bearing fruit.

After Yashiro and Chizuko visited Higashino’s residence, Higashino seemed to have met frequently with Chizuko’s brother Yuki. Each time, naturally, the marriage discussions between Yashiro and Chizuko progressed of their own accord through the hands of these two refined individuals. One could imagine that Makiko and Shiono had also joined in during this time; meanwhile, swept up by the momentum, even Shiono’s own marriage arrangements were being propelled forward alongside.

Regarding the betrothal gifts and related matters, Yashiro had decided to entrust everything to Higashino after consulting with his mother. Chizuko’s household shared the same intention, and with a date fixed, Higashino came to visit both families.

The tender new leaves unfurled luxuriantly and stretched forth. After Yashiro had sent a letter to Chizuko, on a certain afternoon after some time had passed, he met her at Matsunami Park before going to Higashino’s residence. When the two of them sat side by side on the wooden park bench, for a while neither attempted to broach the subject of the letter’s contents. Except for the water lily buds still standing upright on the water’s surface with their leaves rolled tight, all the trees in the garden were beautifully tinged with yellow. The delicate slenderness of Chizuko’s cheeks, which showed slight haggardness, and her lips—more deer-like than usual, tinged with faint rouge—glistened vividly under sunlight so filtered through the trees it seemed to penetrate even the undersides of the leaves.

“Are you still having trouble sleeping?”

Yashiro recalled the insomnia mentioned in Chizuko’s letter and, thinking that might indeed be the case, found himself sympathizing all the more—sensing even her earnestness in it.

“Lately, it’s been fine.” Chizuko’s voice sounded distant, as though it had finally surfaced from deep within her being. Yashiro wanted to say that as the pain from their letters gradually sloughed away, something bright would surely well up anew—but for now, he resolved to let their hearts remain as they were. He checked his watch; the hour remained early. Since today’s visit required going to Mitsukoshi with Higashino to finalize betrothal gifts together, he preferred lingering here rather than proceeding immediately to the man’s house. One could easily imagine Makiko—who had likely proposed this Mitsukoshi excursion—already waiting at Higashino’s residence ahead of anyone else.

“In the time since we last met, how astonishingly swift nature’s transformations this May have been!” The speckled new buds, erupting as if from the smooth bark of the zelkova tree, resembled a fine dappled pattern. Moisture laden with gases had soaked even into the undersides of the tender leaves, their supple veins bearing the weight of the foliage, and within the overlapping layers of tranquil dampness, sunlight filled every crevice and rebounded. Yashiro gazed at the striped light piercing like arrows from there to the marsh’s surface, and suddenly recalled a certain era of the past. It was around the time from the Nara period to the early Heian period, but he thought that even back then, the sunlight must have created such stripes, and the color of the tender leaves must have been just as soft as this. And many of the students who had returned from Tang China must have also, when marrying—much like his current self—repeatedly endured the toil of pondering antiquity, recalling the present, and struggling to free themselves from the encroaching Buddhist teachings, attempting to wrest the women who would become their wives from the grasp of Buddhism.

“I’m currently having my room fixed, you see. This carpenter’s wife, Toyo, was a maid who worked at my place long ago. Since her hometown is the same as my mother’s, she still comes to my place whenever something comes up—and when Toyo came again yesterday, we ended up laughing our heads off.” After saying this, Yashiro began to talk a bit about Toyo. Yashiro’s mother had wanted to fix the broken part of the house that was leaking rain, so one day she sent a letter to Toyo’s husband. The day the letter arrived was, as ill luck would have it, the very day Toyo’s child was struck by a car and died instantly. Despite this, he spoke of Toyo’s dutifulness in having written a reply to his mother that very day—such things had left a strong impression on him since returning from abroad. She was not particularly an outstanding woman, and even in daily life remained an ordinary, uneducated housewife; but ever since her marriage, when her husband had taught her to read and write—something for which Toyo seemed more grateful than anything—she would praise her husband in front of Yashiro as if he were a stranger and express her gratitude every time she came. Back when Toyo was still unmarried and unable to read or write, there had been a time when she asked Yashiro’s sister Sachiko to write a letter on her behalf. Since it was a letter addressed to a man from her hometown—one that Yashiro and his family could not comprehend—Sachiko found herself at a loss as to how to write it on her behalf. After writing a line or two of seasonal greetings, Sachiko asked Toyo, “What should I write next?” Whereupon Toyo—without so much as a blush—leaned her plump, warm body over Sachiko, who was trying to move the pen, as though crowning her with her presence. And then, without any sign of hesitation, she suddenly—

"A bridge of dreams veiled in mist, plovers of longing—though this body knows not fulfillment—"

In this manner, she began to recite smoothly. So earnest was she, and so fierce was the all-consuming love she poured out for this man, that Sachiko doubled over with laughter, rendering the letter utterly useless in the end. When Yashiro told Chizuko this story up to this point, Chizuko also bent forward at the waist and laughed. “However, Toyo has become quite skilled at writing now.” “Of course, whether that lover from back then is her current husband is questionable, but I’ve yet to see a husband who’s been so consistently thanked by his wife.” “She praises him and praises him!” “Also, this carpenter is someone who can’t tell a lie.”

Yashiro had spoken out of disgust for the general judgment that had come to regard such primitive beauty—overflowing with the joy of life—in a married couple as somehow lowly; yet in this instance, his own opinion still remained thorn-like, too difficult to voice plainly to the two of them. Chizuko stopped laughing, then remembered and chuckled to herself again. After some time had passed, it seemed she had also recalled the letter she had sent to Yashiro the other day,

“I’ve decided I won’t send you any more letters from now on,” she said with a light sigh.

“There’s no need to be so modest now. No one in our era could write a letter like Toyo’s.” “Ever since individuality began creeping into Japan around mid-Meiji times—turning people gradually into machines—they’ve erased all such things: bridges of dreams veiled in mist, plovers of longing.” “But where could Toyo have learned such phrases?” “It’s astonishing how the sentiments of court nobles had permeated even the remotest mountain villagers and lingered there—don’t you think?”

Implying that “we’ve lost,” Yashiro glanced at Chizuko and laughed. Along the marsh’s path, hydrangea buds arranged in a circle had begun to take on a faint color, and azaleas reflected their vermilion hues at the water’s edge. Yashiro looked up at the alluring red pine bark on the opposite shore and imagined the time when this park was still a daimyo’s estate. And he envisioned the words within that letter—the lady’s maid holding a maki-e writing box tied her obi to the writing case and quietly lifted its lid beside the water lilies at the shore. He thought it must surely have been a letter resounding with human warmth, likely rhymed like Toyo’s. And what about now? Even I had reached an era where I could not help but write about light refraction principles in letters addressed to Chizuko during our engagement. When he thought this—just as he had laughed uproariously at Toyo’s letter—so too must there be something even more absurd in his own letters. Yet if through that they had managed to temporarily stem their impending separation, he also thought that passion’s beauty alone could no longer capture hearts—that inhuman multitudes of hope were rending people asunder. And everyone was becoming scientific in some way.

“Even as I look at this park like this… I can’t help but feel deeply that the world from now on will become a reconciliation of the human and the non-human.” “Today we’re going to select the betrothal gifts, but I want us to strive to bind those two separated things into one—a bridge of dreams.” “Though I am one whose desires remain unfulfilled—such melancholy is something everyone now shares.”

Yashiro had by then forgotten even Chizuko's presence beside him and suddenly said this with a laugh. Then, lightly taking Chizuko's arm and linking it with his own, he patted the back of her hand with his other hand—the same hand where Pierre had once kissed her. Chizuko's dimples remained uncharacteristically still. "But somehow," she said, "I'm still scared." "I keep wondering—is this truly all right?"

Gazing at the ripples from a single water strider dancing beneath her white tabi socks, such a voice echoed hollowly.

“What part of it frightens you?” “I don’t know why. But I’m still scared after all.” “I wonder if things can’t go the way they did for Toyo.” Though Yashiro had casually remarked as such, he now thought that Chizuko’s fear in this situation was unmistakably genuine. For her now, even fear held more beauty than its absence. Moreover, it was precisely because of this that he could sense something pure and reliable within her.

“I’d like to meet that Ms. Toyo once.” “Even if you tell me not to come to the wedding, I’ll come rushing.” “You truly prefer someone like Ms. Toyo, don’t you?”

Chizuko pressed the parasol handle to her cheek and stole a sorrowful glance at Yashiro as she spoke. “It’s not about liking or disliking. People like Toyo exist in abundance throughout the very fabric of Japan.” “When I imagine such loyal, honest multitudes filling this island—and then cherry blossoms scattering over them—how could anyone complain?” “Our women are more virtuous and beautiful than any nation’s; food abounds; landscapes enchant; seasons shift just enough to ward off tedium. Why men suffer here—I can’t comprehend it.” Today Yashiro spared no effort to be more talkative than usual, seeking to soothe even slightly the sorrow he’d caused Chizuko since their last meeting. He also thought that perhaps this special day had shaped his words into something songlike, their substance naturally aligning with Toyo’s epistolary prose.

The two stood up from the wooden bench and headed toward the grassy hill when a uniformed student entered alone through the back gate. The student came to what seemed to be his usual sunny spot, propped his elbow on the sparse blades of grass, and opened his foreign book. Yashiro recalled his student days for the first time in a long while. And seeing the golden letters on the spine and white pages gleaming amidst the green grass, he thought that there lay a station from his youth through which he too had once passed.

It was a little past two o'clock when Yashiro went out to Muromachi with Chizuko, Higashino, and Makiko. At Mitsukoshi's kimono department, they decided on a hakama for Yashiro and a crested kimono for Chizuko as betrothal gifts through their collective discussion. After wandering about the store for some time, the four went outside and proceeded to Ueno Museum. This outing too had been driven by their desire to compare Western department stores and museums with Japanese counterparts, though they unanimously observed that Mitsukoshi's scale and beauty were in no way inferior. Higashino particularly praised that when it came to checkout speed during shopping, it was unmatched worldwide. Above all, the dining hall waitresses' mental calculation speed and accuracy were peerless.

“However, there’s something there we can’t afford to overlook,” Higashino mused aloud in the car, tilting his head slightly as he spoke. “You see, being quick at mental arithmetic isn’t so much about intelligence as it is instinct.” “But that very instinct also means being more prone to errors.” “In France, for instance, when settling accounts, they take out paper right in front of the customer, perform the addition step by step, then state the total before giving the change.” “When giving change there too—to minimize losses from mistakes—they always start with the smallest coins first, but in Japan it’s the opposite or perhaps the same.”

“Foreigners are particularly slow at subtraction, aren’t they,” Yashiro recalled and said. “That’s right.” “They’re so sluggish at mental subtraction that you’d think they can’t do it at all—but that’s precisely because they’ve been trained to write every step on paper to derive answers.” “In other words, while they excel at mental arithmetic, this very fact means they’re equally skilled at all algebra rooted in paper.” “To rephrase—this proves the general populace’s minds have already moved beyond arithmetic, that planar thing interacting directly with the real world, and now inhabit algebra’s three-dimensional, abstract realm.” “With this, the gap between West and East grows truly vast.” “How Japan will address this gap—that becomes the world’s future.” “No doubt about it.”

As Higashino spoke thus, Yashiro nodded, thinking that today Higashino had steadily expanded his discourse from a precise starting point. And, for no particular reason, he found himself wanting to meet Makizo more than usual. "When we speak of the Orient, we first think of China, but when foreigners refer to the Orient, it doesn’t necessarily mean China. Even Greece and Egypt seem to appear as part of the Orient from their perspective—that’s where we differ quite significantly," Yashiro said.

“That’s right. Greece too appears Eastern in style to foreigners. If even Greece, the foundation of Western civilization, appears that way, then we too must give it some reconsideration—there are many things we’ll fail to understand otherwise. Valéry says that Goethe’s entire body of work somehow leans toward the Orient throughout. And, you see—what’s fascinating is that while he concludes by saying how much he loves the Orient in this way, is there anything more Western than that? That’s quite clever. If we apply that approach, we’d have to say that our fondness for the West is itself such an Eastern thing—could there be anything more Eastern than this? What do you think? However, you know—this is the truth.”

“Indeed, that is a splendid expression,” Yashiro said admiringly. “That’s right.” “Truly magnificent.” “Peace resides in that latent power of expression, does it not.” “We have an obligation to gather up such sentiments and artfully disseminate them at every opportunity, yet everyone has completely forgotten this duty.” “I’ve been considering a trip to China before long.” “An elementary school friend of mine went there—he’s quite favored by Chiang Kai-shek, you see—but this fellow keeps badgering me to come and refuses to accept refusal.”

“Is your trip to China to search for inkstones?” Yashiro inquired. “Well, that may be part of it, but China—unlike Japan—is a country that holds literati in very high regard. They firmly believe that literati alone do not engage in scheming. Such a tradition has existed since ancient times. When it comes to what others say, people intuitively listen while discounting it a bit—but it is not so with literati. Since Kotani was once a literary youth himself, perhaps some of that sincerity still remains—that might be what Chiang Kai-shek found appealing about him.”

When the car entered Ueno's grove, the four got out, but even after disembarking, Higashino continued talking. Since returning from abroad, he stated that his interest in China had grown stronger day by day than before, and after declaring that their focus should now be on China rather than Europe, he also said: "China must be very similar to France. You know, Paris—isn't that China to you? However, I think China maintained a slightly higher level of civilization than France. The reason is that France, as anyone can see, is a nation of geometry. It's truly clear-cut and rational. Since replacing geometry with numbers gives us algebra—in other words, as I mentioned earlier—you could say it's a nation of algebra. But China isn't like that. That's more like some peculiar variable."

Beyond the roof spread Shinobazu Pond, where young stems rising through broken old lotus stalks stood clearly visible. As Yashiro gazed up at sunlight piercing through tender leaves of a massive chinquapin tree, his reluctance to enter the museum made his feet grow heavy.

“However, it must be true that China has become precarious.” “Now that the French Communist Party has gained such momentum, the world’s equilibrium is as good as shattered—so perhaps the rupture has reached Xi’an and climbed right up to Chiang Kai-shek’s head.” Higashino, appearing to no longer be listening to Yashiro’s words, walked ahead alone at a brisk pace. “But you know, no amount of worrying on our part will change a thing,” Higashino said, pressing forward toward Yashiro once more. “For us, the ultimate important thing is not to give humanity scientificity like the Soviets but to give humanity imagination like China.” “It’s about making known the human spirit.” “If everywhere develops nothing but science while remaining ignorant of each other’s spirits, won’t the politics between people only deteriorate?” “Then tragedy will only increase.” “Through science alone, you can’t understand the spirit.” “The fact that we’re going to the museum like this means we’re going to understand the spirit.” “It’s about humans going to learn what’s good about humans.” “I get pummeled whenever I say this—but you know, ever since returning from abroad, my reputation’s been in tatters. I’m at my wit’s end.” “Yet if there isn’t even one person like me saying such things, the country will be ruined.” “Not just the country—the world too.”

Though it was obvious, Higashino’s words carried the new anguish that had arisen since his return to Japan, and Yashiro silently nodded in response. Those who made writing their profession—not just Higashino—seemed ultimately, in some sense, to be secretly waging battle against Paris.

Since Ueno Museum had become a stone structure, this was the first time Yashiro and the others had entered it. When he first saw it, Yashiro recalled the Sacré-Cœur Basilica that had come into view the moment he looked up at Montmartre Hill in Paris. And now, he thought, had Catholicism even reached the museum’s roof? It was a brightness imbued with solemn and classical grandeur. When walking through the streets of a foreign land, the traveler’s first recourse is to observe the local museum and grasp the essence of that country’s civilization in a single glance. To meet this natural perspective, the museum maintained considerable dignity, but the exhibits on display that day had few notable pieces worthy of it. Finally, only Korin’s iris-painted sliding doors style and Tomatsu’s drying nets screen shone forth, yet both of these were outstanding. As for other ceramics, there were a Zizhou ware jar from the Song kiln and a Yi dynasty celadon exquisitely displayed; among Japanese pieces, there was one Oribe bowl and one piece by Raku Chōjirō.

“If Monet were here, I’d want to show him this painting,” Yashiro said to Chizuko as she approached him before Korin’s iris painting, comparing it in his mind to Monet’s water lilies. Higashino stood motionless nearby, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he contemplated Korin’s work. “But this Tomatsu is remarkable too,” Higashino remarked. “If Picasso were here, he’d choose Tomatsu over Korin without hesitation,” he added, turning toward the vigorous screen painting of drying nets on the opposite wall. The need to pivot between the two works disrupted their contemplation, yet the fresh beauty of both paintings—each pursuing radical simplicity through distinct means—held such power that it compelled debate between the two men and rooted them before the artworks.

“Which do you prefer, gentlemen? And you ladies?” Higashino said, leaning back slightly on the bench as he looked up at the women’s faces. Makiko,

“I’m for this one,” Makiko said, pointing at Tomatsu.

Chizuko remained silent. Despite the stylized forms of Korin’s iris painting, Yashiro felt joy at sensing the extraordinary height of Genroku-era civilization through its high symbolism—surpassing even photographs with clear perspective. He became aware that this was truly something immortal. The tranquil spirit of the artist resided there. Korin’s painting was undoubtedly decorative, yet within that ephemeral decoration, it had captured the pinnacle of life’s form—perceiving there the sublime radiance of momentary beauty just as it sought to crystallize—and in how it solemnly came to a halt at that perilous threshold, Yashiro felt he saw the limits of a certain elegant Japanese spirit.

“This Korin isn’t vigorous vision—it’s tear-filled vision. People say vigorous vision is better, but when tear-filled vision becomes like this, it’s so blurred by tears that others can’t comprehend it,” Yashiro said, taking advantage of the absence of others around and speaking just loudly enough for Higashino to hear. “The vigorous vision lies in this Tomatsu,” Higashino said. “This has only just shed its inlay,” Yashiro retorted briefly. “No—you only see this as inlay because your eyes are blurred by Korin’s tears. Certainly, this Tomatsu is magnificent as well. First of all, this is extremely pure.”

Nets were spread out to dry on the shore, above which only two or three masts without sails were visible—a simple byōbu-style screen painting composed entirely of straight lines in a plain ink-drawing style. “However, this depicts a cross—this is the purest painting, you know, that Mondrian.” “It’s merely a technique of presenting what appears pure to everyone as pure,” Yashiro still refused to concede to Higashino. “However, even crystallizing this much painting theory in this era alone makes it Picasso.” “Moreover, look at the intersection of the straight lines of the mesh and the pillars.” “Moreover, by subtly arranging the soft lines of pine branches in its composition, it hasn’t lost touch with tradition at all.” “This is what vigorous vision means.” “Isn’t it truly and clearly discerning the essence of what beauty is?” As Yashiro watched Higashino tilt his head back and speak in that manner, he thought Makiko had begun moving to take his side.

“Of course, I don’t mean to disrespect this Drying Nets—but having Korin’s Irises right beside it…” “Korin’s work has shed the difficult flesh it ought to have.” “If you’re going to shed flesh, choosing nets and pillars from the outset shows greater resolve.” “This is an intelligent painting.” “Well, since neither contains a single human figure—that’s why they’ve achieved beauty.” Yashiro, feeling some gratitude toward the paintings for at least permitting him this much of a rebuttal, rose from the bench.

“Hmm, exactly,” Higashino said without intensity, gently patting Yashiro’s shoulder with a pleased smile. “These are both well-painted. When we talk, things decay—because we have to write only about humans, you see.” “No—things that decay, those are what’s good.” While saying this, Yashiro entered the next room lined with dimly lit Buddha statues. There was nothing left to argue about here. Passing before the clustered male and female Buddhas—their beauty marked by flaking gofun on warped torsos and faint crimson lingering on lips—Yashiro could feel nothing but an ineffably quiet limpid clarity, one that evoked a terror born from the years those countless gazes of decay-bound things had absorbed.

When the four emerged from the museum, sunlight still shone on the young leaves of the chinquapin trees at the gate, and feet naturally moved toward the brighter-colored part of the lawn. Higashino had a meeting to attend that evening, so he parted ways there and descended toward the subway with Makiko.

Yashiro chose a sunlit teahouse with Chizuko and settled onto a red felt-covered bench. Both were exhausted and silent. After receiving tea and uguisu mochi and sitting there side by side, Yashiro suddenly felt as if he were growing old—yet this instead brought him a bright, leisurely mood. "Hey—doesn't this feel nice? Like we've turned into an old man and woman."

Without a word, vaguely shielding her forehead with her hand and gazing at the lawn, Chizuko let out a soft laugh.

“The lawn looks so bright all the way over here, somehow.” “Really, it’s because we saw so many Buddha statues.” “When you leave the museum, does everyone become a bit like Urashima Taro?” Yashiro lightly touched the uguisu mochi, thinking such delicately textured things didn’t exist abroad, then picked one up with a sense of good fortune and brushed the powder from his fingertips. The museum’s spire-like roof stood out clearly white. The more they looked at it from this distance, the more undeniably it appeared as architecture influenced by Catholicism.

“Hey, that roof looks just like Sacré-Cœur,” said Yashiro, pointing at the spire with a powdered finger. “Yes. It’s the most similar.” “That wasn’t there before we went abroad, but now everything’s gathered here before we knew it.” As he gazed at the spire, he suddenly recalled the words Chizuko had let slip while sitting beside him on the wooden chair at Matsutou.

“You mentioned earlier at Matsutou that you felt somehow scared, but there’s really no need to be afraid. As things gradually progress like that, even the Buddhas inside will end up properly arranged, you know. It’s nothing.” However, Chizuko still remained silent. Yashiro picked up another piece of uguisu mochi, then drank his tea feeling as though the luster that had seeped onto the Buddha statues’ lips had adhered to his fingertips. The reflection from the crimson felt seemed to dye his face a vivid red. And there his bride sat upon it, still harboring a touch of sorrow yet admirably composed.

At nine o'clock, Yashiro departed for Kyushu on the night train. On the fourth day after completing the betrothal with Chizuko’s family, his mother and Sachiko came to the station to see him off. Even Sachiko—who had so vehemently insisted on accompanying him—now refrained from uttering a word of protest and resigned herself to staying home, out of sympathy for her brother who she realized would encounter Chizuko’s brothers at his destination. Yashiro had wanted to stop in Kyoto on his return from Kyushu, but due to Yuki’s imminent departure for Europe to pursue his Kyoto studies, Chizuko and Makizo had left Tokyo with him the day before and were supposed to be staying overnight in Yamada, Ise en route. The four had naturally fallen into an arrangement to meet in Kyoto, but since this was not something Yashiro had proposed—rather, Yuki, who had only a few days left before his departure, had initiated it—Yashiro alone could not alter the schedule. Not only Yuki’s group but also Shiono, Sasa, and Higashino—who was heading to Suma’s wife’s place—seemed likely to arrive in Kyoto around the same time.

“When I told my brother about your letter and such matters, he seemed worried as he thought about it, but then he said, ‘Let me go on ahead of you to Yamada to pay our respects.’”

In her letter, Chizuko had written this as well, and Yashiro—finding unexpected tact in Yuki’s typically straightforward advice—felt that his own decision to delay his departure by a day compared to the three of them had now gained significance. Since the two small boxes containing his father’s divided remains had been placed in the suitcase, he set them beside the head of the berth and went back down to the platform. He had nothing more to say to his mother apart from what had already been said. Yet even now, he still felt timid toward the circumstances that had made it difficult for him to strongly advocate for what he now believed he should have proposed himself: that his mother and sister go to Kyoto. As a mother, she pitied her son Yashiro, whose wedding had been delayed due to her husband’s death, and even as they stood silently side by side, this consideration of entrusting her late husband’s remains to him alone had passed between their hearts. Though his mother had come to see off her husband’s remains, her keeping Sachiko silent beside them revealed that she likely harbored a celebratory sentiment for her son’s first journey into marriage. Unlike an ordinary trip, Yashiro felt both awkward and lonely.

“And please handle matters properly at the temple in Kyushu too.” Mother said this to Yashiro as if suddenly remembering, her words sparse and quiet. He nodded. As he realized this was the first time he had stood on this platform beside his mother since that night he returned from abroad—the very platform where he had alighted then—the face of his father, who had been standing before his mother at that time, flashed before his eyes: the moment his father had noticed him and parted his lips with a small “Ah.” The shadows of the black iron pillars left on the platform where people were dispersing faded hazily and lonely, like shapes dropped by passing things. A river of light rays flowed through the thin mist filling the space between the station roofs. Below them, the figure of a station attendant moving with a broom seemed to gather the drifting melancholy of the moment, and the sight seeped poignantly into his eyes.

“Well, I’ll be off now.” Yashiro looked at his mother when the bell began to ring. “I’ve entrusted it to you.” “Take care, okay?” Behind her mother, Sachiko’s laughing face tightened as if she were about to burst into tears. Yashiro moved away from the two, his foot remaining on the train step.

After returning to his berth and until the train car settled into quiet, he remained without removing his jacket, the time stretching on. The father in the suitcase beside his head and the gold and silver crane-and-turtle betrothal gifts Higashino had brought days earlier made him feel a bustling commotion in the direction of the gliding train, but soon even that began to gradually brighten and expand, as though witnessing the sky upon emerging from a tunnel. From around the time they passed through Hakone and approached Numazu, he grew sleepy. However, even as he drowsily drifted in and out of sleep, he could still feel himself thinking incessantly about something. I must wake up early tomorrow morning. If dawn broke around when Lake Biwa began to come into view, then unless he was awake by at least Ishiyama, they would soon approach Ōsaka Mountain. The tunnel his father had achieved was the one thing he absolutely had to show to his father’s remains.――Thinking such thoughts over and over, he drifted into sleep.

At times he would wake up abruptly, but when he looked around the train car, it was still midnight. Once he woke up, falling back asleep was quite troublesome, and he found himself recalling various things that had been on his mind before departure.

“Well, even if you had plenty of money, once married, it’s better not to spend your days idling about.” “So you should join Hisaki Company.” “Just secure your position there—I’ll manage everything else.”

When Higashino came bearing the betrothal gifts and kindly told him this, Yashiro lay awake thinking about how to handle the matter. This matter was a rather significant issue for him, and once he began contemplating it, his mind only grew sharper.

“I don’t have any money at all.” “But even if I were to work at Mr. Hisaki’s company, someone like me would only get in their way and end up being nothing but a useless person.” “That would be a pity.” Yashiro had answered evasively at the time, but true to form, Higashino paid no heed to his reservations and, with a magnanimous “Go ahead, join us,” seemed to have unilaterally settled the matter of Yashiro’s employment. If Yashiro were to refuse, he would have to explain the relationship between his father and Mr. Hisaki—and even if he did explain, it was precisely the kind of thing where conveying his unique predicament to others would be impossible. Even if this bone box of my father—whose death was brought about by Mr. Hisaki—were to be seen, who would think that possible?

“Even if you do work there, there’s no need to come in every day. You can continue your current job just as you are—there’s absolutely no issue with that—and besides, they say you’re precisely the person needed for it.” From Higashino’s manner of speaking, it seemed that within a uniquely vast company like Hisaki Company, there existed a small, specialized world reserved solely for the president—a world that required researchers gathered precisely for their unsuitability to ordinary company duties. This appeared to be a personal quirk of Mr. Hisaki, nonexistent in other companies—a disposition that discerned purpose in the purposeless, where even the relationship between president and employees did not exist. Thus, Yashiro’s employment had come to be decided through a simple process—for now, he need only consider upholding Higashino’s personal standing—yet even so, immersing himself in Hisaki Company, where memories of his father’s death ceaselessly resurfaced, was like bearing an unspeakable flame of pain upon his back. However, all of this had now, through Higashino’s laborious discretion as the matchmaker, settled into a state as if decided.

Around the time they passed Kusatsu Station，Yashiro opened his eyes. As soon as they approached Ishiyama，dawn colors began spreading over the lake，and Mount Hiei’s peak appeared dyed in thin mist. He hurriedly finished washing up，returned to his berth，drew the curtains shut to avoid being seen，and took out his father’s remains from the suitcase.

Ōtsu was enveloped by the lake, emitting white steam at dawn. Yashiro remained half-risen, cradling one of the white-cloth coffins in both hands. No sooner had the lake’s color begun to tilt toward the mountain’s edge than, roaring like rushing water, the train window plunged into Ōsaka Mountain’s tunnel. Yashiro perceived the oppressive thickness of the mountain ridge bearing down upon him through the lukewarm air filled with stench-laden smoke swirling in. As he also felt that it resembled his father’s skeletal frame, the hand gripping the coffin’s corner seemed to offer a single, softly lit sound.

His father’s smiling face loomed large in the surrounding darkness. It resembled his father in a picture frame as much as it did the motionless face from his dreams. The rushing flow within the train car now surged around that paternal visage at its center. Yashiro felt time’s swiftness pressing against the white cloth—how all his father’s work had become this vessel carrying him forward—and for a while this filled him with a strange gratitude, a lucid clarity enfolding even the lake’s pale blue hues, until he held his breath against the piercing dawnlight. Soon the Yamashina plain unfurled from Ushio Mountain’s cloud-shrouded base. When he saw the russet-crumbled petal of a southern magnolia by the fence where waterwheel spray scattered along the riverbank, he placed his father’s coffin back into the suitcase.

Evidently it had rained last night—the tiles of Kyoto’s streets were still wet. When Yashiro arrived at Kyoto Hotel and checked the register, Chizuko’s group had already checked in. Since it was still too early to meet anyone, he went straight to his room to bathe. After catching up on some lost sleep, he woke again around ten o’clock. He wanted to complete the interment that morning if possible. When Yashiro went down to the lobby, he found Yuki, Chizuko, and Makizo drinking tea. Beside travel-seasoned Yuki—boredly clenching his pipe—sat Makizo in uniform, lower lip flushed, silently wearing a good-natured smile. Spotting Yashiro emerging from the elevator, Chizuko half-rose with a laugh and raised one hand. The tea steam looked invigorating to Yashiro’s sleep-replenished eyes; his comment about the timely clearing weather carried genuine warmth. It had been ages since he’d seen Makizo—he’d missed that smiling gaze most of all. From Makizo’s account he pieced together their route: Ise to Hasedera Temple yesterday before arriving late from Nara.

“Which place did you like?” Yashiro asked Makizo. “It was Ise. Perhaps because I’d read Taut, I thought the Naikū was splendid.” Despite Makizo’s usual silence, Yashiro found his clear pronunciation when he spoke as endearing as ever. To see a mathematics student like him visit the grand shrine and show such reverence was like witnessing a body purified by cedar leaves—a sight that made this morning feel all the more invigorating.

Over tea, the four discussed their destinations for the day. Since Yuki mentioned that a guide acquaintance would arrive before noon, they settled on a lunch meeting place; when Yashiro shared his plan to complete the interment at Nishiohani by then, Chizuko offered to accompany him there. Makizo stated he wanted to visit the museum that morning. Naturally, Yashiro, Chizuko, and Makizo found themselves heading in the same direction. After parting with Yuki and the three entering the car, Chizuko and her brother sat silent for a time on either side of Yashiro, who held the coffin on his lap. Even this fresh reality—that through betrothal formalities, the three would someday become relatives—when Yashiro suddenly considered it, still felt insubstantial, like a falsehood. Yet as their familiarity had undeniably deepened since their last such meeting, inversely, Yashiro’s heart grew more reserved toward Makizo—so much so that even feigning nonchalance made him feel ashamed. In truth, it was an oddly transformed silence that enveloped them all.

“Regarding what I heard from you some time ago, Ms. Chizuko—I ended up leaving it as it was, and I must apologize for that.” “Honestly, set theory is just too difficult for me—” Yashiro recalled his own negligence in having delayed his response regarding the matter of the similarity between the method of cutting ritual streamers—which Chizuko had been asked about by Makizo—that he had heard while waiting for Higashino and the others’ ship to arrive in Yokohama, and he apologized.

“Ah, that matter?” Makizo laughed as if recalling. “With such matters, I think it’s enough that there’s even a mere implication.” “If you consider it foolish, then everything becomes that sort of foolishness.” Though bearing the remains and trying hard to say nothing more now, Yashiro—owing to his responsibility for having delayed his response—wanted to conclude things after just that.

“However, even if that matter is merely a coincidence for us, it still forms a point.” “The reason is, you see.” As Makizo turned toward Yashiro, he spoke with the lively eyes of a youth that brooked no ambiguity.

“The thing I’m most troubled by now is where to place my trust in mathematical axioms.” “For instance, take the axiom that the sum of a triangle’s interior angles on a plane equals two right angles, or the axiom that the same does not hold for a spherical triangle on a sphere. Or consider how the axiom that two parallel lines never intersect becomes an axiom where they *do* intersect at infinity. When such fundamental mathematical axioms cease to be axioms—when one being correct renders others incorrect—it becomes extremely troubling.” “In that case, I simply must have faith now.” “I have resolved to place my faith in the simplest axiom.” “That was in Ise, though.”

With straightforward clarity, Makizo spoke about the problem of truth. Yashiro forgot about the coffin on his lap. In this division of singularity where one axiom splits into two, there was a freshness Yashiro had never encountered before in mathematicians' decisive choice between them—resembling Pascal who realized life holds no meaning unless thought ascends to emotional heights. Moreover, this extended beyond mathematics alone; concerning truth's schism common to all spiritual matters, it grappled with a defining problem for modern Japanese people.

“If one becomes nihilistic, no matter how profound it may be, in the end, wherever you go, it will remain nihilistic.” “However, that isn’t yours alone.” “That’s right. If one becomes nihilistic, no matter how profound it may be, there is nothing at all.” “If one becomes nihilistic, no matter how profound it may be, there is nothing at all.” Makizo’s eyes gleamed as if to say he had grasped my intention. “So I too came to fully understand why you had paid such attention to the method of cutting the ritual streamers.” “But that’s a tough one.”

Even as he said this, Yashiro thought that Chizuko—a Catholic with a brother like Makizo—being beside him must have gained something for the first time through this exchange, while he also took pleasure in their differing perspectives. “The resemblance between ritual streamers and set theory could simply be coincidental as far as I’m concerned.” “That’s precisely why I wanted to consult you earlier—modern mathematics essentially reduces to set theory.” “But these set theory axioms keep spawning paradoxes that render truth completely unmanageable.” “What’s worse, there’s no telling where these paradoxes might stop proliferating.” “When mathematics reaches this state—when we’ve nowhere left to place our trust—the torment became unbearable. But now I’ve made my resolution.” “Without it, I cannot grasp what a free zero truly means.”

On Makizo’s face, which was settling into sorrow’s sharpness, a smile leaning into the future floated serenely clear and pure. If one doubted, it didn’t matter where one swore belief in axioms—all places were equal. Yet in Makizo’s resolve—this wish to choose Ise as his place of sworn faith—Yashiro sensed not mathematics but a swell of prayer steeped in ritual streamers, and he understood this youth would henceforth face a place of arduous study like Pascal. It stood among paths most filled with trials—a place of singular difficulty. Yashiro thought imagining Makizo continuing to smile there was today’s most uplifting and refined joy. He found its peaceful elegance to be good.

At Nishiohani, Yashiro and Chizuko got out of the car and parted with Makizo. Even as they crossed the stone bridge spanning the lotus pond and climbed the ossuary's stone steps, Yashiro praised Makizo's rare and refined spirit to Chizuko. Chizuko too appeared pleased that Makizo had been recognized, stating he was the most deeply conscientious member of their entire family as she spoke of his calm household demeanor and filial nature that never voiced complaints.

“That’s exactly what an intellectual Japanese person is like.” Yashiro muttered as he chose the worn slope of the wide stone steps. Between the paving stones, young grass sprouts were visible, and the sunlight cast their shadows vividly upon each step, creating a scene where even the stone surfaces looked warm. At the temple office, Yashiro wrote down his father’s posthumous name and handed over the coffin, then was directed toward the main hall. The garden between the main hall and the innermost mausoleum formed a square spanning one chō on each side, its gentle slope revealed beneath pure white sand spread monotonously across the center—from which a stone-paved path extended straight as a sash to the mausoleum’s front. The mausoleum, resembling a shinden-zukuri shrine devoid of Buddhist altar implements, had gables whose curves harmonized with the gleaming white sand, undulating like waves in their beauty. Indeed, here alone was filled with a serene brightness that secretly retained the form of the Heian period. From the grove behind the garden, the song of a bush warbler could also be heard.

“This is a place I’ll want to come back to from time to time now.”

Standing in the flat expanse of sand, Yashiro looked up at the sky unobstructed by anything. In the whiteness of sand that drew the sky near, Chizuko’s tightly fitted black attire absorbed the light, its net-like pattern’s single red accent seeming to emit a sensual fragrance. “Your father will be entering there, won’t he?” Chizuko kept her gaze fixed on the mausoleum as she spoke, narrowing her eyes in the gentle light. At her casual utterance of “Father”—that manner of address—Yashiro felt an instant warmth like new breath whispering intimately close. It was somehow akin to glimpsing destiny’s face unawares—a pristine warmth one might wish to see again yet could never recapture.

“Since that is the mausoleum, it must be there first, but I hear the basement is remarkably spacious.” “But with this place here, we can visit whenever we come to Kyoto. Let’s come sometimes.” The sound of sutra chanting drifted from the main hall. It must have been the sutra being offered for his father’s bones. When they returned to the main hall, they saw a hanging scroll around the standing image of the Tathagata, its fierce halo radiating light, and before it on the three treasures lay his father’s coffin wrapped in white cloth, appearing small. Yashiro and the others sat behind the priest to wait for the chanting to end. As he waited while gazing at the scroll, he felt a surge of vigor—the golden halo’s rays formed by bold lines seemed to burst beyond the scroll’s edges and pierce their surroundings with unstoppable force. At its center, the Tathagata statue floated as if stepping forward barefoot, its gaze intensely beckoning people toward the mausoleum with a gallant, awe-inspiring presence. Here now lingered not a shadow of sorrow—everything lay bright and tranquil. Yashiro marveled at this air that made all feel at ease, then found himself glancing restlessly about, wondering what exactly had put him at peace.

After the sutra chanting concluded, his father’s bones—still placed upon the three treasures—were carried by the priest and immediately taken across the stone pavement toward the mausoleum. In the direction where the yellow kesa sleeves were moving, Yashiro and Chizuko hurriedly fastened their shoes and followed. However, his father’s bones,

“Don’t come yet.” With such swift, thrusting footsteps, he crossed the stone pavement brusquely and vanished into the mausoleum. Yashiro could no longer keep up and stood dumbstruck, gazing at the whiteness atop the three treasures from afar, yet still pressed on toward the mausoleum.

“What quick steps the priest has! I was startled,” Yashiro muttered. Before the deserted and hushed mausoleum, Yashiro dropped a silver coin into the offering box and resented how the hurried mood left him no time to bow properly. Father’s bones pushed open the uppermost door and vanished from sight. Yashiro nearly missed even that sight, and after finally following his father with his eyes, he stood vacantly—only for the priest who had presented the now-empty three-tiered tray to return there already. And without even glancing at the two of them, he walked briskly away across the stone pavement.

“Ah, I see now.” And Yashiro, having realized something, muttered this. Here, worrying about living humans was a foolish thing. Thinking that being abandoned was precisely where one should instead feel joy in life, he tried to regain a refreshing clarity and threw another offering into the box. The slenderness of the pillars standing within the transparent serenity of the wall-less hall’s interior was beautifully reflected upon the floorboards, washed through by the verdant hues of the forest behind. Beyond the open passage, the luster of resin flowing across the bark of a giant cedar appeared as natural moisture, and here—where all things maintained this cleanliness liberated from Buddhist influence—perhaps even the priests’ hearts were naturally reshaped, or maybe their return to such expressionless silence, akin to Shintō priests, was but a fleeting spillage of human tenderness.

“Now I too am relieved.” This time, Yashiro turned toward the sunlit sand with a satisfied feeling. Even the sound of their footsteps receding from before the mausoleum, echoing across the stone pavement, now carried the authority of the living and reached his ears with clarity. Passing through the corridor of the covered bridge and descending the sloping hill toward the town, even then, the splendid panoramic view made his chest swell with emotion. “I’m glad I visited the Ise Grand Shrine.” “There are chickens here too, aren’t there?” “Over there.”

As Chizuko descended the stone steps, clutching her handbag and putting on her black gloves as she spoke, her natural tone struck Yashiro as utterly sincere, and he nodded. He had always liked the way Chizuko's expression shifted as her knees bent and straightened when descending stairs, but now, seeing those same knees, he felt his solo journey to Kyushu the next day—another separation—might arouse suspicion, and even escaping from the boisterous gathering of Shiono and the others arriving from Tokyo that evening seemed a futile, tedious obligation.

“Seeing all of Kyoto would take three days at the earliest, but starting tomorrow, things will get lively again.” “You’re leaving tomorrow, then.”

“If we leave in the morning, around this time tomorrow we’ll likely be visiting temples.”

“It can’t be postponed even one more day, can it?” “Since we’d already notified the temple,” he replied, “it can’t be done.” Even during what little time remained for him to be alone with Chizuko—now reduced to barely an hour until lunch—Yashiro felt no urge to hurry, lamenting how briefly they could linger on these beautiful broad stone steps they descended together. A smooth red pine branch extended from a straw-bound cylinder. Through gaps in the earthen walls below, clusters of lotus leaves rose from the pond—their modest unbroken circles appearing to await him now that his duty was fulfilled—and a profound tranquility welled within him.

“I really ought to tempt you into coming to Kyushu with me, but... well, perhaps it’s better if I hold back this time.” He laughed, kneeling on the drum bridge’s railing.

“I could accompany you, you know.” “But with everyone coming... and I don’t think I should visit your home either.” “What do you think?” Contrasting Chizuko’s hesitant phrasing, Yashiro’s present duty lay in maintaining proper decorum toward her brothers who had sanctioned their marriage. Yet even as the fragrance of his wish to bring her along inevitably seeped through, even as the logic of traveling alone stood clear, their silence now stretched pointlessly—a delicate entanglement of mutual retreat and advance that briefly bound them.

“What should I do?” “If you say it’s good, I’ll do it.” Chizuko remained unmoving from the arched stone of the bridge and asked him with an insistent expression, her smile gone. “No—I think I’ll go alone after all,” he answered. “I suppose so.” Chizuko seemed to settle the matter with a brief, relieved remark, yet still gazed down at the circling koi on the water’s surface with an air of lingering thoughts. Yashiro searched for a car toward Ikkyū-an—the place they were to meet for lunch—regardless of other concerns. After getting off at Maruyama-shita, they entered the park. The night cherry blossoms had already turned into leafed-out trees trailing countless threads. Gazing at their shapely trunks to their right while climbing slightly higher past the pond toward the hillside area—their feet naturally began moving toward where the path narrowed.

When night fell, Shiono and Sasa arrived from Tokyo. An hour later, Higashino came again. At first, Yashiro felt lonely at departing alone while separated from everyone else, but he thought viewing historic sites calmly would be better done alone or with just one other person. Moreover, carrying his father’s bones made him feel awkward about joining in the group’s merriment, and since he had no intention of altering his plans to stay longer, he decided to set out as scheduled the next morning. “Anyway, I’ll come back once I’ve finished the interment as soon as possible. Mine is just an extension of the funeral, you see.”

In this way, he managed with difficulty to say to Shiono and the others who tried to detain him and extricated himself from the situation. That night too, from the traditional restaurant where everyone was headed, only the four of them—Shiono, Makizo, Chizuko, and him—returned early to the hotel first. Shiono, who had already begun working on overseas photo projects even in Tokyo, now showed keen excitement and spoke animatedly about photographing Kyoto’s historic sites starting the next day. But Yashiro alone—mindful of tomorrow’s parting and needing to evade responsibility for having brought everyone to Kyoto this time—grew increasingly heavy-hearted and prone to silence. Even after returning to his hotel room, he considered changing his departure the next morning to that night’s sleeper train: doing so would let him return from Kyushu a day earlier and leave enough time to meet the group again when arriving back in Kyoto. Thus he decided to inquire at the station about securing a berth. It turned out a sleeper berth could still be arranged for one person. When he checked the time, less than twenty minutes remained until the train’s departure. Though twenty minutes gave cause for hesitation, it was still a manageable window that wasn’t too late.

He hurriedly packed his luggage and went only to Chizuko's room.

“I’ve decided to take tonight’s sleeper train,” he said. “I’ll slip away without telling the others—please make my excuses.” When Chizuko saw Yashiro holding his hat, she silently stood up with a doubtful look.

“If I go this way, I can return a day earlier—then we’ll meet here again.” “Well then.” Yashiro left the room without waiting for a reply. At the elevator entrance, he offered his hand to Chizuko, who had followed him down the corridor. He shook her limp hand once more, its strength still not returning.

“I’m quite startled myself, but since there’s a sleeper berth available, I can’t pass it up.” “Please take your time here.” “Then do send a telegram.” Chizuko appeared convinced for the first time and descended the stairs alongside him. Though Yashiro had returned alone late from the station—the strain evident—he drove toward the station by himself, leaving Chizuko halted before the revolving door’s glass pane as she tried to see him off.

There were still five minutes until the night train’s departure. Feeling relieved with the thought that even unreasonable demands in emergencies went smoothly if one acted without hesitation, he immediately set about preparing to sleep alone once more in his travel-worn berth. This kind of hastiness was something he had experienced many times before—he recalled sudden train changes in the unfamiliar mountains of Europe and the perilous loneliness at departure. And then, once settled, for the first time he again felt a strong nostalgia for travel, and found it hard to sleep, achingly regretting in his heart the sight of the sky and water pressing in upon him, spreading and flowing away.

When he awoke the next morning, they were already crossing the Kanmon Strait. Yashiro crossed the strait, detoured via a branch line from Moji into the hinterlands of Kyushu, and arrived at his father’s hometown station a little past noon. From there, he rode the bus for another hour, and after getting off at the terminal, had to walk about half the remaining distance. Because he had last come here as a boy, he asked intermittently for the names of the target village and temple along the wayside, which he only vaguely remembered. Along the riverbank stretching from the sea, tall silver grass grew thickly, blocking the view. When the mountain came into sight between mulberry and wheat fields, Yashiro approached a fortyish farmer passing by with a hoe on his shoulder,

“Which mountain is referred to as Castle Mountain?” he asked. The farmer pointed to the highest peak at the center of several low ones extending toward the plain and answered that it was that one. Once he reached the temple and the villagers came out to greet him, it seemed unlikely he would get to walk alone through the place he had envisioned; thus, before being noticed now, he had resolved to see the ruins of the mansion where his ancestors had breathed, gazed until dusk, and perished. At a crossroads in the rice fields stood a stone Jizo statue, and beside it there came into view a single cheap candy store. After buying cheap candy and cider there, Yashiro arranged to leave his suitcase behind temporarily and, carrying only his father’s small coffin, began climbing the mountain path.

Castle Mountain had a horseshoe-shaped profile, and at what would be its neck—midway between its thick shoulders and outstretched arms—could be seen a stone wall supporting a high, flat plane thrusting up from the valley. Far to the right and behind rose a sharp mountain with a pale purple peak that looked ready to snap clean off if touched, while the mountain range curving around to the right exposed stratified rocks like a folding screen, their edges brightly lit in sunlight. The path gradually narrowed and steepened. Yashiro walked on, sweating heavily as he stepped over weeds with his boots. At each bend of the winding trail, glimpses of sea appeared through vines dangling blue berries. Save for oaks and pines, shrubs dominated the bright mountain path. Yashiro recalled a poem he had once read. He could no longer remember its author, but knew it was written by someone who had lost their father. Long ago, imagining such a time might come for himself too, he had memorized that single verse from a waka magazine in preparation. The poet was likely some unknown provincial.

"Through mountain grasses thick along the funeral path, my progress hindered—at the coffin’s lightness, I would weep, yet—" He shook the coffin he had held repeatedly in his hands and thought that now this moment had come to him too. "Through mountain grasses thick, my progress hindered—" In truth, it was exactly as described in that poem—perhaps precisely because he had committed these words to memory long ago that he had naturally wanted to perform this act. But since he still did not know where his father’s grave lay, all he had truly wanted until then was to see the resting forms of his ancestors together with his father.

The stone walls became more numerous among the grass. And when he neared the upper reaches of the mountain, he came upon a flat area scattered with large rocks covered in dead pine needles. He pressed his nose against the stone surface where pale blue, dried moss clung and scratched at it with his fingernails. Weathered cut stones jutted out from among ferns and ivy. When he rounded the ridge at what would be the mountain’s shoulder, black pines clustered thickly at the elevated position corresponding to its head, and he could faintly hear the wind passing through their treetops. The stone walls that rose up from the valley were crumbled and bent, and even now, their loosened gaps—no longer recognizable as walls—were packed with decayed leaves and soil.

Yashiro sat down on a stone at the summit to rest. The sea visible between the trunks of black pines was a soothing color, like the lingering breath of those who had once lived here. Even when imagining vestiges of bygone days receding beyond undulating kudzu leaves and clustered bamboo grass, he could indeed feel here traces of toil once etched by those linked to his father. He hung the coffin on a pine branch and listened intently for a while. Yet all that reached Yashiro now was the sound of pine wind traveling from peak to peak. It was no longer the booming echoes of ancient arrow quivers nor voices of those fallen screaming, but a soundless wind slipping between ribs—a clear, chill whisper from light-years beyond human habitation.

Yashiro gazed at the wing-shaped peak visible beyond one of the outer fortifications that formed the citadel. That elevated spot naturally drew his gaze as he studied the mountain's contours like battle formations; yet without clear reason, he began imagining Catholic Ōtomo forces launching their assault around this central point. The army advanced from white salt fields at the foothills—shimmering like thin ice—swelling into a yellowish-brown horde with their clamor. Surging forward, they surrounded the castle, seized that peak on the outer fortification's flank, and there installed the muzzle of Japan's first-ever deployed cannon. With each fresh cannon shot's echo, he thought the place where crumbling white walls went hurtling through air must surely have been this flat area where he now stood. Those fleeing like avalanches, those scattering, those clashing and falling—amidst their chaotic cries, even then, this pine wind's sound alone would have persisted here.

“I’m scared. I don’t know why, but I’m scared.”

Even now, he would sometimes recall these words Chizuko had uttered plaintively from her wooden chair amidst the pine wind—spoken immediately after Yashiro had related this castle’s final history. Yet what Chizuko feared was likely akin to time’s voice concealed within that sound of rustling pines. And even that Catholic tide pressing across from distant Europe, even that cannon muzzle which had felled the castle—all must have risen over the sunlit sea now visible there.

The white cloth of the coffin hung from the branch, alone in absorbing the mountain air that had seeped into the black pine, its silent stillness piercing Yashiro’s eyes with painful clarity. He walked around the area again. When a lizard darted out from a gap in the stone wall—as though it meant something—he stopped to watch. Grass seeds clung to Yashiro’s ankles as he descended the mountain path. The sea visible through the shrub leaves faded away, replaced by sparse houses with shoji screens emerging into view. With striking vividness, centered on those pure white paste marks of shoji screens drinking in the mountain-shadowed sunlight, the parallel lines of fields stretched splendidly. Tree trunks stood vertically aligned, their worn middles narrowing like tightened waists, forming a valley path that seemed filled with unspoken prayers.

Yashiro reached the temple as he made his way along the path through the distinct mountain gorge where seedlings thrust upward sharply, carrying his father’s coffin. Had it been some twenty-odd years? The gate of this temple was one he recognized. The roof tiles sloped with a relaxed tilt; the pillars, weathered by wind and rain, revealed their wood grain through desiccated crevices. From the gate grazed by the mountain path’s young leaves, a single white wisteria swayed in the wind, breathing quietly through the waning days of late spring. “Oh! You’ve come back,” “Please, do come in.”

The temple’s housewife, whom he had never seen before, readily ushered him into the abbot’s quarters. Yashiro thought of himself as a traveler unacquainted with the formalities of visiting temples. “I had expected you to arrive much earlier… though in such a shabby place as this.” Facing the temple’s housewife—her demeanor weighted with the solemnity of welcoming a rightful return—Yashiro bowed with unfamiliar stiffness that seemed to retreat behind the coffin he carried. His eyes traced the sun-warped swell of tatami mats and the passage leading to the main hall’s Buddhist altar.

“I must apologize for both my father and myself having neglected to visit for so long.” Even his greeting—spanning two generations of father and son—passed through the temple housewife’s rounded smile as his urge to apologize to the main hall’s Buddhist altar grew stronger. Moreover, his desire to bow toward the castle mountain behind him—deeply linked to that altar’s innermost depths and from which he had just descended—intensified further. The temple had been burned down alongside this rear castle mountain when overrun by the Catholic forces of Ōtomo Sōrin, and among the many temples rebuilt in due time, it remained the sole ancient one still standing.

“Is the priest in today?” Before Yashiro could finish asking, the housewife’s expression darkened abruptly as she lowered her gaze to her neatly folded hands. “Today is the memorial anniversary—you see, my husband passed away last year.” “And with guests currently visiting the inner rooms, we’re rather disorganized.” “The memorial anniversary—today?”

Yashiro had never seen the priest here either. Even as he greeted the masterless temple once more, from every sunlit corner of the room, he naturally became attentive to sensing the presence of that person he had yet to meet. The busy housewife, occupied with guests, disappeared into the back room in a half-crouch, and after she had gone, a young man who had just graduated from middle school emerged alone. His figure—sharp white hem visible beneath a black priest’s robe—bore intelligent, handsome features, but his greeting to Yashiro remained stiffly formal, offering only a silent, abrupt bow before lapsing into silence.

“As this child has now succeeded to the current generation, I humbly ask for your kind consideration.” From beside the silently enduring boy, his mother added by way of introduction and had Yashiro guided further into the inner room. The two previous guests were both clad in priest’s robes. With the inner garden—where azaleas pressed in aggressively—at their backs, there sat two men: one portly, the other small-statured, both sharp-eyed guests bearing the mark of clergy. They maintained their Zen meditation postures unbroken, silently gazing at Yashiro for some time without offering a single smile. The temple’s housewife introduced the two guests as friends of the previous abbot, but even so, their unrelenting silence left her alone to fret and attempt easing the tension. Facing her efforts, Yashiro spoke only of his train journey and matters from Tokyo. On the table sat one or two sake bottles alongside a small pot of udon, and from the addition of his single sake cup, he understood this to be the aftermath of today’s modest feast.

“They kindly return from time to time to pay their respects. Last year as well, someone came all the way from Korea.”

The housewife informed Yashiro of his relatives’ periodic returns to their hometown. That the home awaiting the dispersed Yashiro clan had now shrunk to this ancestral temple inhabited by strangers—this realization struck him with both the lash of his clan’s wanderer’s fate and an added weight bowing his head. As the oppressive silence of the surrounding monks—now transformed into the sound of a whip lashing him—began to settle into stillness, Yashiro suddenly noticed small sea bream bones sharply scattered at the bottom of the udon pot on the table. Then those sunken white fish bones encircled by monk-like figures gradually revived a memorial day’s gentle breath from that spot, until he perceived how mysteriously the entire gathering had transformed into warm sunlight, his mind turning once more toward the Buddhist altar.

“My father told me this temple was extremely old, but it must have stood for ages since its construction.”

And he asked one of the guest monks on the right. “Three hundred and fifty years.” From the edge of the seating area, the temple’s young monk answered for the first time in a middle schooler’s voice—a guileless tone inherited from his late father—that sounded mournful to Yashiro, who had likewise recently lost his father. “That makes it quite old indeed.” Though its wooden frame had begun to sag, he thought how many generations of monks must have lived beneath it. Those who wandered endlessly were not solely from the Yashiro clan. Each monk seated here had left home carrying Shakyamuni’s homeland in their heart—all belonged to that lineage of pilgrims drifting temple to temple. If so, then even this room resembling a travelers’ lodge now lacked shared compassion perhaps only because each envisioned different homelands.

Yashiro was suddenly struck by a loneliness that choked his chest when he fleetingly thought that the homeland envisioned by Chizuko—a Catholic who would become his wife—was Jerusalem. Yet to him, who knew nothing of that place, there abruptly floated up the tree shade of Ceylon Island—where Shakyamuni’s tooth was said to be buried—the homeland imagined by the monks seated before him. Beneath clustered green trees lashed by a sudden shower, under dripping leaves on an island where glimpses of yellow robes flickered, there rose in the clearing sky a transient splendor of sunset glow—a solemnly serene and heavenly vision of purple-gold clouds swirling in their terrifying magnificence that even now he could not forget.

“Then, allow me to pay my respects.” Having had the priest continue attending to the memorial service guests, Yashiro seized his moment and crossed the corridor alone. The main hall resembled any mountain temple common to rural villages, but given this temple’s very existence here, Yashiro imagined it might have been where his ancestors—those who perished alongside their castle during its downfall—had made their final stand. From the edge of the raised veranda, he surveyed clustered mountains and fields—a gorge landscape stitched with rice paddies like trowel-smoothed frames—yet within grassy folds where tender new leaves unfurled nestled varieties not solely born of Buddhism’s currents from Ceylon. Ōtomo Sōrin of the Franciscans—he who traded directly with Southern Barbarians—had first landed cannons here to destroy his ancestors’ castle at Nishiura Cove by the nearby sea. Yashiro had seen those Catholic homelands Sōrin and Chizuko revered—western realms where Fiesole’s towers rose.

“When one considers it, all living things lament their inability to fulfill their own ambitions. Autumn deer sacrifice themselves to the hunter’s flute; summer insects lose their lives vainly at the flame—is this not all for the same cause? Human ethics too are thus. Therefore, the companions of Jesus left their homeland to drift upon boundless seas, braved waves of cloud and billows of mist, and now come to this land of the sun to spread the sacred law—all to fulfill their hearts’ desire: guiding the lost into the straight path.”

Such words spoken by Christian monks—who had once preached to converts when first entering here—had also spread through translated terms from Buddhist monks who had shifted from Buddhism. “Everyone is on their own journey. All things are travelers.” Even ordinary sentiment pierced his chest as he looked up at a single ginkgo tree spreading its branches in the center of the garden, and Yashiro thought that this too had similarly flowed from Shina. He had read records stating that the brother of Emperor Ling of Sui had crossed over to this land and that a faction had migrated and settled in Miura Peninsula. Yet was the labored breath of this tumultuous sea of love—left behind by all that had swirled and transformed—truly all that remained before their eyes now? However, come what may, I had emerged from within this very landscape. Among all the vistas of the earth’s surface I had wandered and seen, I was the one chosen and cast down here, this single point as the earth’s axis.

“Ah, why wasn’t I born in Paris?” Now that he thought of it, the time he had heard Kuji sigh like that in Montparnasse and had felt a sudden urge to lash out from behind might have been because of this very scenery before his eyes. Even so, what a world it was—so much to ponder, so little that could be done. From the depths of his constricted, overwhelmed thoughts and his dazed stupor, Yashiro sought a burial ground for his father.

It seemed news from the temple had reached them, and villagers began arriving one by one. Even as Yashiro received their cotton-scented greetings, the frustrating feeling of not recognizing any of the faces he saw persisted. “I am a friend of Mr. Nobutsuna’s—here at this temple, we often wrestled sumo.” There were elderly men who invoked his father’s name in this manner, old women who claimed to remember Yashiro’s childhood appearance from when he had accompanied his father here, and people of his father’s generation who wished to have him listen tonight to the jōruri they had practiced together in their youth. They all gathered around him like a breeze, each with a habit of bringing their faces close to his as they spoke. Unlike the monks, every face bore a moist smile—their whispered warmth slipping gently into his breast like heaped ripe fruits unseen in travels—leaving Yashiro at a loss for how to greet each new countenance. Yet when he thought how his childhood self had been etched into these strangers’ eyes—strangers who had gathered from valley after valley—he felt the vibrant freshness of fields and mountains pressing upon his fingertips, and silently gazed at their peering wrinkles as if gazing upon sturdy lotus petals of a pedestal that had upheld paddies and fields.

“Mr. Kōichirō, do you remember me at all?” “Well now, I learned sewing from your grandmother, you see, and back then, I used to carry you around like this on that embankment over there.” “Oh, have you forgotten already now?” When an old woman who still retained her jōruri-like cadence approached him with gestures, he was startled by the sensation of touching his own body warmth that seemed to linger even now. He felt the urge to stroke and rub that withered shoulder he had no memory of. After the room had become one that seemed to teem with scattered fragments of his body, the temple people no longer kept their distance, but the villagers began to speak again of relatives around him.

Yashiro felt suffocated when told this story. Though inviting relatives for his father’s interment would not have been particularly difficult, he had come abruptly without doing so—not only out of consideration for those who would need to leave work, but also due to the strain of meeting numerous unfamiliar relatives, along with a few unspoken reasons. One key reason was his plan to meet Chizuko in Kyoto on his return journey; however, were he to gather the relatives now, there were those among them who would independently assert their authority. Among Yashiro’s paternal blood relatives, the uncle’s family—those for whom leaving the village had been most inconvenient—had rented out their house after the uncle’s death and moved to a distant land, becoming estranged; precisely because this estrangement remained unacknowledged, it carried an air of unavoidable censure from each household. Moreover, there were countless other delicate considerations, and though Yashiro’s mother herself did not speak of it, he could well imagine this being a major reason for her reluctance to involve herself this time. This concerned ownership of his hometown uncle’s house—now a rental property—which had nominally been transferred to the uncle’s eldest son despite originally belonging to Yashiro’s father. Out of deference to his uncle, who had long served as village headman at the local office, his father had lent the house under his uncle’s name without charge; then that very uncle died, followed by Yashiro’s father. After such virtuous conduct by his father, if Yashiro’s mother were to come forth to settle the remains and stir forgotten memories, there was fear that disputes among relatives might flare up.

In the immediate aftermath of his father’s death, Yashiro had not been without considering the disposition of the family home in his hometown—a property that now seemed poised to become his own. Yet unlike other matters, so long as his mother remained silent on this particular issue, he found it difficult to let any hint of his intentions show. Moreover, even had his mother urged him earlier to use his father’s interment as an opportunity to clarify the house’s ownership, he might have opposed her. This was not born of any pride in wanting to appear virtuous; rather, it stemmed from an inexplicable emotion—something akin to its opposite, a cunning that left him with lingering guilt—and if pressed, he could only say it was a simple wish to remain irresponsibly adrift in a haze. He—who knew nothing of his hometown and had been absent since his father’s time—understood that forcing matters by returning mid-journey would only erode his sense of ownership; yet even if he lost the house itself, so long as he carried those memories onward, the view when looking back would never lose its luster. That every person’s home had been held thus in their heart’s depths—this endless journey’s form common to all—Yashiro thought as he listened to the villagers’ stories.

“In which direction is the grave located?” Yashiro asked curiously about the temple grounds that lacked a cemetery. “Your family’s grave, why, it’s that mountain you can see over there.”

The old woman beside him, speaking with a chant-like cadence, pointed at the hill visible straight ahead beyond the gate. Yashiro had been glancing at that hill since earlier. For the solitary house visible at the foot of the gentle pine-clad hill occupied a position that seemed to match the house lingering in the depths of his memory.

“So then that house at the foot seems to be where I lived.” “Having neglected to visit for so long—it feels like being in a dream.”

“Oh my, what a dreadful thing to say.” “To have forgotten even the house where you lived—how careless.”

The old woman too seemed surprised; after gesturing as if to slap Yashiro’s knee, she gently pressed her hand to her mouth. Yashiro had indeed heard this region was steeped in jōruri tradition, but even so, that such youthful gestures flowed so naturally from this old woman’s shoulders—perhaps from memories of being held by her in childhood—filled him with an inexplicable joy. “The house where you lived has now become a field.” Then the old man who had wrestled with his father suddenly spoke.

“No, no—that’s your grandfather’s house. You wouldn’t know about that.” The one who had spoken up was the old man who had studied jōruri with his father, and Yashiro faintly remembered that grandfather’s house as well. His grandfather had died on the day Yashiro was born, and he still remembered his grandmother who had lived there; but when it came to clarifying how one of those two houses had been sold and his uncle’s family had moved into his father’s home—a matter too complex for young Yashiro to grasp—the jōruri-trained old woman shrewdly diverted the conversation elsewhere.

“You should come back here from time to time, sir.” “Well now, you—this here’s a place you can’t ever cut ties with. Build your grave here too.” “This here now.” “Don’t forget.” Suddenly two more old men approached from elsewhere with something to say. As Yashiro turned toward them, the old woman insistently tapped his knee again. Yashiro—more accustomed to the breath of people from his mother’s Tōhoku homeland than this Kyushu soil of his father’s—thought how profoundly different his parents’ birthplaces seemed at first glance. When Yashiro had gone to consult his maternal uncle Teikichi about inheriting the family headship, Teikichi told him:

“In any case, that place called Kyushu is a strange one.” “In our Tōhoku region, if someone commits a single misdeed, even if they do countless good deeds afterward, they’re no longer accepted—but when it comes to Kyushu, they don’t dwell on the past.” “That’s why someone like Saigō Takamori emerged from there.” He was now freshly reminded of these words—perhaps spoken to give Yashiro some measure of pride. They do not dwell on the past. Indeed, seeing how even now this warmth continued to breathe upon him—he who had returned to his ancestral land a stranger—it became clear why in Ōtomo Sōrin’s time too, when Catholic gospels of heaven had been proclaimed from Europe through Buddhist voices with phrases like “surmounting waves of cloud and billows of smoke to bring noble teachings to this sunlit realm,” that passionate spirit which dissolved past grievances into poetic artifice and set minds pulsing in rhythm must have burned fiercer here than anywhere.

A young monk chanted a sutra in the main hall, after which Yashiro was led by the villagers toward the mountain containing the cemetery. As they walked along a narrow path through rice fields, a middle-aged farmer joined their procession. The man approached Yashiro and bowed deeply to apologize for his tardiness, but Yashiro did not recognize him. The jōruri-trained old woman at his side “This person belongs to that house over there where you once lived,” she informed Yashiro.

“Ah, it was you. I must apologize for the trouble we’ve caused everyone.” Yashiro felt a sudden blow strike his chest with a sensation of retreating, and he gazed intently at the farmer’s face once more. Within the depths of those narrow features—tautly composed and seemingly attuned to weather shifts—lay something as meticulously refined and coolly precise as an engineer’s calculations. Rather than thinking the farmer had changed, Yashiro became aware that with this person, a landlord’s desire to keep lending the house forever had first stirred within him, and he shifted his gaze to his own house visible on the mountain slope ahead.

A two-story house leaned against red earth from a mountainside that had been cut and eroded, showing the long vertical planes of its roof tiles. It could hardly be called splendid, but what chilled his heart was that no one yet recognized it as theirs; from the quiet wind threading through its gaps, even his watchful gaze seemed to draw strength. His house, standing in a bright hollow where the surroundings appeared to have abruptly vanished, stared back at him fixedly with an air as if unable to withstand Yashiro’s own scrutiny. Yashiro’s heart pounded and throbbed in his chest. His steps quickened instinctively, and though he nearly stumbled, he kept his gaze fixed. The damaged clapboards of the storage shed made him want to treat them immediately with fresh bandages. Cracks and fissures infused with acidic soil minerals caught his attention. Indeed, though the house too seemed to have battled ceaselessly against some unseen force, the upper portions of the storehouse and main dwelling—from their bases upward—still retained a healthy color and sheen. In the rock-like shoulders of the structure that had outlived his father and seemed destined to outlast even Yashiro himself, he sensed eyes of tight wood grain ready to endure all that might follow.

The slope he had climbed ended at the house’s inner courtyard. Yashiro shifted his father’s urn against his chest and moved through the courtyard toward the entrance where the hearth glowed. As the approaching house’s frontage seemed to widen, he restrained with his gaze the dimness that threatened to crawl out ahead from within, "Quiet, quiet." The words rose unbidden in his throat. Sunlight streamed through half-closed storm shutters on the silkworm room, while paulownia flowers stood like sparse, solitary tubes atop distant treetops. When he suddenly looked up at the pale purple petals dissolving into the bright sky, sadness overflowed his chest and tears came without warning.

After exiting the courtyard, he came upon a mountain path abundant with chestnut trees. After walking for a while along the ascending path that flickered against faces the color of young leaves, a partially flat area became visible to the right, where over a hundred graves of varying sizes clustered together.

“The graves here—they’re all from your family.”

Then, the old man who had stopped at the front informed Yashiro. Since this was the first time he had seen a cemetery containing not a single grave from another family, being told this left him flustered; he had no idea which grave to prioritize for worship first. “Which one is Grandfather’s?” he tried asking the young monk. The young monk pointed to one at the very edge of the cemetery. He learned that even his grandfather, who until now had been considered the closest and most authoritative figure in their clan after his father, had humbly occupied the lowest position among their deceased ancestors. He thought that this strict hierarchy governing the dead was a natural order that those alive could by no means disrupt. He requested that his father’s ashes be placed at the edge of his grandfather’s grave until a stone could be prepared, but realizing now—having come here without even being told such things by his mother—he thought once more that she truly was, without dispute, someone from another land, different from himself.

While workers dug his father’s interment site nearby，Yashiro walked among tombstones reading inscriptions．Entangled wild bramble vines clung to stones with small white blossoms；from behind dense thickets of young leaves，moisture-laden carvings emerged one after another．These were ancient graves of ancestors he had never known—all bearing his family name “Yashiro，” their surnames uniformly carved with three characters：Fujiwara followed by Tsune．This too he learned for the first time．

Despite the abundance of chestnut trees, pine pollen drifted in. A portion of the pollen that had filled the hollow of the valley passed over the cemetery like a yellow mist and lay spilled along the mountain slope without moving. The incense smoke smoldering from the group of old people unwound its rings around the chestnut trunks. Yashiro placed his father’s ashes, still in their box, into the bottom of the excavated hole. The coldness of the first soil sprinkled over the plain wood held a weight like treasure falling upon his father’s forehead; for a while he reverently watched the damp spots form, but with the elderly men assisting swiftly from beside him, he simply pressed his earth-stained hands together toward the box as it sank from view. Then, as he let his gaze pass over each tombstone in the cemetery one by one, he continued to bow with the intent of properly entrusting his newly interred father.

After the plain wooden grave marker bearing his father’s posthumous name had been erected and the sutra recitation concluded before it, the group descended from the cemetery. “Haven’t you taken a bride yet?”

The jōruri-trained old woman suddenly asked Yashiro from behind. “I’m still alone, but—”

Even as he gave that answer, he felt uncertain whether he should now refer to Chizuko—with whom the betrothal had been completed and who was waiting in Kyoto—as his bride. Even so—whether due to the impact of returning to his hometown—he now realized he had forgotten all about Chizuko until this moment, and felt grateful for a day that had allowed him to immerse himself in pure emotion for the first time in ages. Though it was the place most steeped in human presence, this very quality paradoxically caused human figures to vanish, and even as the natural scenery began to appear as living creatures around him, he felt it as the strange essence of his hometown. The tree buds and grass leaves too appeared like countless fingertips rising up from fragments of human bones.

"I had thought you’d already married Hanako and even had children by now." Then the old woman said something unexpected. Hanako was a daughter of his relative—those marriage discussions exchanged between their parents had become faint bubbles of memory from his childhood that would occasionally surface. Yet it seemed these elderly villagers had sniffed out countless matters about the Yashiro family that even he himself didn’t know, and he imagined his homecoming was stirring considerable winds through the deep-rooted karmic ties entwined across this valley before him.

Against the western sky where the sun had begun to sink, Castle Mountain’s summit appeared vividly darkened in hue. The descending slope down which the group walked was struck by the setting sun’s glare—a brightness that made eyes squint. Yashiro remembered his promise to telegraph Chizuko his return time and checked his watch; worry arose that he might miss the train if he didn’t hurry. He saw the hōsho paper wrapped around the leading hoe’s handle sink beneath mandarin orange leaves as the group reached his family home’s front, where relatives urged him to take tea. Fearing restless unease that might creep in during rest, Yashiro declined under pretext of funeral obligations. The family members—perhaps sensing his reluctance—did not press further, bidding farewell as they let him depart. Passing through the inner courtyard, Yashiro was about to leave the housefront after lingering on a final glimpse of the warped storehouse key when— From behind him came a momentary uproar of sorrowful voices from the vanished house,

“You heartless wretch!” He felt drenched by that single cry. Though this chill belonged solely to his emotional state, descending the slope beneath the stone wall with hands itching to cover ears and clutch his chest, he turned once more to look back. The house maintained its quiet appearance unchanged, paulownia flowers blooming tall along the sunlit wall where evening light fell. Still, his feet quickened toward the temple where his luggage waited.

When he had left Tokyo after parting from his mother, he had already felt agitation over Chizuko—whom he had sent ahead to wait in Kyoto—and now again, as he bid farewell to his family home in his hometown, he reflected on himself leaving a breach of duty behind for her sake who similarly waited in Kyoto; the cold that stiffened his ashamed shoulders grew ever more biting. After passing through the temple gate, even washing his hands naturally became a meticulous act of water usage to purify himself of Chizuko. Even as he drank tea with the elderly men remaining in the tatami room, he canceled the car he had arranged and considered staying the night there, but delaying this day by one would mean breaking his promise to meet Chizuko’s group scheduled to convene in Kyoto. Even if he dismissed it and delayed, nothing would come of it; still, a promise was a promise, and he could imagine numerous instances where the other party’s actions might become unmoored from their plans.

The rickshaw man who had entered called out to Yashiro from the doorway not even twenty minutes later. The elderly people, who had apparently thought only that he would stay at the temple that night, were seen with expressions of surprise and at a loss for words for a moment when Yashiro took his leave to depart, just as one might have anticipated.

“Are you leaving already?” “Without even staying the night.” The jōruri-trained old woman’s strong tone—glaring at Yashiro and interrogating him with a self-centeredness that had yet to fade—pierced him with a fiery severity.

“I am deeply grateful for your kindness, but as I have a friend waiting for me in Kyoto, any delay would cause some inconvenience.” “Even so, you’ve returned after all this time, yet you speak such cold words—” “Thanks to your help, I was able to conveniently finish my tasks, and it seems I will make it in time as well.” Due to the fluster of keeping the rickshaw man waiting and the busyness of wrapping blank paper around his gratitude to the temple and the villagers, Yashiro continued making awkward, fumbling greetings that failed to find their rhythm.

“In the place where your ancestors dwell, won’t you even stay a single night?” From among the silent elderly group, only the old woman persisted in voicing her indignation toward him—her technique of lacing goodwill with venom carried an odd warmth. Trapped in his speechless predicament, Yashiro found himself secretly imploring the rickshaw man at the gate for rescue through his gaze alone. Finally turning his back to the elders and drawing his suit tightly about him, he pivoted once more toward the old woman who still seemed poised to speak—

“Well, I must ask for your forgiveness this time. Next time I will bring my wife along, so then I’ll come up properly to express my gratitude.” He said with a laugh. After being seen off by everyone to the gate and climbing into the rickshaw, Yashiro found himself impatiently awaiting the rickshaw man’s movements—as though watching for a hand that would pull him from flames until the shafts were raised. Soon, the rickshaw began to move. And when he looked up at the mountain alone after leaving the group behind, he thought for the first time that even here, he had been nothing but a traveler passing through all along. He thought that for him, his hometown was now nowhere but Tokyo, and that he was drawing ever closer to it with each passing moment. A wind carrying the chill of dusk brushed against his cheek from the mountain’s shadow. The shoji screens in the neatly arranged ravine of Nawashiro appeared with an elegant demeanor imbued with the scent of earth, and never before had he felt so drawn to the whiteness of the shoji as he did at this moment.

“Ten autumns passed—yet now I point to Edo as home.”

When Bashō left Edo intending to return to his hometown of Iga and composed this haiku in Fukagawa—or so it was said—Yashiro suddenly recalled it. After ten years in Edo, even Bashō’s eyes must have reversed their gaze, coming to see Edo itself as home. With that thought, Yashiro now found himself abruptly remembering how, during his time abroad, he had pondered that settling in a foreign land would surely lead many to regard it as their hometown. Yet for anyone who had taken even a single step beyond their home’s threshold, was there ever a soul whose heart did not drift between the hometown they ceaselessly envisioned within their breast and the village where they now stood? If so, then for such a person, clothing, food, and shelter were but a transient world; their true world lay in their own wandering traveler’s heart—and he thought this wistful sentiment too had come to dwell within that whiteness of shoji screens amidst the grass. That faint whiteness was the color of lamplight—a traveler’s sorrow sunk deep in the breast’s depths.

The foothills of the mountain faded into the plain, and beyond the silvergrass bending their leaf tips, the sea bathed in the setting sun cast a vast afterglow into the sky. In the country path through the silvergrass where dusk was deepening, there was no trace of human presence. When Yashiro reached the crossroads where the narrow village paths converged, he turned to look back from there. The village where his house stood, which he had passed through, had receded far into the distance and was no longer visible, but the peak of Castle Mountain alone still stood facing him from above the scattered rooftops. It looked as though it had placed two roofs beneath its elbows like an armrest and was leaning slightly as if peering down. Even if he had turned from a serendipitously favorable position, amid all the many other peaks lined up that had vanished from sight, the sight of that single one peering out at him made him start, straighten his collar, and call out, "Hey—wait a moment!" to the rickshaw man. The expression of its upward-sloping shoulder bore a relaxed air that seemed to say its long tedium had finally passed, and he felt without doubt that it was the form of a distant ancestor who had risen and was silently seeing him off.

“I’m truly sorry. “Please forgive me just for today.” Yashiro removed his hat and gave a light bow, then stepped out of the carriage again, turned toward the mountain, and performed a formal bow once more. Bathed in sunset’s glow across half its form, the mountain twisted its body like an elderly man squinting—yet atop what would be its head when standing tall, black pines grew thickly. The longer he looked, the more it resembled a figure clad in huntress robes. The mountain folds ascending from both flanks to the summit fortress resembled seams at sleeve joints. In an unobstructed sky, Yashiro sensed even a gentle, understanding smile emanating from those robes. Though it remained perfectly still—the impression of its head tilting softly surely born of his own imaginings—still he felt he could converse vividly with that face.

“Now, you must go.” The chin moved as if to say as much. “If you would stay there like that, we can be at ease,” Yashiro said. “Indeed.” “Since everyone must already understand, I won’t say anything more.” “Please take care of yourself.”

“Indeed.” Yashiro, unable to withstand the emotion welling up within him, finally wept. Tears flowed and would not cease. The young rickshaw man—still with the apron blanket draped over his shoulder—waited while awkwardly turning his face away, but Yashiro paid no heed, feeling both a growing desire to keep speaking of the mountain and a dwindling inclination to depart. Then, wondering why he had forgotten this form until this very moment, he suddenly felt all his past days begin to seem like hollow, empty days. It truly seemed an awkward, sluggish life—one he found deeply regrettable.

“Well, you must go now.” “Wherever you are makes no difference.”

“Now, you must go,” said the huntress-robed figure. “Even if that’s true, there’s nothing else of interest.” “It’s not quite like that.” The mountain fell silent and seemed to glance briefly toward the Kyoto sky. Yashiro thought that the direction in which it had always gazed must be toward his ancestors’ homeland, and he too looked that way. “I died there—but ah, that was just me taking a little rest.”

The mountain—which could also be perceived this way—would begin to grow talkative and break into a broad grin, only to close its mouth again for some inexplicable reason, “Now, you must go.” It was a wind that seemed to nudge him forward with its chin. Yashiro, still reluctant to leave, boarded the carriage with legs heavy and sluggish. The sun had already sunk below the horizon, and a tepid night wind blew from beyond the swaying silvergrass leaves. As the frogs’ croaking swelled louder from both sides of the road and the rickshaw man’s footsteps grew distinct in his brisk hurry, Yashiro still removed his hat and bowed repeatedly from his seat, turning back again and again.

That night, Yashiro finally managed to catch the night train bound for Kyoto. Just as it had been when he came, his return trip had barely stayed on schedule precisely because of that tight timing, and he seemed burdened with too much emotional weight, making sleep unlikely in the unupholstered carriage. When he thought about meeting Chizuko in Kyoto, he found himself considering the tedious necessity of altering his hometown's details in conversation. For even if he were to describe his homeland's memories exactly as they surfaced in his heart—even after formalizing their engagement—this marriage would inherently contain elements that eroded its joy. In truth, between them still lingered an intangible frustration—something formless clinging to their interactions like ill-fitting shoes. At a time when everyone around them blessed their union, this night train journey found Yashiro laboring to smother anxiety now swelling from within himself.

The cause of this anxiety was certainly not merely some ancient hostility—the fact that Ōtomo Sōrin, who had destroyed the ancestral castle Yashiro had seen, believed in Catholicism which Chizuko too shared in faith. Regarding such ancestral tragedies, what was fearsome lay only in that coincidence—and even that should have been settled between them. Yet still, between them remained something they could not shed. A vague, indistinct anxiety had sprouted a new bud and grew within him—a bud that swelled all the more when he thought they would soon marry.

Yashiro wanted to excise such obstructive emotions, yet the feeling persisted that he lacked any blade at hand to accomplish the task. If he were to force a reckoning, there remained no alternative but marriage - he wished only to swiftly consume what they had aimed for until now. That hazy thing at the flow's end, its nature unfathomable, was an uneasy state of mind.

“I feel scared somehow. I don’t know why.” He recalled this sigh Chizuko had let out on the day they selected betrothal gifts—sitting on wooden chairs in Shōtō—and even now could still hear it as if near his ear. Precisely because it had been a sigh whose meaning she herself didn’t understand, when he compared it with his present self, its clarity made him afraid. “Next time I’ll bring my wife—we’ll come then to properly express our gratitude.”

Even as he recalled the farewell he had finally managed to utter to the old woman in daylight—that next time he would bring Chizuko—he wondered whether their suffering would truly be resolved merely to the extent of today’s escape with the rickshaw man’s help, when they stood together gazing at that mountain. Even when he had gazed at that mountain and tears had welled up, within his desire to remain rooted there forever had indeed lingered thoughts of Chizuko in Kyoto—at least in part because of her.

"But the past isn’t questioned—isn’t that tradition? Isn’t it now that I too have been able to return without being questioned about the past?"

And once more, he tried to think as if it had sprung up vividly within him. However, even after thinking this, he found himself unsettled by how his family crest—two tomoe with their faces pressed together in an amiable form—nonetheless had their tails flicked away from each other, appearing almost eerily prophetic of something, leaving him restless throughout the night. The more he dwelled on it, the more the night seemed to groan with delusions that no longer felt like mere thoughts. As the night wore on, he found himself wanting to focus all his willpower solely on sleeping and scanned the faces of the people sleeping around him. Each face held its own past, and every one of them was a face journeying in belief of tomorrow without questioning it.

When he woke the next morning with a head weighed down by three days of sleeplessness, last night’s unease had withdrawn deeper within, replaced by exhaustion seeping from his very marrow—the scenery fleeing past the window now served only to beckon drowsiness. Then, from among the towns along the railway that radiated light like a sea of tiled roofs, the distant haze-shrouded crown of a castle emerged in beautiful form. This was the castle of the Marquis Tanabe family—one Yashiro had missed seeing on his journey there due to traveling overnight in a sleeper car. The dignified figure of layered white walls and towering main keep he now viewed from afar presented a sight of supreme prosperity, utterly unlike the huntress-robed ruined castle of his own family he had seen in his hometown. Remembering how Chizuko—owing to their having returned by ship alongside the Marquis and his wife—had asked the couple to help overturn her mother’s opposition to their marriage filled Yashiro with poignant nostalgia.

As if shamefully immersing himself in the crowded throng, he gazed out the window at the beautiful main keep with gratitude—yet even then, he naturally found himself contemplating both the tragedy of the window he leaned against and the still-splendid vitality of this castle reflected in his eyes. In the blue of the heat-haze-shimmering sky, he felt within himself the melancholy of two intersecting lines drawn by fate: one of prosperity, the other of ruin. And he also recalled how, this winter when he had been invited to the marquis’s house and spent a night with the gathered guests, his father had learned of the matter involving Baron Hisaki, who had unexpectedly favored him, and how his father had suddenly passed away the very next day.

“That’s right—it was the very next day. The day Father died.” Startled, he looked up again and realized this journey to inter his father’s remains remained inextricably tied to the castle before him. He believed bonds formed beyond his understanding must exist upon this earth—that the cycle of prosperity and decline was a duty allotted in turn—and felt compelled to praise the virtuous fortune gracing the Tanabe family’s flourishing form in their ripe glory.

Around three in the afternoon, Yashiro arrived at the Kyoto Hotel. He thought about going to Chizuko’s room right away and did not rise from his chair until he had finished smoking a cigarette. With his body still resonating from the train’s ceaseless rumble deep in his ears, he wanted to submerge himself in stillness for a while—to determine whether he truly needed to see Chizuko immediately. Outside the window lined with roof tiles, the wings of sparrows fluttering toward the trees of Honno-ji Temple glinted in the light. The sky held a parched hue. Given that they were now in circumstances where they could marry at any time, he thought that staying here tonight would settle matters decisively. In this situation where delaying marriage depended entirely on his discretion, being swayed by train-carriage delusions should be deemed not merely foolish but profoundly irresponsible.

However, Yashiro also thought that since his heart inclined him to go, he should let it proceed naturally until he went. This current instability in his feelings was no longer a sentimental matter of whether love existed or not. It felt as though he stood at a taut precipice, akin to a moment when one must choose between life and death—either for himself or for Chizuko. He felt an unwelcome meaninglessness toward this journey's progression—something that would become an inescapable wound for him alone, though it meant nothing to others—but regardless, he resolved first to bathe and then sleep until dinner without notifying Chizuko or anyone else in the adjacent rooms of his arrival. Though his exhaustion was so severe that sleep seemed impossible, it appeared he had managed some rest after all, for he awoke to the sound of a door opening a little over an hour later. When he perceived a faintly white figure moving in the darkened room, he immediately thought it was Chizuko, however dimly. His sleep-heavy eyes continued gazing at the figure standing by the bed as he began feeling a softening within himself—as though something were already beginning to crack and yield.

“What time is it now?” Yashiro asked abruptly.

“Welcome back.” Seeming startled, there was a sudden click of a switch being flipped, and then Chizuko turned around from beside the wall, her smile surfacing. “Dinner is ready.” “Everyone is waiting downstairs.” “How about it?” Struck by how her smile—so near yet unseen for some time—now felt strangely novel, and sensing through the faint scent of her light makeup a warmth that seeped and crumbled within him, Yashiro found himself seized by an intimacy wholly unlike what he had contemplated before sleep, to the point of resenting his own swift capitulation. Rising and turning his back to Chizuko as he washed his face, he wanted neither to let her notice nor to acknowledge his desire to smother without question the train carriage scenes he had been brooding over alone. Even while wiping his face and watching Chizuko in the mirror, he recalled contemplating their broken engagement—and when he thought such uncertainties might still awaken in days to come, the difference in their faiths seemed to him something deeper than disparities in human lives, something distant: a swirling mist flowing from the unseen reaches of the underworld, vast and formless.

“How was Kyoto?” While preparing to go to the dining room, he casually asked. “I was shown various places.” “Somehow my head feels all foggy—how was your hometown?” As Chizuko helped him into his jacket from behind, he still could not bring himself to confess the disgrace of having rushed back too hastily, only letting show his exhaustion from the train carriage where he hadn’t secured a sleeper. After leaving the room and even inside the elevator, he restrained himself from letting his body touch Chizuko and kept his distance. This peculiar mix of a compelling force and conflicting impulses within was something he hadn’t deeply felt until his journey to his hometown—now striking him as a stubborn persistence against invisible resistance that made him sink deeper within himself. Even as he descended to the lower floor and made his way to the underground dining room, Yashiro—alongside the strain of concealing his emotions—with each step on the stone stairs painfully sought a foothold along the path to purge impure thoughts.

“Ah, there you are!” In the dining room, from atop the white-clothed table where Makizo, Yoshikichi, and Sasa were gathered, Shiono’s bright, spread-out Jizo eyebrows lifted cheerfully as he raised his hand toward Yashiro. Though everyone’s faces showed fatigue, their shared smiles as they spoke of Kyoto’s bountiful discoveries during his absence made his own countenance—sinking into solitude among them—still feel heavy and misshapen to him. With his conspicuous white teeth, Shiono repeatedly lamented Yashiro’s absence.

“Well now, you must admit Kyoto has fragments every bit as splendid as the Italian Renaissance,” said Shiono. “Though they’re all scattered about—” “Fragments? Hardly,” Sasa retorted with a discontented laugh. “It’s an entire system laid out in perfect rows.” “The temple gardens go without saying, but places like Gion and Shimabara—I daresay there’s nothing like them in all the world. Take Ichiriki and Sumiya—their luster resembles soy sauce simmered to perfection, gleaming with depth from within.”

Amid Yoshikichi’s witty remarks about such things, Yashiro thought that the beauty he had gathered from this journey was the whiteness of the shoji screens he had seen at a mountain farmhouse. He thought that the beauty of Marquis Tanabe’s castle was also unforgettable, and addressing them all, he inquired, “It seems that touring Kyoto’s historic sites can be done either as experts or amateurs—which approach did you take?” The group could not answer immediately; after exchanging knowing glances, Sasa declared they were semi-experts, while Shiono insisted, “No—since we even ventured into Ichiriki, ours was a purely professional tour.” However, Yashiro did not doubt the assertion made by general researchers that as one deepens their study of Kyoto—regardless of being an amateur or expert—the very quality of their view of civilization undergoes transformation. So when he observed the altered demeanor of the group now seated at the table and particularly perceived how the ancient capitals of Ise and Nara had influenced Chizuko during her travels there, he felt within himself a corresponding growth in richness and an emerging clarity.

The pilgrimage route stretching from the temples across Saga district to Shugakuin, Daitoku-ji’s precincts, Nishi Hongan-ji’s Hiumonkaku, and onward to Daigo-ji was somewhat excessive for three days. Yet even when imagining those paths preserved in Yashiro’s memory, it became clear that they—in their own manner—displayed experiences and excitations no less distinct than the transformations he himself had acquired through his journey home.

“Somehow, I feel like I’m the only one left behind—it’s lonely.” Yashiro finally came to regret his own selfish coldness from earlier and poured soup down his throat as his stubborn heart began to give way.

Some time after finishing their meal, the group received an invitation from their guide Koshio and prepared to visit a certain teahouse. Persuaded, Yashiro decided to join them. When they were shown into the second-floor hall beside the flowing Kamo River, his chest grew chilled by the shifting waters, and the fatigue of successive days seemed to stream out once more.

Directly ahead stretched the Higashiyama range, its swelling peak to the right marking where the moon would soon emerge, cloud fragments floating in light cast upward from below. When Yashiro settled into the riverside wicker chair, the relief of completing his father’s interment brought his first true ease—he loosened his tie and drank in mountains, river, clouds without restraint. Stretching both legs along the railing’s crossbar and arching back with hands clasped behind his neck, he surveyed the vista: magnanimous and abundant as if viewing from a grand cypress stage. Were he to voice his wish, it would be to linger here alone—untethered from all others—just a little longer. The nearby chatter seemed distant now, this dazed respite lasting but moments before Chizuko appeared at the railing beside him,

“It seems Mrs. Higashino’s condition has worsened.” She spoke in a low voice, peering tentatively as she leaned closer. He realized this must be why Higashino had been absent earlier. To Yashiro—who had long known about Mrs. Higashino’s precarious state—the phrase “seems worse” struck him as despairing, making the luminous edge of the mountains appear even more starkly vivid before his eyes.

“Then it’s hopeless… Mrs. Higashino.” “What do you mean? You hurried back to Suma yesterday.” Having just visited Takusandera Temple, Higashino’s emotions felt all the more vivid to him, and the mountain’s shape began to resemble a reclining Buddha statue in Yashiro’s eyes. A hazy brightness had seeped out where the moon would rise—directly above Nishiohani. Days earlier, Yashiro had interred his father’s divided remains there, and now his gaze remained fixed on that spot. From his vantage point, that faint glow in the sky seemed to sway upward from his father’s hidden chest below, making him yearn for the moon’s appearance—yet when he considered the crumbling disturbances around Higashino, their matchmaker, even this anticipation struck Yashiro on his wedding night as akin to Higashino’s usual whip-like severity, piercing his chest with silent pain.

Kuji would return soon. Makiko's ex-husband Hayasaka would return as well. At this juncture, when it was not hard to imagine that Higashino too would join the negotiations between Makiko, Kuji, and Hayasaka, there came the worsening of Mrs. Higashino’s condition.

“You’ve had it rough, Makiko-san.”

While gazing at the moon that seemed about to emerge yet did not, Yashiro muttered these words; inside the room, Yoshikichi, Shiono, and the others were earnestly posing questions to their guide Koshio about various points of doubt regarding the temples they had visited. As expected, most of their questions concerned Ryoan-ji’s stone garden—a topic everyone addressed. Koshio spoke in a low voice that carried even to the hallway, recounting many things Yashiro was hearing for the first time: how a modern garden expert had secretly measured the spacing of stones in that garden and confessed they aligned perfectly with the mathematics of modern garden design down to the last fraction; how a single cherry tree had once been planted in the stone garden during its early years but was later cut down due to the belief that a lone tree in a garden invited ruin; and more.

“However, putting that aside, as a Japanese garden, that one reached its zenith, and all gardens since then have been in decline.” “The notion of a zenith—well, I suppose it’s something we still can’t quite grasp.” “After all, one could say the pinnacle of Kyoto’s civilization lies in those stones.”

The guide said this and, with humility, did not forget to put a “period” to his own perspective. To Yashiro, the talk about the stones became more interesting than the moon.

“If stones are the zenith, then there’s no trouble at all.” “Let’s master it once and for all.” With that, Yoshikichi spoke and once again drew laughter from everyone. In a rectangular space of about sixty tsubo paved with white sand where merely fifteen stones were placed afloat, Yashiro had seen Ryoan-ji’s garden twice before. The garden—located at a corner that could be called the veranda edge of the temple’s abbot quarters, at a bend in the path—contained not a single tree, enclosed only by a pale brown wall. Yet outside its bounds, where magnificent hōki cedars grew thickly, their splendid leaves hung heavily like tassels, making the white sand within stand out with vivid clarity. A lone yellow butterfly had once frolicked in flight over the sand, and he had felt as though he could hold in his hands a moment of that spring day—when its serene form fluttered about with unbridled freedom in its quiet solitude. Even now Yashiro recalled that scene and thought how the zenith maintained a sternly monotonous appearance, having wiped away any blur of meaning. Musing on how the garden’s creator was said to be Musō Kokushi of the Yoshino period and that Buddhism too had entered its decline after reaching its peak with this master priest, Yashiro considered Ryoan-ji’s stone garden to be an expression of civilization profoundly rich in implication.

“People say that garden is like islands floating on the sea or a parent and child tiger passing through, but I just thought about the number of stones and snapped the shutter, you know.” Yashiro found Shiono’s offhand remark amusing and laughed.

“That should do.” “After all, isn’t mathematics that has lost its dreams precisely what gives humans their grandest dreams?” With that, Koshio looked at Shiono, a knowing smile—unbound by art history—escaping his sun-tanned face. “So even we Japanese must have some mathematical tradition born from those stones.” “Otherwise, this capital’s thousand-year struggle with Buddhism would be meaningless.” “They’re not mere stones.” Yoshikichi raised his solemn face and glanced briefly at Yashiro before suddenly exclaiming, “Ah! I heard this from the professor here—” he gestured toward Makizo with an abashed tilt of his chin, “—what was his name? Kronecker? They say his mathematics contains a famous theorem called ‘Youth’s Dream.’” “Apparently he conceived it in a dream while sleeping, but when he awoke and tried to prove it again, he found it impossible.” “Frustrated that what he’d perfected in dreams eluded him awake, he gathered his brightest disciples—but none could solve it either.” “Then Japan’s Takagi Teiji—that Doctor of Mathematics—effortlessly proved it, they say.”

While Yoshikichi likely wanted to suggest that even within Japanese capabilities, such mathematically exceptional heritage had accumulated as an implication from Ryoan-ji’s stone garden, separately from that, Yashiro suddenly recalled the day he had dreamed of marrying Chizuko last year. And he felt in his very being that the time when that dream was about to become reality was drawing nearer with each passing moment; when he suddenly looked up at the mountains, the moon had begun to emerge from the rounded contours of Higashiyama. The riverbed stones, gathered in their rounded forms, each lay quietly submerged in the water; the river’s surface, its ripples stirred by the moonlight, seemed to lap and spread its way into the very room.

“The fact that a Japanese person solved a foreigner’s ‘Youth’s Dream’ is quite symbolic and fitting.” Sasa happily looked toward the riverbed. Gazing up at the moon, Yashiro thought that even the many moons which had appeared throughout Kyoto’s long civilizational history must have emerged from this very mountain he now beheld; he further surmised that when Musō Kokushi placed stones in the garden, he too must have once envisioned the moon as an expression of the sentiment contained within his own name. “What about you, as a mathematics expert? You must have a different opinion regarding Ryoan-ji’s garden.”

Yashiro tried asking Makizo, who had been silently laughing in the corner until then. In truth, Yashiro had been secretly waiting for that opportunity all along. When Makizo was asked by him, he answered immediately in his usual clear tone, without a hint of hesitation.

“When I am shown such a clear, simple garden, I feel confronted with the problems I usually waver over.” “You see, when you boil it down, human thought must enter either A or B—this applies to any person’s thinking. As you may know, in mathematics we call this the law of excluded middle and accept it as an axiom. But I suddenly found myself thinking—might not the garden’s creator have wanted to erect a stone monument at the boundary between the metaphysical world of such axioms and the physical world, as a commemoration?”

When Makizo had spoken up to that point, three maiko entered from the hallway, aligned themselves on the tatami, placed both hands down, and offered a proper greeting. The fluttering ornaments of the hairpins inserted in their hair reflected the moon, swaying and continuing to shine with a fierce brilliance. The entire group briefly turned toward them, but Makizo’s words seemed to have already pierced deep into their minds, and not a single expression faltered. “Isn’t your theory the most difficult problem in the world?” “I can’t possibly believe that such things exist within the stones of that garden, but as a new theory, it is certainly something unprecedented.”

Koshio turned toward him—someone whose very existence he had never even considered until now—and seemed to begin carefully observing young Makizo’s face. "What I said was purely from a mathematical standpoint, but in mathematics, A must be different from B—they cannot be the same." "However, if the stones of that garden represent the pinnacle of Kyoto’s civilization, then I believe that the anguish at the zenith of cognition known as the law of excluded middle must, in some form, be buried at the roots of those stones." "If that were not the case, then the civilization contained therein would not be a pinnacle or anything of the sort—it would be no different from a stone toyed with by South Sea natives, I think."

Though delivered in a gentle manner, Makizo’s words sharply pierced Koshio’s view of history. “This is quite troublesome—the discussion has split into A and B!” With that, Yoshikichi leaned back and unabashedly scrutinized the faces of the maiko lined up before him. “However, even if Ryoan-ji is a Zen temple, I can’t imagine modern mathematics being so advanced back then. They must be fundamentally different stones.” “In those days, people saw stones as living beings.” After saying this, Koshio looked at Yoshikichi and laughed in return. “This one of mine is probably B.”

“I’m neither A nor B. Having one like that shouldn’t be a problem, should it? There isn’t one?” Yoshikichi asked Makizo.

“It is the same problem—there indeed exist cases where if axiom A holds true, axiom B also holds true. For example, take the axiom that two parallel lines never intersect—there’s another axiom stating that those same lines meet at infinity. Or consider how the axiom that a triangle’s interior angles sum to two right angles on a plane does not hold true on a sphere. These are all valid axioms; no one can declare either version mistaken. However, if we follow this axiom of the law of excluded middle—that A and B are distinct—then not only in mathematics but in any thought held by us or anyone else, what is considered correct will, when strictly considered, become an axiom where one side must be wrong. In any case, that is the most challenging part of mathematics. In other words—even though both are logically correct, once it becomes an argument that one side must be wrong, everything in the world must similarly split into two and come into conflict. There’s simply no way around it, is there?”

The entire group remained silent, not uttering a word. Only the maiko’s hairpins, reflecting the golden screen, fluttered like rippling water amidst their black tresses.

They continued flickering with unceasing delicacy, resembling the quiet respiration of a room filled with whispered exchanges. “Since Musō Kokushi was tugged back and forth between demands from both the Yoshino faction and the Takashi clan, perhaps even Ryoan-ji’s stones conceal within them that same torment of axiomatic laws.”

Yashiro said as he entered the room. Even as he spoke, the religious differences lying between him and Chizuko, along with disparities in interpreting views of civilization that had continued to clash with Kuji since Paris, began to mire into distorted disparities of the heart.

“But if what Makizo here claims holds true in actual mathematics—this becomes quite a problem,” said Shiono, scratching his head in vexation. “From A’s perspective B is wrong, and from B’s perspective A is wrong—then there would be nothing left in the world that’s truly right. Don’t you agree?” “Therefore, I believe the axiom of the law of excluded middle must contain some fundamental error.” “Admittedly, there are mathematicians who reject this axiom, but to theoretically deny it would be exceedingly troublesome—one might say it’s nearly impossible at present.” “Yet given that human intellect has stagnated here, I cannot help but feel an apprehension that humankind stands poised to descend into great chaos—or something akin to it.” “It cannot be helped, after all.”

In the corner behind Makizo, the maiko stiffened further while counting on their fingers and whispering among themselves. The room’s warm air gave way to a river-chilled breeze as the deep tones of a shamisen drifted in. Across the water, a lit streetcar glided through willow branches. “Hey! Show us a dance!” Yoshikichi—apparently feeling responsible for his brother Makizo having dragged everyone into intellectual distress unsuited to the occasion—suddenly leaned in to peer at the maiko’s necks. At his words, all heads in the room snapped upward, and the maiko scattered to their seats. Makizo, who had risen and become wedged between voluminous red collars, stood abandoned, curiously studying the maiko’s hairstyles. A maiko swaying her long obi—split down the middle—drifted to Chizuko’s side, gazed moonward, and resumed counting on her fingers.

“Oh, Shukiku, composing in such a fine spot—how cunning!”

When the newly arrived geisha came out to the veranda and similarly lined up, she too began counting on her fingers while murmuring, "Higashiyama, Higashiyama." When Yashiro asked Tsuru Chiyo, the geisha, what they were doing, she explained that these days everyone had been ordered to study haiku. "So everyone’s composing haiku now? I can’t let my guard down around that."

Yoshikichi also stretched his back and looked up at the mountain. The fluttering hairpins of the maiko standing bathed in frontal moonlight swayed amidst babbling river waves, while lights across the water—still clinging to early evening’s atmosphere—illuminated countless bridge-crossing feet into a bustling spectacle.

“Lying facing the moonlit Higashiyama,” Shukiku said with a laugh. “What a bizarre haiku,” Yoshikichi remarked. “You’ve gone and wrapped yourself in a futon.” “You’ve gone and wrapped yourself in a futon,” Tsuru Chiyo beside her echoed while poking her shoulder. “Well, aren’t you just hiding your face?” The long hems of two sashes dangling limply against the railing struck each other supplely and played. The river water filled the space between its banks, its purifying current carrying the moon’s dance far into the distance. The maiko named Senkaku—her hairpin heavy with white peonies and wisteria blossoms, her chrysanthemum-patterned collar standing tall—remained alone beside Makizo as she drew her dance fan from her collar,

“The other day, the teacher told us to compose a haiku about night cherry blossoms. So Shukiku went and wrote: ‘Night cherry blossoms—meeting the person next door.’ I wonder if that even qualifies as a haiku.”

Senkaku asked Makizo. The room erupted into even more cheerful laughter. Not only was Senkaku’s story innocent, but Makizo’s flustered, overly serious face in response to the maiko’s question also drew everyone’s attention.

After the elder geisha arrived, the room shifted to dancing, but Shukiku’s fingertips—as she danced with Tsuru Chiyo—arched with knowing poise. Tsuru Chiyo kept her eyes composed and unwavering toward the guests, her effort concealed beneath sincere grace. Even as Yashiro watched the golden fans swirl unhesitatingly against torinoko-paper doors to the drum’s rhythm, they would at moments appear to him as a dance of axioms A and B. The full beauty of their movements—overlapping front and back, parting, bending and stretching—along with the harmony drawn from the elder geisha’s single breath of song, resonated with particular profundity in that night’s teahouse. When the dance ended and both heads lowered in perfect unison, Yashiro—feeling he had grasped something—sent applause their way. Indeed, more than the dance itself, it was this implication that struck him with greater joy, his own exhilaration leaving him pleasantly stirred.

“Kyoto is nice, isn’t it.”

In the automobile returning to the inn, Yashiro—the oppressive heaviness from the journey from Kyushu having melted away—said this to Chizuko beside him: "So even conflict is, after all, a form of harmony."

Beside him, Yashiro’s murmur seemed to reach Makizo as well, He nodded with a “Hmm.” And,

“That’s right. It’s just that we seem unable to comprehend it,” he added, then mentioned that upon returning to Tokyo, he would like to bring along a friend of his—a mathematical genius—for a visit someday.

At the inn, Yashiro was in Chizuko’s room, where the two of them searched for common acquaintances and compiled a joint message. While writing, he found himself unable to suppress his rising momentum. When he considered that these were words written in a moment of great joy, he took care to ensure they didn’t naturally take on a veiled sarcasm. Yet, even though the two of them were doing nothing but sitting across the desk and moving their pens, the sense that they were in a fulfilled room through which a cold wind had swept could not entirely be attributed to their having now completely finished preparing for marriage. Nor was it from the excitement of having seen the Kyoto dance at the teahouse; he thought it was largely due to the feeling that a long-standing question lodged in the core of his mind had been resolved. In reality, as all those various reasons converged at once, he found himself feeling cheerful before he knew it.

“Anyway, never mind that. Just hurry up and go home.” Yesterday, on a village path in Kyushu, when the mountain of his hometown had seemed to point toward Kyoto with its chin and say those words—he suddenly recalled that moment of emotion but did not particularly think it foolish. Indeed, he only deepened his feeling that the mountain’s expression had been meant for such a moment as this—if anything, it felt all the more true in reverse. Yashiro was delighted that even in the brief article Chizuko had written to Kuji, her joy came through.

"For the past four or five days, I have been touring Nara and Kyoto with my brothers. I studied many things I had not yet known for the first time, but I felt deeply grateful that it was not too late for me. My brother will depart soon. I believe I will probably meet you there around next month." At the end of what she had written in this way, he noticed that instead of writing her name as usual, she had written "Yashiro Chizuko." As if suddenly seeing something uncanny, Yashiro gazed at it, then silently attempted to take up his pen again after her; yet when he realized the recipient was Kuji, the boldness of the signature "Yashiro Chizuko" made even the writing falter with bashfulness.

“Yesterday back home, I was asked if I had a bride yet and found myself cornered,” Yashiro said. “It’s too soon to speak of you, yet too late to deny it—that’s where matters stand.” “Isn’t that still too soon?” Beneath Chizuko’s gaze that seemed to probe his marital hesitation, Yashiro delayed his reply while marveling at the woman’s composed resignation in casually altering her surname. For a time, he contemplated the sudden reality of this new name.

“You’re taking this name now—are you sure about that?”

“But I thought if we kept waiting for the ceremony, there’d be no end to it.” “I don’t even know when it would be.” “And I thought once you return to your hometown, you might suddenly say something strange again—but that’s not it.” Though she showed no outward sign of doubt, in the strength with which Chizuko had stepped forward proactively, she seemed to want him to know of some internal change or resolve within herself. Wanting to sense that change in Chizuko, Yashiro looked directly into her eyes. Chizuko briefly lowered her gaze but immediately looked back at him without any trace of timidity.

“I understand what troubles you—but this is truly something I’m grateful for.” “Now everything’s settled.”

As he said this, Yashiro suddenly felt not joy but rather a peculiar sadness in that instant and threw down his pen there. What exactly was sad about it he himself could not quite grasp, but the sorrow of Chizuko having severed her own past with her own hands had transferred to him—it was undoubtedly the sadness of sensing that what had compelled her to do so lay within himself. And then—if he were in Chizuko’s position, what would he have done? When he thought this, no matter how deeply he might love the other person, if it were himself—Yashiro could no longer think beyond that point. It was an endless thing that made him anticipate terrifying possibilities. And then, if that time were to come, it would be a collapse of faith from which he himself might rather choose death. Indeed, the desperate suffering of having his roots severed surged back suddenly somewhere in his chest, and tears spilled from his eyes.

"I finally drove this woman to her death with my accusations."

Yashiro, thinking this again, found his tears becoming increasingly unstoppable, and before he knew it, he entered the bathroom, cooled his hands with water there, came back out, and stood by the window. A single star above Honno-ji emitted an intense light. As he gazed at the star, he felt his emotions growing cold and transparent. His strength seemed to drain away rapidly. It was a lonely feeling akin to resignation—an utterly desolate emptiness he had never experienced before.

“Honno-ji is right behind that house over there.” Leaning one shoulder against the window, Yashiro pointed aimlessly to the diagonal left while feeling an increasingly profound loneliness, as though he were departing alone for some unknown place. It was a desolation he had not anticipated in the least. “Where?” Even after approaching the window, Chizuko looked perplexed by her inability to comprehend; showing no particular interest in viewing the temple, she instead gazed at the crowd spilling out from the hall and explained that it was the dispersal after tonight’s concert by a musician from Tokyo. Yashiro no longer wished to think about marriage. Yet even so—this frustration of being unable to grasp his own heart with his own hands was not confined to the present moment—as this act slipped through and flowed out from between them, Yashiro kept his eyes fixed on the star, wondering what enticement from what force this could be.

“You have to go back tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Yes.” “But I’m all right with any time.”

“We’ve left so many gardens unseen, but—”

He no longer wanted to see even the temple gardens. The sky looked as though a single flute’s note had pierced through with crystalline clarity. Chizuko’s upper lip glistened with fine sweat as she murmured something, occasionally turning her body to peer restlessly down at the street below or glance at her wristwatch. To Yashiro, her movements—light as a butterfly flitting by the window—resembled the fluttering dance of something severed, filling him with sorrow.

However, when he thought about it—what joy it might bring—he found himself reconsidering. When he imagined himself receiving this surge of pitiable things that had washed ashore at a time he had never wished for, with no means to address them, he truly felt like that apprentice geisha from the evening gathering—now unfurling a golden fan and longing to dance just once himself.

"Fifty years of human life—when compared to the transformations of existence—are like a dream or illusion—"

The song of Atsumori that Nobunaga danced at the eve of the Battle of Okehazama naturally rose to Yashiro’s lips as he gazed upon Honno-ji; he sought to sever all bridles of hesitation and struck the window frame’s edge with a motion like striking a horse’s saddle.

Even after returning from Kyoto, Yashiro still did not change his traveler’s posture. Maintaining a stance as though awaiting some unseen command, he sat among his father’s belongings because he believed this to be the once-in-a-lifetime moment when the house would transition from his father to himself. At times like these, being interfered with by those around him was painful for him. Amidst the dense overlapping of green leaves, only the magnolia leaves maintained their elegant form like feathers in water, which comforted Yashiro more than anything when he awoke in the morning. It was one such morning. There had long been a pillar at the corner between the tatami room and bathroom in Yashiro’s house, where a small hole about three millimeters in size had formed. From that hole, termites gushed forth. The termites, plump with translucent wings, began as a few dozen individuals that gradually multiplied into a swarm of thousands; in an instant, they overflowed like smoke and clung to the surrounding walls and pillars.

He had never seen such a thing before. It was a clear day with a faint haze, and when the sunlight shone through, the termites’ wings glowed a beautiful pale green. The wings appeared unused since birth, and the termites seemed to be preparing to untwist their stiff, adhered wings.

Not moving about, they remained still, clinging to their positions, merely faintly trembling their spread wings. While it wasn’t a major incident, as an event occurring to the house itself, this swarm of termites could be called a rare phenomenon in recent times.

“What do you think about this? We’ll have to tear down this whole room and rebuild it completely—there was already a nest in the foundation before we knew it,” Yashiro said to his mother as he stood up to go wash his face. “No matter how much we swat them, they just keep coming out endlessly.”

Struck by their remarkable display, Mother left the termites undisturbed for a while, finding it a rare sight worth observing. Then, after about half an hour had passed, a corner of the termite swarm had begun to shrink as if licked away. The entire swarm inched toward the eaves where the light shone, and when they reached the sunlit corner of the pillar, each one took flight into the sky from there. Though small in size and numbering tens of thousands, they moved with perfect order from the very beginning—a poised motion as though commanded by some unseen leader—until soon not a single one remained in sight.

Yashiro had read about such termite activities in books before. Yet the sight of these insects' supple instinctual world—moving through orderly swarms without disrupting unity, emerging from the earth in sky-blue hues only to vanish into the azure sky in an instant—resembled a phantom before his eyes, as if touched by a single drop of sacred water. Here too, some manner of departure had occurred. He tapped the pillar where the termites had gathered. Listening to the hollow dry sound within, he thought his marriage to Chizuko also resembled this departure from the nest they were about to make.

“We have to change the foundation of this house—”

And once again, Yashiro touched the darkened foundation block at the base of the pillar and said. When renovating the house, he decided to entrust the carpentry work to Seizaburo, Toyo’s husband. The figure of Seizaburo—who was rebuilding the bathroom and tatami room—began appearing daily from Kamata around the time when the rainy season had passed its midpoint and ripe ume fruits were brushing off magnolia leaves. Seizaburo had an oblong face and tall stature, with the dark blue cross on his workman’s apron still crisp from washing. Taciturn yet earnest, his meticulous selection of lumber—unfazed by detailed estimates—resembled Toyo’s own diligence. When Toyo had still worked as a maid in Yashiro’s household, she had asked Sachiko to write love letters to her lover on her behalf, trembling fervently while—

"A bridge of dreams in mist where plovers dwell—though I am one whose love remains unfulfilled—" As he recalled how Toyo had begun reciting this and wondered whether Seizaburo had been her intended recipient back then, the rain-soaked cross on the carpenter's back appeared to Yashiro like an oddly sealed letter.

While the remodeling of the house progressed, changes were occurring among Yashiro’s circle of friends. Mrs. Higashino, who had been convalescing in Suma, passed away. In contrast to Yoshikichi’s departure once again for Europe, a letter arrived from Kuji stating he would return to Japan with Secretary Oishi from Geneva. Such developments also included Shiono’s marriage negotiations being abruptly concluded and Makizo’s firm decision to take employment with an airline company. Yashiro himself began commuting twice weekly to Baron Hisaki’s company, resumed his regular attendance at his uncle’s office as before, accepted a part-time lectureship requiring about two hours weekly at a university, and at last found his daily life growing increasingly crowded.

Though the rainy season was nearing its end and distant thunder rumbled, days of relentless humidity drew sweat from brows. One afternoon, as Yashiro prepared to attend a gathering hosted by Hisaki Company’s Cultural Division, he saw an extra edition reporting that a Japanese military unit confronting Chinese soldiers on Beijing’s outskirts had finally returned fire in response to Chinese army gunfire. The article was brief, but the air thickened with an extraordinary harshness that clung to its implications.

The expressions of the people walking along the street were also mostly subdued, with few words and heads often bowed. The splashes of water sprinkled on the pavement surged toward his feet with vivid sharpness like sword tips, and as he walked, Yashiro repeatedly wiped the sweat clinging to his neck. At the Japanese-style room of the venue’s Chinese restaurant, a large number of invited guests from the company gathered. They each buried their chins into their chests in such a manner, and even their backs leaning against the walls showed no movement, appearing suffocating.

“It’s hot.” Even when there were occasionally such individuals, no one tried to exchange silent glances.

“Things have gotten really serious, haven’t they?”

Yashiro said to one of his colleagues. “A grave matter.” The colleague pushed up his glasses, but something immediately drew them both inward, and neither spoke another word. In the garden enclosed by ceramic-tiled walls, young bamboo sprayed with dewdrops stood out with verdant nodes, while beyond them, evening dusk began to settle. As steaming bowls of food circulated among grease-glistened faces, to Yashiro they appeared as intimately familiar as the uninterrupted current of daily life flowing from yesterday, evoking even a sense of nostalgia. Indeed, all topics from days past now seemed like antiquated husks on this night. Thus the intended agenda for today’s gathering—

"On the Differences in Humanism Between East and West" The theme of "Differences in Humanism Between East and West" too seemed like some powerless thing that had scattered from everyone’s hearts. Politics, economics, ideology—every cultural issue down to the last—became concentrated in that corner of North China where flames had begun to erupt; their imaginations spiraling outward from this epicenter in unstoppable turmoil, they naturally lowered their faces over plates heaped with chicken, pork, and duck meat.

“With this, peace has ended.”

With his back to the unripe persimmons on the floor and eyelids filled with melancholy, one of the philosophers raised his face from his plate and said.

“That does seem to be the case.”

As soon as the literary figure beside him said that, suddenly, the chairman, as if seizing the opportunity, spoke in a gentle tone.

“Well then, everyone, let us begin now. Today has become not so much a day of unexpected excitement as one of grave circumstances, and while I expect our discussion may take on a somber tone, I believe we must settle what needs settling now. Therefore, with utmost resolve, I ask you all to share your opinions.” “Let us stop for today,” someone said. It seemed not a half-hearted interjection but a voice embodying their collective awareness—they could muster no interest in such an abstract agenda as humanism at this late hour.

“None of this matters anymore. Rather than that, strengthening military preparedness and expanding economic power.” Sharply and resoundingly, there was such a cultural critic. Everyone burst into laughter at this. Yet within that clear judgment absorbing their laughter lurked a pristine counterattack against the group’s past—a past tormented by abstract notions since the end of the Taisho era. It was a severity not so much of human retaliation, but rather like the quaking of reality itself—having found its opportunity, taken aim, and launched a sudden assault.

"The war has already begun—true peace is war itself." Yashiro recalled how Higashino, having circled America, had made this remark about the Spanish rebellion situation immediately upon arriving at Yokohama port after disembarking. He further remembered that late autumn last year when walking through the city with Shiono—upon hearing of Chiang Kai-shek’s abduction in Xi’an—he had suddenly felt a gust that seemed likely to influence his own destiny. A war in one place could not possibly subside there alone.

Yashiro had witnessed it all—the advancing ranks of weapons laden with explosives blanketing the earth’s surface; the acquisition of iron, coal, and oil that could no longer be stopped; the frenetic pace of nations fiercely competing in their military preparations under stormy skies. In Paris, days had come when headlines proclaiming the imminent outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War seized the eyes of passersby—events that now seemed like foreshocks of today’s tremors. At that time, centered on the collapse of the Geneva League, dark clouds hung ever thicker and lower; even the faintest murmurs from anxious officials and citizens, and the clashing flames of ideologies surging against one another, roared like the turning wheels of a crisis plunging deeper. Wherever one looked, Europe bristled with flashpoints. It seemed the day had arrived when machines would devour the intricate layers of human hearts—tenfold, twentyfold accumulations of resentment and seething gloom. Nations and religions, politics and economy, civilization and thought—all appeared to be crumbling into the grinding teeth of gears.

"On the Differences in Humanism Between the West and the East"

That such an agenda had been proposed among them this night was not without reason, yet now flames encroached upon every front in the East as well. A backlash against their conceptual frailty—this weakness of fretting over matters no longer distant as if they were another’s concern—merged with resolve to transmute this into personal fortitude, and from their midst another vigor kindled. “War isn’t some sudden accident like an earthquake—it’s human affairs spread thin, inevitable.” “Then doesn’t that link to humanism’s very foundations?” “As cultural figures, what else can we do but act now?”

One such literary figure also emerged. “However, humanism originates from Renaissance humanism itself.” “Implementing it from there would prove quite difficult.”

The philosopher, who did not seem inclined to speak further, fell silent again after uttering those words. “Interpretation doesn’t matter.” “It’s about the essence of humanism.” “It’s about our very hearts.” “We cannot simply cast aside our hearts and succumb to panic, can we?”

“If war breaks out, everyone will try to speak only their own will—if you speak only with will, you lose the war.” “Cool judgment is what matters most.”

It was the scientist, who had been leaning against the corner wall and silent until now, that spoke up from the side at this moment. "If we don't speak with will, then what are we supposed to speak with?" Though they were a group bound by shared anxiety, an easy laugh suddenly arose from among them. "Hey stenographer, I need you on this. Let's start the roundtable discussion from there," the chairman urged once again, seizing the moment.

However, when the stenography began, no one attempted to speak up after all, and from there the meeting stalled once again. Yashiro felt relieved at this stalling. It was because he thought anything he might say now would be futile.

As dishes continued to be brought out, casual conversation still lingered for a while, but before long, the night ended in an early adjournment without any commotion. Figures scattering from the grand entrance into the darkness included some who seemed reluctant to part—as if believing this would be their last gathering in peaceful times—and others whose resolute bearing appeared to declare, "If pus emerges, crush it underfoot." However, no matter what might happen, today—with backs bearing the lingering traces of a farewell that would never return to yesterday—they scattered into their humble returns, each lit by their own lamplight.

On the fiery canna flower stalks, black ants could be seen swarming and climbing. Even as midsummer pressed in with scorching heat, the war still continued. It emerged from the darkness of a tense force seeking conclusion, stretching and spreading like wind, until at last the mobilization order was issued. As the movements of the newly organized army grew more vigorous, flags waving beneath the blazing sun rapidly multiplied from town to town. Once the Red Cross's activities had become strikingly visible, the whinnying of horses departing from mountains and fields gradually grew louder.

Despite the heat—rumbling like the distant war drums—the expressions of people long accustomed to peace still seemed not yet harmonized. It lacked the severity to be called war, yet was too unnervingly rumbling to be mere incident—this time, flames broke out around Shanghai. It was precisely at such a time that Kuji returned to Tokyo via the Indian Ocean route. He had returned to Tokyo without informing any of his acquaintances there, drifting back with an air of nonchalance.

Yashiro learned of Kuji’s return from Shiono, who in turn had heard it from Oishi. Yashiro could perceive Kuji's state of mind—not informing anyone and avoiding meetings—but fearing that Kuji alone might simply decline into old age unless drawn out without taking offense, he immediately sent him an express letter. Though it would have been acceptable to go directly to his house near the Tama River as he had heard, there might have been more difficulties than he could imagine in doing so, so for now he settled on sending an express letter. When there had been no reply for some time, one day during Yashiro’s absence Kuji came to visit, his sister Sachiko informed him, saying.

“He’s such a strange person. After saying goodbye and stepping outside, he came back in again and said, ‘Please tell him I’ll be going to Shanghai this time.’” “There’s nothing strange about it.”

"But there's something odd about him." "Yes..." Sachiko wore a frustrated expression, struggling to find the words, "How should I put it?" "Modern as he is, there's something rather presumptuous about him." "But that's me saying it too harshly."

It seemed Yashiro had thereby grasped how Kuji had changed. Kuji’s habit of abruptly stepping into others’ personal space—something he’d always had to some degree—had now taken on an exotic quality, his scrutinizing eyes having lost their adjustment. Yet Yashiro felt joy at this visit from the man with whom he’d quarreled so persistently—proof their conflicts hadn’t ended in mutual futility, that they’d reunited safely after all. Lying awake that night, he reconsidered how he and Kuji had clashed over every matter. It had assaulted them like a fever, their quarrels becoming life itself. Without those conflicts, they might never have grasped that vibrant essence of existence during their travels—the strange ordeal they’d undergone in a foreign land. Driven by nostalgia, Yashiro wrote Kuji a letter at once.

"As we often discussed during our travels, the war has finally broken out. Was that at the Raspail Hotel? The night we spent debating with you and Ko Yumei—all of that now remains frozen in time. In truth, when I recall our endless quarrels, they all seem like preparations for this war, and I cannot help feeling unsettled. If we consider that even those were our unconscious preparations, then everything—all of it—must have been bestowed by God. Lately I have become somewhat divine-possessed, feeling an inexhaustible weariness toward human entanglements. The same applies to my marriage with Ms. Chizuko—in this regard, hastening our union does not necessarily guarantee happiness for either of us, and since we cannot dismiss the fear that it may rather bring about the opposite result, it remains at a standstill through sheer lack of resolve. Even Flaubert’s admonition—'If you have time to think about women, think about God'—though arising from my musings since visiting his Rouen hometown, makes me wonder: the God Ms. Chizuko prays to, the God you believe in, the God I worship... There should be no duality in God, yet the more I dwell on this, why does it drive me to such madness? Parallel lines may never meet, yet they are said to converge at infinity—perhaps we are but ordinary mortals of inferior roots who have yet to reach that infinite point. At any rate, when waters recede, stones emerge; each person must continue calling their god’s name in prayer. Especially in wartime—the god of science you revere may one day reveal to us that point where parallel lines intersect."

"You may have forgotten, but on that day in Paris when we were deceived by the article predicting a Sino-Japanese war, I recited to you at the Dôme a poem by an unknown poet. 'Leading horses to offer at the Great Deity's shrine, crossing the mountain pass—the moon shines clear'—such was the poem, yet I found myself unable to stop the tears that flowed then. Nowadays, as those verses have indeed become reality, I find myself already drained of tears. Perhaps we ordinary mortals already dwell in that infinite beyond. Like that unknown poet."

In response to Yashiro’s letter, a prompt reply arrived from Kuji. It tersely stated that he had declined Shiono’s kind offer to hold a welcome party for him; that the purpose of his return was solely to provide his mother peace of mind through marriage; that once that was done, work awaited him back in Paris; and that his trip to Shanghai was part of that work, with Ko Yumei being one of the co-investors. And at its close, attacking Yashiro’s attitude—still hesitating to marry Chizuko—as if to scatter it outright, the letter was less a struggle for understanding than a missive stripped of youth’s groping uncertainties.

"I heard about you and Ms. Chizuko from Shiono too, but I no longer understand your melancholy." "For you two, I’ve done more than I should have—I don’t even have time to ponder your parallel lines anymore." "This isn’t a joke. Right now I’m busy; whenever I snatch a moment, I’m rushing through this marriage as my filial duty." "Still, lately I’ve started feeling responsible for introducing Ms. Chizuko to you—uncharacteristically, I’m even considering bearing that blame." "What you have isn’t love." "Nor is it divine love—it’s torture." "After all, I was somehow better suited for this than you." "As I said before, I’m now a man of action." "Action first, work first—everything else bores me. I’ve become such a dreary soul that I can only spout these words, but regardless, I can’t stay in Japan beyond a month." "During that time, I ask you to overlook all my rushing about—for old times’ sake." "I apologize for any discourtesies, but under these circumstances, I’ll make this request brief."

Though difficult to take at face value, even when reading Kuji’s letter that slapped down arguments with blunt force, Yashiro found it more invigorating than pitiable. Yet as he reread it, the letter increasingly angered him. Though unclear what work Kuji meant, his attitude of hiding behind busyness reeked of the pretentiousness typical of recent returnees. Particularly in how he criticized matters between Yashiro and Chizuko, there lay unimaginable audacity—a strength that unapologetically warped boundaries between self and others briefly surfacing. Still, Yashiro thought, since marriage concerned no trivial matter between strangers, such criticism-laden manners naturally emerged when discussing it. Moreover, these were inescapable wartime circumstances. The minds of unmarried men could shift unpredictably from without—even Yashiro himself, prepared though he was, spoke differently now that conscription loomed uncertainly, considering those who would stay behind. Even when delaying marriage for clear reasons like his own, the act inevitably merged with the war’s reality when weighing departures against remainings. Kuji too must have had recent causes, yet what this recalled was Shiono’s past account of struggling with a marriage proposal from an uncle at Yokohama’s pier. Shiono’s anguish over where conscience should reside when facing impending war—regardless of marital intent—had been hypothetical then. Now actual war meant no one could remain aloof from such deepening torment; Yashiro imagined even Kuji’s unconcealable worries now flickered beneath his letter’s busy tone, using others’ commotion as pretext.

Even so, Yashiro did not want others meddling in matters between himself and Chizuko. The issue of marriage during such times was not only plagued by his own feelings casting shadows over what should have been a peaceful union, but also by how those same feelings increasingly burdened the other party. Beyond the tedious effort of dispelling this looming weight lay the added unpleasantness of having one’s hidden intentions unnecessarily probed—so much so that even their usual virtues risked being erased entirely. In Chizuko’s case too, though Yashiro had been delaying their marriage until now, rushing into it now that war had broken out would appear as sheer selfishness on his part. Moreover, between them already strained by postponement, there arose an unsightly awkwardness that sought to prolong matters further still. This was unforeseen. Though there was no need to waver now, should one misstep at this delicate juncture—as seen in tragicomedies everywhere where everything crumbles—Yashiro could not comprehend how Shiono had leaked to Kuji this atmosphere where even Chizuko’s mother showed signs of being shaken by war’s tremors.

“I was somehow better suited than you. Hah.”

Yashiro smiled wryly to himself before Kuji’s letter. On the night of the Raspail festival, within the enclosure of the electric car playground, Kuji aimed at Chizuko’s torso and charged in with his characteristic smirk—his fierce eyebrows flashed briefly. In the darkness of ascending through the pyramid’s shaft, the figure of Kuji—firmly supporting and pulling up Chizuko’s hands as they gasped and desperately clung to the iron rungs—also flickered through his mind. Wondering if Kuji’s sense of responsibility meant he too had recalled that figure from those days, Yashiro—as if struck in a vulnerable spot—abruptly folded the letter and struck a match.

Three days after seeing Kuji’s letter, Shiono came to tell Yashiro that since Higashino’s lecture would be held in Hibiya, they wished to gather that same night to welcome Kuji and Ōishi. Yashiro had arranged to meet with Chizuko and, when he went to the park before dinner that day, found a long line of audience members already stretching across the parched square. Higashino’s lecture titled “New Asia” appeared toward the end among the numerous names of speakers on diplomatic affairs. Given how unbefitting the title was of Higashino’s usual style, for those who knew him, it was one that aroused certain expectations.

“Having lost his wife, ‘New Asia’ must hold some meaning.” When Yashiro met Chizuko and gazed at the line of audience members curving at its end, he found himself suddenly overcome by a melancholy mood. Bathed in the lingering glow of the western sun still scorching the high clouds, Chizuko’s cheeks—enveloped in her pale aqua attire—seemed to shine brightly. The shadow winding beneath the larch trunk toward the pond sank deeper than usual. Even as he looked up at tree branches resounding with evening cicadas’ sharp cries and maintained a stiff expression in his efforts to lift his spirits, Yashiro thought it would likely be a trying night.

"I've only received a letter from Kuji and haven't met him yet, but you haven't either, have you?"

“He came yesterday with Mr. Shiono.” Chizuko’s voice—flat and constricted, as if she wished to evade this response through hesitation—left Yashiro unsettled. To this reply that inadvertently sparked doubt—perhaps—Yashiro sensed an insurmountable reserve. The diverging paths before them gained significance in such moments, making him acutely aware of this desperate predicament where natural solutions had vanished. This concerned Kuji. While we had been finalizing our betrothal arrangements, the suspicion that this might have accelerated his proposal brushed across Yashiro’s mind, and he walked on awhile, testing whether this premonition held truth.

“Has Kuji changed?” “Well, I didn’t particularly notice any change in his demeanor, but Mr. Shiono did say you’ve changed too.” Though whatever Kuji might have said to Chizuko in his absence was no longer worth worrying over, Yashiro found himself compelled by questions seeking to uncover it nonetheless. A vexation he had not felt in some time seemed to cast dark ripples across the pond’s surface, where clouds floated mirrored in black.

A swarm of pale amber young bees clung with delicate legs to the disheveled hydrangea petals, writhing as if about to dissolve into decay—amid this autumnal aura permeating the flowerbed’s depths, he found himself thinking he must soon set a wedding date. “I hear Kuji has returned to take a wife—didn’t he mention that to you?” “That’s precisely it. Last night, after discussing it extensively with Mr. Shiono, Kuji said he wouldn’t appear tomorrow if they tried making him meet Ms. Makiko. But you know how Mr. Shiono is—he even declared you should remarry Ms. Makiko again. If she were to attend tonight, I wonder what would happen.”

“Ms. Makiko might come, you know.” “She’ll come, will she not?” Yet even this frustration—of worrying about others’ affairs more than their own—Yashiro still did not wish to confront directly, thinking that time would not pass unless they continued thus for the present. And this was not due to any particular reason. This was acceptable. Since they were advancing through the most suitable method devised, altering the current course would be foolishness—no such decision was needed. Attempting to evade the encroaching tides of the external world seemed mere trivial hesitation, and he felt the path he charted belonged to none but himself.

After stepping over freshly pruned green branches and descending the gentle slope where relaxation seemed to emerge, when Yashiro came out under the oak tree shedding blighted leaves, Higashino’s lecture title "New Asia" resurfaced in his mind. Higashino’s course—now that he had lost his wife—seemed to channel his efforts into what the lecture title suggested, or so Yashiro perceived. Yet it was not Higashino alone; even from the park’s snaking queue, one could sense the sounds of something that had at last begun churning back from the depths—a fervor for New Asia boiling up where people’s convictions now lay, each from their own angle.

However, Yashiro would have preferred to call it a new world—if it were up to him. It was not about comparing scale with Higashino; rather, it resembled delicate yet orderly thoughts—flexible as a termite swarm spiraling upward toward the sky’s light from a tiny hole in a pillar. It also mirrored the life-like freshness of wax-colored young bees’ translucent legs, seen clinging momentarily to petals before flowing beneath the flowers—a pious prayer akin to new autumn’s bounty.

What he longed for was a title for that new world, imbued with gracious sentiment.

After the sun set, Yashiro and the others gathered at a kaiseki restaurant not far from Hibiya. Shiono, the coordinator, was already present; they would dine there until Higashino’s lecture time before proceeding together to Marquis Tanabe’s villa. Passing through a wisteria trellis heavy with blue fruit clusters, Ōishi arrived close behind Yashiro’s group, followed by Sasa, Asobe, Baron Hirao, Hayami—until all familiar faces had assembled. Kuji came slightly later than the rest wearing an uncharacteristic outfit: a broad-shouldered summer suit of lightweight wool over a navy Breton farmer’s cotton shirt with a knitted tie—his slightly overlong hair swept back gave him the appearance of a Futurist sculptor or architect at first glance. Spotting Yashiro from beneath reed blinds rolled up along thick-bundled screens in the corridor, Kuji immediately approached,

“How’s it going?” With a single word, he brought his sunburned face closer, his long legs stretched out. The pale blue, hazy air—as if some far-distant sea had been compressed and pressed close—scattered in an instant, leaving the two of them in a silence that felt complete. “What do you mean you’re going again?” “Mmm.” Kuji merely muttered meaninglessly, then opened the gold-flaked lid and offered it to Yashiro. Even the act of taking out a single cigarette—so quiet one could hear a breath—filled Yashiro with a pang of longing, his fingertips tingling as though blood might drip from them.

“Was the sea rough?” “No.” “Is your illness over?” “Not yet.” In the dimness of dusk that had settled between them, Kuji ignited the tip of a Dunhill lighter with a puff and held it out to Yashiro again. When he gazed at the cool water flowing beneath the green leaves in the garden, he averted his eyes as if irritated, glanced around with a faint forlorn smile that seemed at a loss—and met Chizuko’s gaze watching him from across the way. Yashiro drew the cigarette smoke into his throat as if sniffing for a comrade’s scent, then suddenly wondered whether this man had returned from death itself. Whatever he might say now would likely prove futile.

“You didn’t go to Spain after all.” “I went as far as nearby, but changed course and went out from Cannes to Grasse. There’s Coty’s rose fields there—when I sent a letter of introduction, the president’s wife gave me a tour.” Despite the garden’s coolness that seemed to urge him to voice his thoughts, there was a hollow futility—like knocking on air—and Yashiro grew weary from managing both his anxieties and nostalgia. “Have you found a wife yet?” Without ulterior motive but propelled by association with “the president’s wife at Coty,” Yashiro had blurted the question—yet even as he did so, unintended meaning accrued within it, and shame rose hot to his own face.

“No, not yet.”

Then Kuji suddenly brightened, his brows relaxing as he laughed. It was a smile as though a hard shell had split open with a crisp cracking sound. Whenever he encountered this beautiful smile of Kuji’s, Yashiro always felt himself carelessly overwhelmed, and even now—unchanged—he again found himself pleasantly disarmed by that fearsome smile of the man’s, which made his dealings with Chizuko instantly recede into distant invisibility. Yet once things reached this point, entrusting themselves to their growing intimacy that melted them together—developing a habit of unleashing venomous words too cruel to speak to others—the two of them abroad would twist and tangle, snarl and quarrel endlessly. In other words, one could say Yashiro and Kuji formed a far deeper marital bond than Yashiro with Chizuko or Kuji with Makiko. Now was when one half of that pair had first returned safely here and shown his smile before Yashiro for the very first time.

Dusk settled on the flat stones moistened with sprinkled water. In the lamplight spilling from guests who had removed their jackets, a single hydrangea bush blurred whitely into view. Though still warm in this early autumn night at the kaiseki restaurant’s garden, the blue of wisteria fruits hanging from their trellis summoned a coolness that led each guest to contemplate something. It was a forgotten blue—one that during this silence made even Kuji abruptly rise with an urge to touch those clustered fruits.

It was around that time that Higashino, the last guest, appeared with Makiko. From the end of the corridor, he glanced toward Kuji for a moment, then strode briskly closer with large steps and, “How about it?” With that single word, he thudded down directly opposite. The two men neither looked away nor moved, remaining utterly still—they did not laugh, nor did they attempt to speak. Like some sort of contest, Higashino’s faintly smiling eyes relentlessly suppressed and pursued Kuji’s fleeing gaze. Those watching fell utterly silent with the urgency of a breathless moment.

“Hmm?”

Higashino made a meaningless sound meant to invite a response. “What is it?” Kuji asked with an equally meaningless smile. “How have you been?” “I’m quite well.” “Still, I must say. ‘Since there’s luggage I need to return to you, it’s only proper that there’d be a word of greeting upon your return.’ That was heavy luggage.” It was Kuji who had come even after declaring he would absent himself from tonight’s gathering if Makiko were to attend. It was Makiko who had been brought by Higashino to this very gathering—the welcome-back party for Kuji and Oishi. That Higashino’s “heavy luggage” also referred to Makiko was something understood not only by Kuji but by every other guest present.

In the women’s seats, mixed among four or five visible figures including Chizuko, Baroness Tanabe, and Fujio Michiko, Makiko had been talking with Chizuko since earlier—yet in her expression as she occasionally directed her gaze toward Kuji, there was no trace of awkwardness. Rather than appearing awkward, she looked at Kuji with a nostalgic vividness—as if a cross-section of reminiscence had been illuminated—a radiant clarity. Higashino turned around and beckoned to Makiko. Amidst the doubtful gazes of the group watching to see what would happen, Makiko stood up without hesitation in response to the summons.

“A greeting! A greeting!”

After being told by Higashino, Makiko first made a strained expression and shrugged her shoulders; then, having recomposed her coquettish demeanor, she assumed an unexpectedly tense, earnest face.

“Welcome back,” Makiko said to Kuji. “Oh, it’s been a while.” Kuji did not appear particularly displeased either. Just as the two—their brows relaxed—were about to exchange words, sudden applause erupted from a corner of the room. Then, as subsequent applause arose, the room burst into commotion. Disrupted, they found nowhere to direct their exchanged glances, and Makiko immediately fled back to her seat. The dishes were brought out. From the periphery of the chaotic bustle—where some distributed sake bottles, others arranged plates, and still others carried large bowls—Shiono, the organizer, delivered a welcoming address celebrating Kuji and Oishi’s safe return.

When the ceremonial toast was raised, relaxed conversation began.

On the long, low dining table painted in dark brown were arranged Oribe-style small plates bearing appetizers transferred from larger bowls: fresh sea urchin; ovaries of Gen-goro crucian carp from Lake Biwa; oil-boiled fresh shiitake mushrooms from Hyūga; braised bear's paw accompanied by hijiki seaweed; duck breast; and Kyoto carrots wrapped in Sendai miso. Sashimi of hand-caught black sea bream—struck and dispatched offshore—was followed by ayu visible within a large bowl lined with round Izu stones. However, to all the guests, these kaiseki dishes seemed to hold no interest in the slightest. The conversation spread, centering on rumors about Chizuko’s brother Yoshiyuki. The one who led these laughing conversations—about how Yoshiyuki must have just arrived in London by now, or about his deft manner caught between Miss Makuraki and her betrothed Count—was Baron Hirao, wearing a thin-striped dress shirt that suited his portly frame. Hayami—a young diplomat highly reputed among his peers for his mastery of French and who had even served as an interpreter at the Kreggi talks—nonetheless showed less interest in hearing about Oishi’s work as a secretary since his transfer to Switzerland than in listening to the man’s mountain-climbing stories. When Kuji and Yashiro had seen Oishi in Paris, he had been thinner and more sharp-eyed than anyone, with a nervous air; now, he had grown unrecognizably plump and was constantly beaming. There was no one whose appearance had changed as drastically as this Oishi, who had been a master at charming Parisian high-society salons, nor was there anyone as universally liked by women wherever he went; yet he himself always spoke little.

“What on earth does this kaiseki cuisine even mean?” “It’s just a name.”

Suddenly, the musician Asobe spoke up. Everyone paused their conversation momentarily, but no one responded to him. "That's precisely why collecting river stones to grill freshly caught fish on the spot remains supreme," Higashino remarked. "Then it's just barbarian leftovers," Asobe retorted. "But they've encapsulated it in ceramics like bonsai—compressed into refined forms," Higashino countered. "The journey to reach this refinement was tremendously long." "Eating this sort of thing—this right here—is how you lose wars," Asobe declared, prodding the Gen-goro crucian carp ovaries with his chopsticks before taking a tentative lick.

“But everyone’s returned at just the right tide.” “From now on, every nation’s history will journey through unknown lands.” “Well, we barely made it in time—that’s what matters most.” “You too,” Higashino said as he poured sake into Kuji’s neighboring cup. Then he continued: “In Paris, I snapped at you relentlessly—I won’t act that way again.” “I was truly discourteous back then.” “We’ve endured hardships and known joys, yet when I reflect on it all, nothing seems clear.” “You feel the same, don’t you?”

“Hmm,” Kuji nodded and returned the cup to Higashino. “That’s how it should be.” “If I claimed to understand, I’d be lying.” “While we waste breath on naturalizing phenomena or scientizing things, our vital force—not by anyone’s will—advances like shrapnel.” “We never repeat the same things.” “We only grow newer.” “Arguing whether West or East is better amounts to nothing.” “Listen—since losing my wife, I’ve finally come to grasp the sky’s beauty these past days.” “Fifty years alive, and only now understanding the sky’s splendor—what remains is void upon void—”

“Tonight’s lecture in Hibiya—go ahead with that,” Kuji interjected. “No, I haven’t thought about it yet. But more than that, there’s something I want you to praise me for. I’ve safely brought back everything you entrusted to me all the way to Japan without any damage. You may claim to have forgotten such things by now, but that’s none of my concern. However, do not forget that I honored our promise—that should suffice. That’s all one needs in life.”

Among those gathered there, those who had separated from their spouses were not limited to Kuji and Makiko. Asobe and Fujio Michiko had also once been husband and wife. Chizuko and Yashiro were preparing to hold their ceremony, and Shiono and Sasa were similarly proceeding; but since Higashino alone had lost his wife, his reflections at this moment struck the group with a stimulating effect, like cold water poured over their heads. "Wait—I too had never considered what comes after losing one's wife."

Baron Hirao said belatedly, then looked up at the ceiling while still holding his chopsticks. Higashino, citing that his lecture time was approaching, was the first to rise from his seat and leave midway through the meal.

When Kuji parted with Makiko in Paris, there had been no formal farewell discussion between them, nor any quarrel. The mere thought that they had coincidentally secured passage through news of Higashino's return was all that connected them. Their mutual agreement—to maintain their cohabitation only while abroad, as Makiko had stipulated—still stood as it was during this gathering. Yet their actual shared life had already crumbled long before their Paris days. Afterwards, they exchanged no letters, and even after returning to Japan, Kuji never once contemplated seeing Makiko again. But now upon meeting her anew, he felt neither regret nor trepidation toward Makiko; even as he observed her figure standing beside Chizuko, there arose an intense pleasure—as though viewing a painting of some stranger's life in a foreign land entirely separate from himself. Makiko too must have been similarly regarding their past life together, caressing it with her gaze. Though they drew near this mutually envisioned painting, yearning to utter something nostalgic, the original form of the artwork they had created together had already drifted into a distant vista beyond their reach.

After the meeting concluded and they had taken a short rest, the group—having been invited to Marquis Tanabe’s villa—set out for the motorway to listen to Higashino’s lecture broadcast. Even while looking for taxis on the road, Kuji and Makiko, Yashiro and Chizuko—the four of them—remained clustered together, waiting for passing cabs. The habit they had always maintained while traveling emerged as naturally as ever, even now within the darkness pooled between rows of plane trees lining the street. After boarding the car, memories of days past floating in the lamplight’s hues drew their bodies together into silence. Stripped-bare tree trunks and stone wall roots raced by like vivid symbols piercing through their chests.

“You remain unchanged,” Makiko suddenly asked Kuji now. “Thank you.”

Kuji, noticing Makiko beside him, suddenly caught the scent of her shoulder pressed close and spoke. Before long, the large gateposts of Marquis Tanabe’s residence appeared, and the car carrying Shiono and the others arrived at the gate. Entering through an entrance where a large tub stood beside a thick pine trunk, circling around a screen painted with cormorants taking flight, and following behind everyone who had placed their belongings in the next room, Kuji crossed several long, chilled corridors. In a nandina grove where flowers had just turned to fruit, a garden illuminated by stone lanterns came into view. The facing area, lined with slender red pine trunks, resembled a town valley. Over this valley where distant lights scattered, mist hung low, and the surroundings showed a gentle hue like a harbor submerged beneath twilight.

Upon entering the detached Western-style building, they did not immediately take seats but instead continued their respective conversations from the corridor while wandering about on the pale yellow carpet. A recent Matisse hung in the wall alcove. The ceramic piece on the black-lacquered shelf facing it was a Song kiln jar of black persimmon clay with a lustrous glaze. Before this vessel—its surface a flowing deep black over an eggshell base—Makiko recounted to Kuji their return voyage with Baron Hirao. The Baron gazed up at the bluish-green foliage enveloping Matisse’s nude figure—palm-like fronds resembling taro leaves—and though he reminisced to Asobe about convincing Marquis Tanabe to acquire the painting, he kept turning at each mention of his name from Makiko. A breeze carrying memories of that sea journey swept through them both.

“Oh right, there were some quite skillful haiku by this person.” “I happened to catch glimpses here and there of those verses you composed aboard the Queen Mary—the ones aimed at me,” said the Baron to Kuji. “If it’s Mr. Higashino’s teacher we’re speaking of, that should flourish.” Kuji had not the slightest intention of sarcasm when he said this, yet the mole on Makiko’s lip seemed to twitch faintly. “That’s rather harsh of him—the teacher—and even after returning home...” “‘Someone like you must grind away at an inkstone,’ he declared, making me practice calligraphy too.”

Makiko’s manner of speaking, which implicitly hinted to Kuji about the subsequent fastidious circumstances with Higashino, was already unnecessary in such a situation; yet Kuji felt it was the result of Makiko’s tranquility born from affection lavished upon Higashino. Moreover, were he to carelessly take advantage of that and attempt to step forward to re-twist the thread of their life together in Paris, he could sense Makiko’s slippery, evasive heart—already prepared to dodge and leap back at once—and he, for his part, sought to surrender entirely to his persistent wanderlust that remained unfulfilled.

“Have you heard anything from Mr. Hayami since then?” “There was a time he came to visit my lodgings in Paris—but it seems he didn’t touch upon any talk related to you.”

When Kuji suddenly brought up Makiko's ex-husband like that, she gave him a brief, coquettish smile. "He's not one to send letters... but I wonder what happened." "That he would visit you—I simply can't fathom it."

Makiko’s swift expression—raising a suspicious smile toward the outdoors before looking up at Kuji—showed a complex, beautiful glimmer like a gust of wind passing through a valley of the past. “It was a rambling talk, but when I mentioned you’d returned with Mr. Higashino, he seemed relieved and just said, ‘That’s good.’ —I had tea at the Dome before parting.—” “That he even called on you is remarkable.” “He was well.”

Kuji nodded and briefly considered whether there remained anything about Hayasaka he ought to report to Makiko. From that clamorous fissure in time—when Hayasaka had coldly rejected him, and Makiko who drifted from Vienna into his sympathetic arms was then delivered to Higashino—the colors of crumbling horse chestnut blossoms came erupting forth alongside his memories. But had he truly loved Makiko? No—it was Chizuko he had loved, he realized. Unaware at first, as Makiko drew nearer to him, he watched Chizuko lean ever more vividly toward Yashiro, tasting the loneliness of what slipped away. Soon he forgot both Makiko and Chizuko. Yet upon returning to Japan, Chizuko was the first memory to surface. The pretense that had deceived even himself gradually peeled away with each passing day, revealing beneath it Chizuko's eyes glistening at her white lace collar. To not realize one's own love—

Even in Paris, he would often stare intently at a single point like that, but his usual habit would emerge; setting that aside, he came to know many other comforting things and devised ways as well.

“What you feel isn’t love. It’s not even grand love—it’s torture.” Kuji, who had written those words to Yashiro—still delaying his marriage to Chizuko—might himself have been engaged in a long-maintained pretense, one where he ultimately withheld revealing his own feelings. Yet upon returning home and heeding his mother’s counsel, when the necessity to marry arose in his mind, it was Chizuko who flooded his thoughts. To live with someone without ardent affection was something Kuji had long grown accustomed to. He would likely wed another stranger—but even so, did this Makiko still harbor any will to share her life with him?

At the opposite side of the magnificent cluster of grapes heaped in a cut-glass bowl, Chizuko was talking with Marquise Tanabe who stood beside her. Kuji watched Chizuko’s dimples appear and disappear like the ticking of time, recalling both the Chizuko who had not yet known Yashiro and her dimples from when she had returned to his ship—anchored off Penang with lights strung along its length—spray drenching her. And then—the dimples when she found jasmine blossoms among scorched stones beneath Aden’s crumbled walls and breathed in their scent; the dimples when she turned her face into a rushing wind on a desert road stretching straight from Suez toward the sinking sun; the dimples when the two of them first glimpsed Sicily’s ancient city emerging from the swirling currents—those countless dimples of Chizuko were all known to Kuji alone, and unknown to Yashiro.

“So, do they plan to invade all the way to Nanjing? Or will they draw a 100-mile radius around Shanghai and call a ceasefire?”

As Yashiro was having such a conversation with Oishi, around them Shiono and Hayami were discussing the state of affairs regarding weapon companies from various countries being sent into China. Marquis Tanabe, seeming proud of the ceramic piece he had recently acquired, smiled amiably at Baron Hirao. “Actually, I had intended to present you with one of those tonight.” Before Marquis Tanabe could finish speaking, Baron Hirao gave no reply and instead suddenly grabbed Asobe’s shoulder from behind and turned him around.

“Hey, seems they’ve bought up quite a lot.” “Must be upstairs.”

The Baron, having extinguished his cigarette by pressing it into the ashtray, had already begun ascending the stairs with Asobe. The others, who had stopped talking while wondering what was happening, followed after them; only Shiono turned back briefly to switch the radio—Higashino’s broadcast time was approaching.

At the top of the stairs where Yin dynasty cast bronze vessels patinated with verdigris were placed, Tang dynasty loess dolls stood lined up. Beside two heads of Longmen stone Buddhas gleaming white on the front shelf, the body of a large white porcelain jar softened the room, while bowls and plates, each according to their degree of luster, seemed to intently listen to the footsteps of those who had ascended. Goryeo water pitchers, Gyeryong lidded vessels, Wanli plates, flour-grinding bowls—here, it was not an arrangement where people appreciated the vessels, but rather one where the vessels ascertained the value of those who stood before them.

“Which one was bought?” After peering at the shelves here and there, Asobe inquired. Baron Hirao, from beside the Marquis who continued to laugh in silence, approached the cold, stark white brilliance of the Jiajing Ming dynasty bowl and,

“This must be it, eh?” he said, turning around.

The Marquis still did not answer, remaining silent. It was a serene smile reminiscent of lordly artistry. This smile was like a refining machine that selected the many people approaching, refined them, and served as a bird keeper releasing them one by one into the sky.

“There are so many I’m seeing for the first time.” Around Shiono wafted the scent of perfumes from swaying women. Kuji felt the ancient before his eyes abruptly severed and reconnected. Enveloped in that fragrance, he instinctively began trailing Chizuko. The voluptuous red-glazed jars and bowls—their plump, rounded forms—appeared to him like maidens nearing marriageable age in full bloom; even his appraising gaze felt akin to his recent habit of perusing photographs of daughters presented by their mothers. Persimmon-dyed wares, Joseon autumn grasses, Yuezhou celadon, black Goryeo pieces—among these stood an exceptionally ornate Wanli bowl radiating queenly dignity. Its design of goldfish-like fish swirling in abandon was heart-quickeningly beautiful. Beside it rose a Song dynasty plum vase—taller still, suffused with refined elegance and clean-lined grace. Kuji halted before it. When he first saw its form—eggshell surface adorned with black-brown peony leaves flowing in arabesque-like suppleness, as though sweeping dust from lofty winds—he thought: *This resembles Chizuko*.

“What do you think of this?” “It’s the Kudara Kannon, isn’t it?” With that, Kuji brought his mouth close to Yashiro’s ear and said. “Hmm.” Yashiro also nodded briefly and gazed at it shoulder to shoulder with him. In what he intended as a somewhat satisfyingly ironic jab—a covert counterattack against Yashiro’s letter that had written *“If you have time to think about women, think about God”*—Kuji had let slip a touch of sarcasm, but it still felt slightly too abrupt to fully reach Yashiro. “Huh—doesn’t it resemble?”

“Hmm.” Yashiro let out a faint voice. “It’s as if clouds are being drawn down like curtains.” “What the hell’s that?” “Where parallel lines meet.” Seeing Yashiro’s face, which had flushed faintly with embarrassment, Kuji felt—contrary to any sense of impact—a kind of chilly, thin coldness of sorrow pierce through him. He moved forward, surveyed the room with the momentum of someone about to dash downward, then rested one elbow on a Nanjing blue-and-white water bowl exposed in a corner.

“Titled *New Order*, we present a lecture by Mr. Higashino Hayao.” The radio could be heard from downstairs. “The world grows ever more turbulent. Daily life appears increasingly constricted toward a singular purpose. Yet life must always retain some measure of prudent anxiety if we are to guide our nation toward soundness. The lecture I now deliver concerns this very anxiety of yours, everyone.”

Amidst the Yin dynasty cast bronzes lining the stairway’s turns, Higashino’s voice rang out sharply. “Every person lives bearing their own anxieties.” “The virtuous attain rebirth,” “the poor are blessed,” “form is emptiness,” or again, “I see not those who love virtue as they love beauty”—these famous words are the anxieties cried out by the most outstanding geniuses among humankind. “Of course, all of you must also have your own anxieties.”

Kuji found Higashino’s lecture irritating. The chill from the bowl’s solitary texture seemed to stir him restlessly; withdrawing his elbow from its rim, he drew near again to the Song dynasty plum vase.

The entire group, too, each came to a standstill before their favored ceramics and remained quiet. Kuji endeavored not to listen to the lecture as much as possible. Yet the allure of Higashino’s speech lay in the peril of his arbitrary assertions that scorned coherence; before one knew it—while being kept in nervous tension—the bold passages that demolished his previous claims replaced them, sweeping people along with new force. Even when trying not to listen, they were pricked incessantly and could not help but hear. At times Pascal appeared only for Tenshin to show his face. No sooner had a maxim by Rochefoucauld surfaced than a song by Sontoku was dragged out. The labor of freely stitching through these elements and tracing shared probabilities that formed order was undoubtedly part of Higashino’s anxiety—yet his true anguish, that anguish over emptiness’s beauty he had voiced at the ryotei, showed no sign of emerging.

Kuji was slightly bored by the lecture. Before he knew it, he was intently watching Makiko’s demeanor. Before the large Wanli bowl, Makiko was listening to Higashino’s lecture with downcast eyes, her long eyelashes casting anxious shadows. While observing the line of Makiko’s figure—her slightly inclined upper body gathered at the swell of her abdomen, tracing a faint hollow at her waist before descending along both legs—Kuji suddenly recalled the depth of affection Makiko had shown when she caressed him. That line, this color, the countless flickers of her rippling form’s troubling poses, the flow of expressions leaping from one to another—all now perfectly stilled in modesty before the body of the large bowl with its swirling goldfish—even these were transforming into affection for Higashino; in that instant, all those things that had once been his were becoming offerings to be presented to Higashino.

“In this way, there are anxieties of all kinds—some great, some small.” “However one may put it, the smallest—and therefore most crucial—anxiety, no matter how you phrase it, is now the anxiety concerning atomic nuclei.” What will he say next? Kuji found his ears drawn back to Higashino’s lecture. “As you know, at the core of these particles constituting matter’s essence lies both electrical strife clashing apart and magnetic love drawing together.” “Yet just as all physicists on Earth intensified their inquiry into why these two dwell as one—the very root of anxiety—this war abruptly arose.” “And thus that anxiety’s foundation grew obscure.” “Once more we stand in this boundless void—what should we contemplate? What summon?” “Order.” “Our hearts ceaselessly seeking this order cannot gain it through mere sitting.” “Suddenly Awaken! — One must awaken with sudden resolve.” “Literature, philosophy, religion—even new affections—must all set forth from this starting point contemplated here.”

Applause rose from Hibiya. Makiko also relaxed her worried brows. "He came up with some clever lines there, didn’t he?"

Baron Hirao turned to Yashiro beside him and said.

Those in the room all laughed. From among those descending to the lower room as well, voices could be heard murmuring "Suddenly Awaken!" while stepping down the stairs. It seemed both mocking and sincere. Kuji thought that the core of Higashino's voice addressing the public was actually a voice targeting this room from the depths of his consciousness. When he thought this, it simultaneously began to resemble the love letters Higashino—who had lost his wife—was sending to Makiko. That too was not mistaken—the arrow had struck its mark.