Pathway to Japanese Literature

In the garden of a demolished house stood a single apricot tree adorned with white blossoms. Each time the chilly spring wind nearing Easter blew from the riverbank, the branches trembled and shed their petals. A steamship that had ascended the Seine from Passy echoed its languid boiler sounds through the trunks of budding plane trees. Leaning his elbows on the thick stone parapet like a fortress, Kuji had been looking down at the river's surface when the coldness of the stone raised goosebumps on his wrists.

From between the paving stones at the water's edge below, grass was sprouting, and around a thin stake swaying in the current, cork stoppers floated densely. "My apologies for keeping you waiting."

Yashiro—who had visited a Jewish trader on orders from his uncle back in Japan—saw Kuji’s figure and approached while speaking. The two walked along the riverbank toward the Eiffel Tower. “A Japanese pottery company was asked by a Tehran pottery company to produce imitation goods, but when they made them, they turned out better than the originals, so apparently the Tehran pottery company went bankrupt.” “So even the Japanese company that made them felt bad about it, and now they’re in a panic over what they’ve done—but I must say, they’re really going through with it.” “The ones really stirring up Europe might just be the pottery companies, I tell you.”

Kuji had not been listening to what Yashiro was saying. He was thinking about the arrangements for Chizuko, who was coming from London tomorrow. When the two came to the bridge, they stopped again as if by mutual unspoken agreement.

On water reflecting a sunset so harsh it stung the eyes floated boat-shaped houses still chained together. The riverbank where rusted steel beams lay stacked had been excavated for Great Exposition preparations, yet there lingered an unhurried air—workers resting more than laboring—that made spring’s fragile promise hover all the keener.

When they came to where the Eiffel Tower’s base spread out like a ceremonial skirt, the sound of steel reinforcement bars being driven into Trocadero Park on the opposite bank carried over in a drawn-out rhythm. Eddying water flowed beneath the beautiful waist of a sculpted nude woman—her figure on the verge of crumbling away—at the bridge’s base. “Ms. Chizuko is coming from London tomorrow,” he said. “Did you know?” When Kuji spoke those words to him, Yashiro felt a spark light up in his heart.

“Hmm, I didn’t know that.” “Why is she coming?” “By airplane.” “Once she arrives, where should we have her stay?” “Don’t you have any good ideas?” “Well…”

Even though Yashiro had 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 also increased in thickness. They must have been about two arm spans around. The trunks, jet-black and hard like unpolished coal, hung with lush young leaves, while among each cluster of foliage, pale white buds that would soon become flowers were lifting their heads.

There was still time before dinner.

Yashiro and Kuji came along the Seine River to the vicinity of the Invalides, where Napoleon's tomb is located. The sooty black buildings and the ridged parts of statues beaten by rain and wind appeared to rise whitely as if crowned with snow.

The bridge spanning before it was hailed as foremost in the world, appearing like a white ivory crown. The white spherical lamps clustered like bells upon balustrade pillars and statues of opulent goddesses rose above the deep green Champs-Élysées forest across the bank, while automobiles flowing through the trees seemed like messengers from the bridge's deities—so magnificent was this structure that it attained the pinnacle of splendor.

Yashiro considered how Chizuko might appear when he saw her again. What surfaced in his mind was her figure aboard the ship during their voyage from Japan, though he supposed she too must have endured hardships akin to his own since their separation.

“Will Ms. Chizuko be staying in Paris long?”

Yashiro tried asking Kuji.

“She won’t be staying long. She said she wants to go to Florence but wrote at the end asking for your advice.” “At the end?”

Yashiro said with a laugh.

Yashiro had come on the same ship as Kuji. While Kuji’s ostensible purpose was studying sociology—though his main focus lay in art research—Yashiro had come under the pretext of historical fieldwork to observe modern cultural phenomena; but aboard the ship, only Kuji had grown close to Chizuko. Yashiro still recalled the scenes of the port from the day he had come to Marseille with them. “I want to go back to Pinan again. That place felt like watching a magic lantern show—but weren’t you just chasing after Ms. Chizuko’s shadow there? Was that too part of your magic lantern show?” Yashiro teased.

Yashiro said teasingly.

“No, back then it was like being in a dream. I’ve already forgotten what I did. As soon as I disembarked in Marseille, it was like waking up—I just can’t understand why I kept chasing after Ms. Chizuko like that. Even now when I think about that time, it still feels strange to me.”

“Anyway, that Malacca Strait is a demon palace on earth. Just the taste of that place is like opium—even remembering it makes my head grow hazy. Culture can’t take root in such a place. That’s what frightens us most.” When they came from Invalides to Quai d'Orsay, secondhand bookstores lined the riverbank’s parapet. A pale green box about six feet wide stood with its lid opened like a roof, packed tight with books and paintings as an open-air stall, while from above hung tree buds and a figure fishing crouched at the Seine’s edge directly below. Yashiro said this while gazing at Notre Dame’s spire emerging hazily from the island ahead.

“I can’t forget Cairo’s Hui Hui mosques either. That represents the pinnacle of Saracen culture that infused Europe with natural sciences here, but I can well understand why Napoleon saw those mosques, got so irritated, and fired cannons at them. If Napoleon had come to Japan, first thing he’d have done is fire cannons at Honnō-ji Temple, I tell you.” Speaking of which, Yashiro found himself remembering Cairo in Egypt. He recalled the figure of Kuji gently helping Chizuko climb through the pitch-dark passage of that pyramid.

Up until Egypt, Yashiro and Kuji could not yet be said to be close. This was because their fellow passengers had split into two factions that acted together both when disembarking at various ports and during socializing in the salon. Among these two groups were also mingled young women. In Kuji's group was Chizuko, who was heading to her brother in London. In what was now the other group stood Hayasaka Makiko at its center, bound for her husband's side in Vienna.

After staying in Shanghai for about half a month and touring various South Seas ports including Sumatra for approximately one month, Yashiro first boarded the ship with Kuji and the others from Singapore. As such, he maintained a neutral stance unaffiliated with either of these two groups and moved freely between them. However, once the ship entered port at Suez and began recruiting members for the Cairo excursion, relations between these two factions began to fray. Within the 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, reach Cairo, tour the Pyramids, and then catch up by train to the ship that had already proceeded to Port Said. Therefore, in this hurried journey, no one had leisure to dwell on the rivalry between the two factions. At last, the Cairo-bound group—with both Chizuko’s faction and Makiko’s faction cooperating despite their rivalry—split into three automobiles.

At that moment when Yashiro tried to board an automobile last， there were no seats left in any of them． Yashiro was wandering around peering into cars when suddenly Kuji jumped down from one of them and said， “Come over here． “This seat is free here，” Kuji urged Yashiro．

Kuji seated Yashiro in his own seat and then tried to move to the driver’s platform.

“No, no, you mustn’t do that.” Yashiro said this, but by that time Kuji was already sitting beside the driver. The moment Yashiro settled into Kuji’s vacated seat, the automobile slid into motion. Inside the vehicle, Makiko sat next to Yashiro, with Mr. Oki—the shipping company executive—beside her. Though Mr. Oki and Yashiro had been acquainted since their voyage, this marked the first time all four found themselves together. From this moment onward, Yashiro began growing closer with both Kuji and Makiko.

As the ship advanced from Port Said into the Mediterranean, the passengers had already begun gradually preparing to disembark, but Yashiro still had not yet exchanged a single word 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 next night. A group of passengers suddenly rushed to the portside railing. When Yashiro also went out to the deck with the crowd and looked out to sea, Stromboli’s eruption was oozing a mass of molten fire down the mountainside from the triangular island’s summit onto the pitch-dark waves offshore. “Oh, how beautiful!”

Chizuko exclaimed in admiration. She had spoken without realizing the person beside her was Yashiro; however, Yashiro too involuntarily—

“It’s beautiful,” he said aloud. When Chizuko realized it was Yashiro beside her, she drew back for some reason and retreated from the deck into the salon. Her large, demure eyes held an incongruous boldness deep within them—the way that small beauty mark on her upper lip moved in perfect harmony with the dimple on one cheek left an indelible impression.

The next day, the Mediterranean grew rough and the ship’s pitching intensified. Yashiro stood on the deck, gazing at the cliffs of Corsica Island as the setting sun was about to sink. Occasionally, waves washed over the deck. Not a single person was in sight, and a cold wind blew against Yashiro’s face along with the spray from the waves. As he continued standing with his elbows on the railing, the door behind him opened and the approaching footsteps came to an abrupt stop. Yashiro tried to light his cigarette, but the damp wind blew out each match he struck. When he turned around to return to the salon for matches, there stood Chizuko alone in her floral-patterned evening gown, seemingly about to enter the dining room.

“Um, excuse me for asking, but are you going to Paris?” Chizuko asked, turning her face—somewhat pale from the cold—directly toward Yashiro. “Yes.”

“Then it seems we’ll be parting tomorrow.” “Everyone is so terribly restless, you know.” “I imagine so.”

Yashiro laughed with an unlit cigarette clenched in his mouth.

"I do wish I could disembark in Marseille with all of you, but I've decided to continue straight to London after all. Oh my! The sun has grown so large like that."

Suddenly, Chizuko said this happily and pointed toward Corsica Island, her dimple catching the evening sun.

“They say Garibaldi was born here in Sardinia on the left. It’s interesting how it faces Napoleon.” “I somehow get the feeling that’s exactly the kind of place that would produce someone like that.” The ship plowed laboriously toward the setting sun, its bow rising and falling rhythmically. Watching this deathly struggle made his shoulders tense involuntarily. A wave suddenly crashed onto the deck, shattering higher than Corsica’s backlit cliffs where no dwellings could be seen, while to port, Sardinia’s towering gray-blue mass shifted hues with the dying light before their eyes.

"I thought this was a quiet place, but the Mediterranean turns out to be the roughest, doesn't it?" Chizuko shaded her forehead with her hand and spoke undaunted by the scattering spray. "That's right. Though we should count ourselves fortunate it hasn't been worse than this. A shame we're not stopping at Naples—" The gusting wind pressed Chizuko's dress tightly against her body while making the hem flutter wildly forward. "When we reached Colombo, I wanted nothing more than to return to Japan, but now that we've come this far, I'm just all aflutter and feel I don't understand anything at all anymore."

Yashiro gave a slight nod. When he thought about his current self, he somehow felt it resembled the emotions of a soldier heading into battle. This was Europe—the continent from which Japan had learned countless things through long years of study. And simultaneously, it was the Europe to which Japan had constantly dedicated itself in gratitude. Since entering the Mediterranean, this inexplicable irritation assailing him from the depths of longing—how its intensity grew in Yashiro’s heart with every nautical mile—struck him as precisely the sort of phenomenon one could never comprehend without firsthand experience. These utterly stealthy, unnoticed feelings—if misused—would surely become something boundless. Even if one tried to quietly lull them to sleep first, something would constantly drift up from the waves like spirits to rouse the slumbering child. Before long, when the dinner signal’s music box began ringing from the direction of the cabins, Yashiro went into his room to change into his tuxedo.

The ship’s dining room was decorated more lavishly than usual, as if it were the Last Supper. The passengers too had transformed themselves into tuxedo-clad figures this night and stood lined up at the tables. The custom of women sitting together at separate tables had long since been abandoned, but on this night alone, Chizuko and Makiko had solemnly reverted to the old practice and were conversing animatedly—a scene Yashiro observed from his vantage point. As the meal progressed and their hunger began to subside, a party popper suddenly exploded from one corner. The entire group had just tensed when explosions began erupting simultaneously from tables all around. They hurled streamers at the foreigners. The foreigners returned fire. They took aim at the women and launched their volleys. As each donned paper hats and the clamor intensified, streamers cascaded like waterfalls over the branches of artificial cherry blossoms blooming in full splendor.

It wasn’t merely that the passengers thought tonight was their last aboard ship. Since entering the Mediterranean, they had been possessed by visions as if enveloped in seven-hued rainbows, and now that they had come this far, it was the desperation of having burned their bridges—there could be no turning back. Though not a drop of alcohol flowed, their heads had become like those of drunkards reeling from intoxication. Tomorrow would see them charging into enemy territory’s very heart.

As for Japanese land, there was only this ship. Since this sentiment was common to all, even the faintly clouded artificial cherry blossoms now seemed like a final viewing for the time being, their floral haze coming to resemble Ueno’s blossoms. Then, the commotion in the dining room soon spilled onto the deck and turned into dancing there.

Dancers from the second-class deck came up 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. Because he had a cheerful disposition, he danced more freely and skillfully than the foreigners. As Yashiro watched Kuji dancing, he thought that were he to remain friends with this man even after reaching Paris, his days there would surely pass pleasantly. However, at that very moment, one section of the dance spectators suddenly erupted into boisterous commotion. Mishima, the usually quiet mechanical engineer who rarely spoke, apparently having succumbed to drunkenness, suddenly began amiably tapping the shoulder of a foreign woman seated next to him while demanding she remove her shoes. Those who knew the usually silent Mishima tumbled about with laughter, then began indiscriminately tapping shoulders all around in attempts to remove people’s shoes. But once this too became part of the entertainment, the dancing grew even livelier across the deck.

“Well then, shall I join in with a dance?” With that, the elderly Mr. Oki stood up and requested another dance from Makiko, who had just finished dancing with Gao. This shipping company director was the eldest among the passengers—a liberal-minded gentleman of broad knowledge who boldly proclaimed to everyone, “I am a degenerate old man,” with his own lips. During tea parties aboard the ship as well, this old man often gave speeches to the foreigners skillfully in English. His skull was broad and expansive, with severe nearsightedness further accentuated by a nose that was both remarkably large and ruddy, but much like his bizarre countenance, Mr. Oki’s dancing at this moment was not so much terribly clumsy as it was a performance he had never even considered executing skillfully from the start. “Heh heh,” he merely laughed while stepping in place. Makiko too naturally collapsed into laughter, occasionally stopping short and bumping into the surrounding dancers. Each time this happened, those watching would burst into laughter.

“No, this is a waltz,” said Mr. Oki. “What do you say, everyone? Tonight’s our last night.” “Might as well do the Okesa while we’re at it!” “No standing on ceremony!”

“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. Abandoning the foreigners and Chinese to their dancing, the whole group noisily crowded into the salon and—now entirely Japanese—launched into “The Chief’s Daughter” first. Progressing from Sakura Ondo to Tokyo Ondo, then to Nozaki Kouta, they finally reached songs where one simply called out “you.” The young people already felt their hearts wrung and their legs giving way beneath thoughts of Japan’s distant skies. A few individuals retreated angrily to their cabins, decrying such uncultured behavior persisting even now, but against the eerie tenacity of the group that had seethed and swirled into being, their resistance proved as powerless as water dashed against rocks.

When the passengers’ singing came to an end, they found mutual regret in simply disbanding and so next resolved to each perform hidden talents. The role of event coordinator fell to Mr. Oki by general consensus. After those performing nagauta ballads, poetic recitations, and dances had appeared, this time everyone pressed Makiko to do something. Makiko had been hesitating at first, but when Mr. Oki stood and approached her,

“Very well, I shall perform.”

she approached the piano as if fleeing. The passengers, as none had heard Makiko play the piano during the long voyage, applauded and rejoiced at this unexpected entertainment.

“What will you perform?”

Makiko whispered something briefly in a low voice to Mr. Oki, who had approached to inquire. “Ha ha,” said Mr. Oki, turning to the group with satisfaction. “Ahem—everyone, our Mrs. Makiko will now play a piece called *The Blue Danube*. We kindly request your attentive listening.” "This is a piece that evokes thoughts of her esteemed husband residing in Vienna, and while I fear it may prove somewhat disagreeable to your ears..."

When Mr. Oki reached this point in his remarks, some began stomping their shoes on the crimson carpet while others let out strange cries, but soon the piano began to play. As the pale skin—whiter than most—rippled freely like waves through the parted seam of Makiko’s slightly open-backed soirée dress in time with the tempo shifts, Mishima let out a roguish sigh of “Well now,” prompting another uproarious burst of laughter from the group. When the entertainment piece concluded with effortless ease, Mr. Oki rose once more amidst the applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I must say that was a truly splendid performance—I am deeply impressed.” “This must surely be the result of her feminine virtue, born of daily devotion to thoughts of her esteemed husband who will be arriving tomorrow in Marseille.” “Next, we’ll ask Ms. Chizuko for a performance.”

It appeared that Chizuko had already steeled herself during Makiko’s performance for what would come next, and she rose immediately without hesitation. “I am not skilled at the piano, so allow me to sing instead.”

“Now, now,” came an interjection. When someone called out, “Accompaniment! Accompaniment!”, Makiko was again ushered to the piano by Mr. Oki, but Mishima suddenly approached Makiko and, while exclaiming “Shoes! Shoes!”, crawled toward the hem of her dress. Mr. Oki made a briefly displeased expression before seizing Mishima’s shoulder and leading him back to his seat. “We remain aboard ship still, yet many of you shall be departing for Paris tomorrow.”

When Chizuko had said this much, Mishima once again—

“Under the roofs of Paris!”

he shouted. The group, who had become like children, clapped their hands and cheered. Chizuko acknowledged Makiko with a slight bow before beginning to sing *Sous les toits de Paris*. *Quant il y a un enfant* *s'abîme en un moment* *Lui dit dans un instant* *Dors mon* *Dans notre rue, ô Jean mon* *Je bénis ceux qui s'aiment*

*Pour les beaux jours de là* *Rujan*

As the song progressed, the entire group had already grown quite cheerful; each of them now sang while swaying their heads all along, feeling as though they were coming face to face with Paris itself that would soon materialize before their eyes. Once this song ended, they pressed Chizuko to sing it over and over without end.

Today being the day they were finally to arrive in Marseille, none of the passengers had remained settled since morning. They needed to give tips to the dining stewards, wine stewards, and cabin stewards. The passengers clustered here and there consulting about appropriate amounts. Should any individual give an exorbitant tip, the others would grow displeased. Having shared this prolonged communal existence, disrupting the equilibrium risked extinguishing their shipboard harmony on this final day. This stood as the most crucial matter of propriety requiring every passenger's consideration. True, during the tedious Indian Ocean crossing someone had proposed standardizing tips—sums had been fixed—yet when payment day came they broke their own regulations. Their parting loomed mere hours away. Even those most intimate now turned distant at the thought that 'once we separate...' Though shipboard life had been pleasant enough, communal living meant none truly possessed freedom. Unpleasantness demanded endurance. Being all first-class passengers rendered their Japanese statuses and wealth meaningless here. Where class distinctions had dissolved completely, only personality and age influenced interactions.

The financial debts incurred when passengers had gone ashore in groups at various ports were to be settled today, but with the confusion over who owed whom and who had lent to whom having already become too tangled, the young people had no desire to go around demanding repayment of trivial sums. Having learned of this, Mr.Oki volunteered to handle the troublesome reconciliations himself.

“I’m always the one ordering others about and have never been ordered about myself, so even in times like these, I suppose I should let myself be put to use.”

Having said this, Mr. Oki moved among the people with a plate in hand, walking about as he methodically settled each person’s complicated debts. Onboard ships, old men cannot throw their weight around, but this Mr. Oki easily controlled the young people through humor and comicality, thereby completing his final duty. “There we go—this should do it.”

It didn’t matter when the ship arrived. Even before land became visible, there were some who had already hurriedly donned their hats. They kept venturing out onto the deck only to retreat into the salon, wandering restlessly through the ship—yet hardly anyone spoke, their faces etched with unease. Then suddenly, a Frenchman who throughout their long voyage had never once shown any sign of knowing Japanese addressed Yashiro in startlingly fluent Japanese: “Well, it’s finally here, isn’t it?” It was only now that Yashiro truly grasped the cautionary advice he’d first received—that once foreigners boarded the ship, none would use Japanese, feigning complete ignorance as they listened to others’ conversations—for this was their customary practice.

“Would it be more convenient to convert yen to francs now?” “Yes yes—best settle that small amount beforehand.”

replied the Frenchman. After a while,

“There it is—I can see it!” There came a cry. When Yashiro stood on the deck, his eyes caught an ash-white island being gnawed at by the waves, like the sugary rocks of confectionery. The passengers standing on the deck gradually grew in number. No one was laughing. Low silver-gray rocks stretching across the sea passed by one after another. A fierce wind blew over the sharp lapis-blue waves.

Kuji and Yashiro had been leaning against the salon deck's railing, gazing in silence as if sniffing the scent of still-unseen European soil, when suddenly Kuji—

“What’s this? This place looks like a Christmas cake.”

he muttered. The entire group burst into laughter.

“That’s right! That’s right!” They said. Yet when silence fell again immediately, anxiety surfaced on every face—anxiety over floundering through self-conduct now that none of Japan’s learned etiquette or customs seemed applicable here. Even their very breathing had to be consciously controlled. They felt crushing hallucinations—minnows straying into tuna shoals—while waves gnawing rocks took hues like those washing mermaids from folktales.

“The island you see over there is the rock prison where the Count of Monte Cristo was confined in Dumas’s novel,” a crew member explained.

“Where is Marseille?” someone asked. “It will be soon. This island is part of Marseille’s outer perimeter.”

“This looks like a place that produces cement, doesn’t it?” Yashiro said. “That’s correct. “Marseille is a cement-producing region, you see.” “It certainly does look that way, doesn’t it?” replied the crew member. That small island—which seemed ready to vanish beneath a single great surge of waves—being deemed suitable for imprisoning a great man of that era made even Yashiro feel this country’s elegance already permeating his mind through that detail alone.

When the ship rounded the island, Marseille’s rectangular inner harbor came into view amidst calm waves and bright sunlight. The ship reduced its speed and gradually entered the harbor where seagulls were gathered. From both sides of the key-shaped curved piers and wharves, cranes hung down in a row like drawbridges. Beyond them, amidst the tightly packed steamships of various countries narrowing their profiles side by side, the Katori Maru—now preparing to return to Japan—lay moored, revealing only its fierce black stern as it emitted smoke. The steamship that had once looked like a mass of scientific precision now appeared as some primordial organism devoid of technology.

“The Katori Maru is about to depart. “She’s returning to Japan.” The crew member announced this in a vexed tone to passengers who had already completely forgotten their homeland. But for those who had just arrived, there was no room in their minds for that thoroughly familiar and wearisome Japanese vessel. Beneath their feet lay Europe—never before seen yet now made tangible. They wanted to stamp this monstrous reality beneath their soles. A breathless silence—sharp and unnerving—seeped through the passengers. Bathed in oppressively bright light, they could only watch intently as the ship slowed toward its stopping point, moment after expectant moment.

Yashiro felt himself having arrived at the destination before he knew it. The ship was about to lay its hull alongside Marseille's berth. It was a quiet, quiet moment—

Yashiro thought that all the forces that had driven him until now would be cleanly severed here, and that a completely new, unknown force would move him onward from this point. Before long, a ladder was lowered from the ship to the wharf. The clamor of European people clambering up the ladder could be heard.

“Well then, everyone—thank you all for your enduring kindness throughout this long journey.”

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

“Goodbye.” Following these exchanges, suddenly—

“Ah, the Katori Maru is leaving now.” There came the call. When Yashiro looked, the small Katori Maru moved its stern, quietly curved its body, and swiftly departed from Marseille’s shore with a decisive attitude devoid of any lingering sentiment.

“I want to go home too...” One of the passengers let out a sigh. Yashiro too stood on the deck, watching the Katori disappear beyond the harbor while trailing smoke almost in the blink of an eye, but the disembarkation would soon begin. Now landing permits had to be obtained and luggage inspections completed.

Yashiro was watching where the departing Katori was headed when he said in his heart: "Well then, goodbye."

Makiko brought a middle-aged gentleman who appeared to be her husband over to Yashiro and said. “This is my husband.” “That may be so, but I must thank you for your many kindnesses during the voyage.” “No, it is I who should thank you for the inconvenience I caused.”

Mr. Hayasaka, with his broad shoulders, wore a faint smile, while alongside his courteous greeting, Makiko cheerfully added: “Should you ever find yourself coming to Vienna, please do come visit us without fail.” “Thank you very much. At some point, since I would like to visit there as well, I’ll ask for your assistance then.” With a trace of coldness in his expression, Mr. Hayasaka bowed in thanks and walked off toward his wife’s luggage.

In the rear salon, the passengers bound for Paris had formed a group and were nearing agreement on a plan to return to the ship that night to stay aboard, then depart together early the next morning for Paris. Even at such a time, Mr. Oki maintained his usual jocular tone, “That’s right—go ahead and do that. Let’s enjoy Marseille at our leisure tonight. Mr. Kuji, how do you say ‘I love you’ in French? If you just remember this one, 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 very act. “Juh voo zam.” “That’s how you say it,” a commercial officer quipped. “Juh voo zam.” “Juh voo zam.”

After muttering “Juh voo zam” several times to himself, “Having memorized ‘Marseille Juh voo zam’—how’s this?” Mr. Oki promptly put to use the haiku-composing skills he had occasionally attempted aboard the ship and once again made everyone laugh.

After completing their luggage and customs procedures, the passengers remained in a state of hasty, chaotic disarray as they divided into cars and streamed into Marseille’s streets. The city assailed them with the scent of artistry the moment they stepped beyond the customs gate—an aroma rising from barrels piled high on cobblestones. As their car glided forward, the roadside trees lining the streets stood as densely thick as the giant trees found at Japanese shrines and temples. The avenues resembled parks; beneath great trees whose branches spread across the road as if to push aside the stone buildings flanking both sides, the vehicles raced without restraint. Though Yashiro couldn’t discern exactly which city this was, he thought it would have been better experienced by horse-drawn carriage. The surrounding buildings stood just as old as the street trees, as if competing with them in both size and age. The windows—gray shutters that seemed ready to crumble at a touch, now fitted with new yellow awnings—felt like fresh gills sewn into the ancient flesh of culture.

The line of automobiles wound up and down the slopes.

It was around four in the afternoon. Marseille seemed to be at its strolling hour; every street brimmed with people. With each curve of the road, sunlit avenues and shaded lanes whirled alternately before Yashiro. As their car neared a four-way intersection on a slope, the guide announced: "This is where last year, Yugoslavia's Emperor was assassinated by pistol fire. "Right at this very spot."

The Japanese guide who had long been stationed in this area had the car stopped and explained: “After disembarking from the warship and arriving here by car with an honor guard—right at this spot—the vehicle had to pause briefly because the roads crossed here.” “Then a Russian who looked like a beggar came stomping over, suddenly smashed the window glass with his pistol butt, and started firing wildly. Even the French foreign minister riding in the car was killed alongside him.”

The guide said this with a proud expression suggesting he had been deeply affected by this recent major event, but disappointed by the group's apparent lack of reaction, he started driving again as if the whole matter were absurd. After traveling for a while,

“This place has so many men with limps, doesn’t it?” Kuji said to Yashiro, clinging to the window. “You can see at a glance there was a Great War here.” “Now that you mention it—not one person’s laughing out there.”

“They’re not even close to laughing. With this many people swarming about, there’s not a single one talking. What on earth are they doing, I wonder.” Beneath the shade of the enormous street trees, the faces of the people flowing by were pale, their mouths kept shut as if exhausted, every last one of them having only their eyes shining with an unnatural sharpness.

“Well, Europeans have nothing left to think about beyond ideology.” “Incredible, isn’t it?”

Kuji said.

As unintelligible answers kept pouring forth one after another, the car approached the wharf of the Old Port. Then their car joined up with the one carrying Chizuko and her group. The pier carrying two cars was abruptly severed at that section and slid across the sea surface straight toward the opposite shore.

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

“Oh look, our ship is visible over there!”

said Mr. Oki.

After the automobile ascended onto land and climbed a slope for some time, there stood a cliff several hundred feet high. On top of it stood Notre Dame. The group switched to an elevator and then transferred to a cable car. As they watched, the city sank below them while a peninsula appeared, hills came into view, and islands emerged on the horizon.

When they stood atop the mountain, the bright landscape of Southern France unfolded before them in a sweeping panorama. On folds of land as smooth as ash-white pottery clay, the color of trees growing in scattered clumps looked like moss. The sea held a deep azure hue, tilting faintly; a wisp of cloud, light and unmoved by the breeze— What a bright sky this was, Yashiro thought. Winding their way up the broad limestone staircase that resembled a corridor, they arrived at the temple. The interior was dark; passing through the rows of whip-like slender candles, they stepped into a room buried in flowers.

At that instant, Yashiro felt a sudden jolt to his chest. A deathly pale emaciated naked man lay at their feet, blood streaming from his mouth.

Though Yashiro’s eyes were disoriented by the abrupt transition from bright exterior to darkness, he found himself repelled by this jarring setup meant to shock viewers. Upon closer examination, the corpse revealed itself as a sculpture of Christ. From the skin’s pallor to the figure’s emaciated proportions, down to the viscous crimson of blood congealing in veins and spilling forth—all rendered with such visceral realism that it seemed engineered to horrify—Yashiro thought even this civilization must have passed through such barbaric periods. Moreover, it spoke to a human mentality requiring such meticulous brutality for sensory acceptance. This civilization had undoubtedly been forged from the psychology of such realism. Then it’s we who were deceived—Yashiro circled alone around the blood-smeared Christ statue, thinking this. As he kept circling, from Christ’s closed-eyed visage there gradually coalesced—like mist taking form—a hazy “Ah” of understanding about why Christ had to be slain in such wasted shape.

“Here, realism killed Christ—that’s what it comes to,” Yashiro said as he exited the building with the conviction that he’d glimpsed the fraying edge of Europe’s secret.

Chizuko and Kuji were already standing on the outer observation deck, gazing at the distant peninsula bathed in bright light as the wind buffeted them. Then before them lay the very subject of Cézanne’s paintings they had so often seen in Japan. That actual peninsula—relentlessly pursued through layer upon layer of pigment—the very reality that had since rendered painting abstract—was there.

Having passed through dozens of days of waves, ships, and tropical wildernesses, Yashiro's legs began gradually stiffening from that time onward. While stroking his thigh at these Japanese who kept talking about understanding culture, he was slowly coming to recognize that this was an entirely different civilization from us Orientals. When evening came, Yashiro's group descended into town and entered a restaurant. Beyond the road before them stretched a sea glowing with sunset, its pale crimson surface lapping up to the very edge of the pavement. In this part of town sloping down to the water, the smell of seaweed hung in the air; faces inside houses were dyed with sunset reflections; there was a dazzlement like butterflies reeling in flower-lit brightness. The restaurant patrons kept facing seaward as they quietly savored applying knives to oyster shells.

“Come now, come now! We’ll get to taste French bread for the first time!”

Mr. Oki rubbed his hands together and chuckled. The energetic old man too seemed to have finally begun showing signs of fatigue; he slumped his back against the chair and didn’t move until the meal preparations were ready.

“No, before anything else—first let’s drink Marseille wine!” “Hey! Wine!” “Wine.” “Coming right up.”

There was a light, crisp reply from the woman, and red and white were arranged. Now, everyone silently raised their glasses to celebrate their mutual health in having arrived here without mishap. For an instant, a solemn expression that had never been seen aboard the ship swept across everyone’s faces. “Bottle-san.”

When one of them said this, everyone each took a drink of their wine. Mr. Oki raised his glass to the waitress beside him, using the makeshift French phrase meaning “I love you” that he’d learned earlier: “Turesharuman, turesharuman.” “Merci,” he added. The waitress smiled and began hurriedly arranging bread, plates, and forks on the table. Flushed with joy at having his French understood for the first time, Mr. Oki boomed: “Well now, everyone! I’ve struck first blood, haven’t I?”

Mr. Oki boasted grandly, sending the whole group into uproarious laughter. Soon appeared small boiled shrimp mingled with hors d'oeuvres, heaped in a bamboo sieve. On the sea-facing table, oyster shells and sea urchins' spiny orbs—freshly drawn from water—were being stacked. Through pale-crimson brine air where lemon had dissolved came wafting scents. Amidst twilight's shifting hues, harbor lights began to kindle. A sweet melancholy like spreading watercourses flowed full across the surface where gulls drifted lazily intersecting.

“I want to get off here too.”

“I want to get off 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 here too. The ship’s fixtures glittered from the water’s surface. A sailboat glided with a refreshing whiteness across luminous water reflecting evening radiance.

“Ms. Chizuko, you should come to London with me,” he said. “Leaving the young people here and tottering along with this old man—that might suit just fine too.” Having disembarked at Marseille, Mr. Oki had already perceived how the youths had forgotten all about Chizuko when he made this remark. Yet what the group had forgotten was not Chizuko alone; all the shipboard commotion and tangled relationships had now blown away like mist, their feet lifted from the ground as they were carried off by anticipation of this foreign harbor spreading its lights across great windowpanes.

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

The group, all except for the woman Chizuko, were now going out to savor the peculiar atmosphere of the city. This had been their greatest diversion from tedium aboard the ship, and precisely for that reason, the group’s expectations ran high.

However, sending Chizuko back alone to the ship at the wharf at night was dangerous, and the notorious peril of Marseille’s docks in particular was something everyone had long known about and was infamous for. Thereupon, having decided that the guide would first escort Chizuko back to the ship, the group went out.

The sea surface reflecting the town’s glittering lights swelled luxuriantly, dampening the hems of the buildings. A light like flowing crimson mist suffused the avenues and alleys, coloring them in meandering hues. Then, just as they were approaching the foot of the slope where the King of Yugoslavia had been assassinated during their daytime tour, Yashiro’s leg suddenly stiffened and stopped moving. It was an illness that afflicts those who have undertaken long sea voyages. Yashiro had been told about this illness aboard the ship and thought “so it’s finally come,” but when he tried to move his leg, spasms of pain shot through it. At first, Yashiro had managed to walk while massaging his leg, but soon he could no longer take another step. Persisting like this would only create countless obstacles to the group’s enjoyment. Thereupon, Yashiro explained his situation to everyone and decided to return alone to the ship ahead of the others.

“Then it’s perfect that Ms. Chizuko can accompany you.” “Take care on your way back.”

“Then it’s perfect that Ms. Chizuko can accompany you,” said Mr. Oki. Since Chizuko had gained a return companion—sparing them the trouble of involving their guide—she immediately hailed a car with Yashiro and directed it toward the wharf. “Are you in pain?” After maintaining silence for some time, Chizuko inquired. “No, it’s nothing if I keep still. But moving it even slightly causes trouble. The ship’s vibrations must have damaged my nerves—that’s why the muscles stopped functioning.” When they passed from the bright city into the dark port district, though the pier stood close by, Yashiro had to walk to the ship as vehicles couldn’t pass through the gate.

As they passed through the iron gate, Chizuko took hold of Yashiro’s arm—he was slowly dragging his leg along—as if to prop him up, “Hold onto my shoulder.” “Are you all right?” Receiving such kindness from Chizuko amidst the utterly deserted dark warehouses was an unexpected joy even for Yashiro. “Thank you, thank you, I’m fine.” Even as he said this, his arm was taken by the strongly perfumed Chizuko. Though this proximity might have been entirely coincidental, never once aboard the ship had they been this close; thus Yashiro dragged his lame leg through the rough stone warehouses with a desire to withdraw, thinking it pitiable if the ship didn’t come into view soon. Even as the ship’s lights shone brightly ahead, Chizuko continued assisting Yashiro without hesitation.

“It feels like I’m the only one who’s sunk, and this is such a shame.” He had meant to speak of the loneliness of being the only one left behind amidst the group’s safe passage, but to Chizuko at this moment, Yashiro’s words did not entirely resonate with only the meaning he had intended. Certainly, by now everyone was in that heart-pounding city of revelry, yet his lament—born from unbearable desolation at returning alone to the old ship’s nest—must have been perceived as such. “But it would be better for you to rest tonight. Your complexion isn’t good either.”

Chizuko consoled him. Yashiro had indeed thought it would be so, but in silence, supported by Chizuko’s smooth marten-fur coat, he climbed the ship’s ladder soiled by the tide. The ship’s hollow emptiness, now completely devoid of passengers, echoed like a cave. After just one day bathed in Marseille’s light, to Yashiro it felt as though he were clambering into the interior of some Meiji-era grand clock—he found it unexpectedly strange how this place he’d inhabited until yesterday now struck him as so novel.

Yashiro and Chizuko each entered their own cabins. Yashiro lay down on the berth gazing at the familiar ceiling, but finding the loneliness of complete solitude unbearable, soon returned to the salon. Yet here too, though the lights blazed brightly, an echoing silence reigned so profound it might have answered back. Yashiro forgot his leg's pain as he watched Marseille's city lights through the window, until gradually the stiffness began mysteriously easing. With Japanese atmosphere now lingering solely within this ship across the vast continent, his nerves must have slackened suddenly like a fish returned to its native aquarium. At any rate, this rapid recovery—producing the same result as if he'd deliberately sought out Chizuko on this passengerless ship—left Yashiro now feeling positively adrift. Before long, evidently unable to sleep either, Chizuko too ascended to the salon and came to Yashiro's side.

“How are you feeling?” “Thank you. Since coming back here, my leg has strangely started to heal. In that case if one falls ill in Europe，I think being hospitalized on a Japanese ship would be essential.” “But it was perfectly fine—if anything，it felt more like I was being escorted.” “I must have caused you some trouble earlier，”Yashiro expressed his gratitude for her nursing care． “However，I never imagined causing you inconvenience in such circumstances，”she replied． “Next time you visit Paris，I’ll handle all guiding duties—please do inform me when you come．”

“Please do.” Chizuko revealed her beautiful teeth in a light smile. The Yashiro who existed in Japan would never have been capable of such casual banter with women, but this Yashiro—whipped about all day by European winds—had grown sufficiently frivolous in his excitement to let slip such idle remarks, until even the familiar Japanese women he knew no longer quite resembled women to his eyes.

“I’ll go to Paris as soon as I can. I just need to return to Japan by around late autumn this year.” “Come as soon as you can. Though if it’s too soon, I suppose I’d have to show you around.” “But aren’t you going to London too?” “I will go.” “Then we’ll be able to meet again, won’t we?” “Yes, please do look after me then.”

With these words, Yashiro pressed the bell to order tea. The wind flowing through the window passed lightly before their faces, as gentle as the unguarded breeze one feels by a window with family. Both remained silent. Though the stiffness had gone, fatigue now seemed to suffuse his entire body; Yashiro lay limp, even moving his back requiring great effort. "My, it's quiet." As if marveling at how far they'd come, Chizuko let out a soft sigh and spoke while gazing at the peach sprout on the table that had stretched unnoticed in the Indian Ocean's heat.

“Tomorrow I’m bound for Gibraltar.” “Wouldn’t you care to see Spain?” “I should very much like to see that place.” “Then you won’t be coming.”

“I suppose so,” Yashiro said, looking out the window as he thought. In the emptied ship where everyone had disembarked, he couldn’t help imagining the pleasure of traveling around Gibraltar with Chizuko; yet rather than that, it seemed the anticipation would be far deeper in that moment of meeting a Chizuko who would undoubtedly have changed by waiting through their parting now for the day she would come to Paris. “After all, I will go to Paris. That way I’ll be able to see how you’ve changed. I’m looking forward to it.”

“You’re such a tease.”

Having said that, Chizuko suddenly smiled—for some reason—and began to rise toward the deck but then sat back down. "But I feel the same way." "I would very much like to see how all of you have changed." "Well then, until next time."

“Men don’t change.” “I think they just wander about, but women can adapt to the place immediately—so their influence must be greater than our own changes.”

“The way you all go about wandering must be quite amusing. My brother had said that for two or three months, it was unbearably hateful.” “I was nearly overwhelmed today. Europe really is somewhat different from what I had imagined. This isn’t to say their culture here is superior to Japan’s. In other words, it’s that our minds breathe differently. Speaking for myself—though I’d say my thinking followed European patterns before coming here—I’ve started realizing my heart was still breathing in a Japanese way.”

Chizuko silently cast down her eyes. Yashiro felt that even the substance of his conversations with women had, unbeknownst to him, come to differ from when he was in Japan. He lamented that this story would make no sense to Europeans as told, yet prove equally unintelligible to Japanese who hadn’t yet seen Europe. “Ms. Chizuko—how did the Japanese appear today?”

Chizuko seemed to hesitate momentarily as if struggling to speak, but then a faintly sarcastic shadow played across her lips, "It troubled me how beautiful Westerners appeared," she answered softly. "The men?" "Yes." "Hahahaha," Yashiro burst out laughing. "I feel the same way. The women here appear so beautiful it's troubling." He started to say this but suddenly fell silent; even the expression of today's strange events—having moved about all day and faced unfamiliar visages—could only take on such a sorrowful form within this cavern, Yashiro thought, and he felt desolate.

By Japanese standards, Chizuko was undeniably a woman of exceptional beauty—any observer would have deemed her first-rate. Yet when once manifested in Europe, enveloped by the surrounding scenery as a fugitive hue that refused to settle—seeming almost not to exist in its pitiful loneliness—he thought his own figure must appear even more desolate and clouded with sorrow than that. “It’s often said that when married couples come to Europe, the husband grows to dislike his wife, and the wife her husband—but as for me, I think it’s fortunate I’m not married.”

Chizuko continued laughing but gradually lowered her head and fell silent. The helplessness of confronting truths they both felt in their hearts—truths that made their shared burden grow increasingly oppressive—left Yashiro wishing for anyone else aboard the ship besides Chizuko. Ah—was this what their journey had been? Had these two people ever truly been Japanese? As this thought struck him, Yashiro suddenly felt a surge of irritated, violent emotion—an urge to sweep Chizuko into his arms and find mutual solace through some unspoken consolation.

Yashiro abruptly stood up and walked to the center of the salon. However, he did not understand what he had intended to do by standing up. Like a person whose feet have reached the water’s bottom, wanting to kick off with all their might to surface, Yashiro stood there for a while with his face tense and pale. By now, Japan felt so dear, so unbearably dear, that he could hardly stand it.

Then, the lights of Marseille came into view before his eyes. All of his predecessors who had come here from Japan, journeying so far, must have been compelled to harbor emotions identical to what he now felt in this very place. It was an indignation beyond words; however, he soon resigned himself that this too was for his own sake, resolving to keep wearing what he should as much as possible and cast off without regret the old garments that ought to be discarded, until he finally regained his composure and went out onto the deck. As he leaned against the railing, gazing down at the dark quay stones with the quiet exhaustion of fading anger, the captain—now changed into a suit—came rustling down alone from the poop deck.

“Oh, you’ve returned quite early,” the captain said to Yashiro. “Yes, my legs stiffened and wouldn’t move anymore, so I had to give up.” “Ah, that’s a shame.” “I’m about to go for a bit of sightseeing myself.” “It’s a place I always see—nothing special—but since a passenger asked me to, well then.” The captain nodded courteously, descended the deck, and disappeared toward the quay. For those accustomed to Europe, it had long ceased to offer any stimulation—could one truly remain so composed? Yashiro wondered as he gazed enviously at the captain’s ingrained gentlemanly bearing, unable to look away.

“Who is it?” After a while, Chizuko came up behind Yashiro and asked. “It’s the Captain. He says he’s going sightseeing now. That Captain has such admirable confidence. They say foreigners put on a show of delight the more you flatter them—all while secretly looking down on you in their hearts—but when we Japanese make such a fuss over everything European, this might just be us practicing how to put on a pitifully foolish face of poverty. Well, I felt that way today.”

“That’s right—I thought the same thing.” “When I was walking through town today, there was a Western parent and child walking ahead of me.” “Then the father said to his child—‘You should walk with your chest out more, like this’—and showed him by arching his back as he walked.” “Then the sixteen- or seventeen-year-old child stopped slouching and stiffly arched his back too.” “Haha, so Europeans are always preoccupied with that sort of thing.” “Once they start feeling shy or self-conscious, it’s all over for them.”

Yashiro contemplated the various virtues of the Japanese people. He reflected on how Japanese society, through an educational system that eliminated any prospect of advancement unless one maintained a humble demeanor even when dressed in Western attire, was gradually giving rise to more and more stooped postures in those same Western clothes.

—— However, at this moment, Yashiro found it utterly strange why he had come to think so incessantly about Japan. Even though these were by no means new thoughts that had just occurred to him now, each thought that surfaced one by one seemed to regain new life and stir his heart. From the moment Marseille had come into view, it would be no exaggeration to say that he had been thinking of nothing but Japan. It was as though, inversely proportional to Europe’s approach, Japan had launched a full-scale assault upon his mind—yet if this were to continue unabated henceforth.—

Ah—now, while I'm still safe, now while I'm still safe—Yashiro thought with a groan, I want to marry a Japanese woman.

While Yashiro remained silent, Chizuko too stayed quiet in the same posture against the railing, her chest pressed against its cold metal. As this silence persisted,Yashiro gradually came to sense a peril—that should either speak even a word,the words laying bare their innermost thoughts might slip out effortlessly at any moment. It wasn't that he loved Chizuko at all. It was simply that Japan had grown unbearably dear. ——

Yashiro understood all too well that these emotions were impure things far removed from marriage. Yet in the foreign lands he would henceforth visit—faced with countless enemies in the form of women—there remained for Yashiro no Japanese woman to take as his spouse now but Chizuko alone. To others, this must have seemed laughable, but for Yashiro—who desired purity of blood—compared to the anguish of having his chastity taken by foreign women, he still wished to affirm the legitimacy of choosing Chizuko.

“You know, there’s this doctor I know—when he was returning alone to his ship late one night at this quay, a man came out from near the warehouses, pointed a pistol at him, and demanded money, or so I’ve heard.” “It must be around there, I suppose.”

Chizuko pointed toward the black warehouses stretching directly below. Yashiro was disappointed that what Chizuko had been contemplating was something so trivial, but for him—who had been staring fixedly at his own chest, bracing for dangerous words to spill forth at any moment—this proved nothing short of salvation. “Then, that must be around where I was being looked after by you, right? What happened to him?” “He gave him a little money and said, ‘The bulk of it’s on the ship, so come aboard,’ and apparently the man even climbed up the ladder after him, or so I heard.” “Here, if you’re shot, that’s simply the end of it, isn’t it?”

While masking himself with laughter, Yashiro considered that he who could become engrossed in such lighthearted conversation was still unqualified for marriage. “However, while strange things may happen here, I find myself idly pondering matters that seem completely beyond proper grasp.” “I too, since earlier, have been troubled by all sorts of peculiar things coming to mind.” “With this, I’ve come to find it impossible to imagine what I’ll become once we reach Paris.”

“I feel the same way.” Chizuko looked at Yashiro’s face and nodded, a satisfied smile blooming in the dimple of one cheek. “In this way, I’ve come to realize I didn’t come to see foreign life or scenery—in the end, it’s the same as having come to see myself.” “Well, I’ll see the sights and visit museums, but more than anything, I suppose I came because watching myself change is what truly fascinates me.” “In just this single day, I’ve changed so much.” “When everyone returns tonight, what expressions they’ll come back with—this will be quite a sight.” “The only one still full of energy is that old Mr. Oki.” “My legs have even stopped moving,” “Hahaha.”

With a laugh, Yashiro walked away from Chizuko across the deck.

No, that was a relief. He had narrowly escaped a perilous moment. The thought that he might have carelessly let something slip at that moment sent a slight shudder through him.

At the pier shrouded in morning mist, the ship’s loading was about to conclude.

The group departing for Paris gathered in the salon from their respective cabins with sleepy faces.

“Well, is everyone here? Then let’s be off.”

the guide said simply. The crew members who had become friends with the passengers flocked like birds to the decks and mid-sections of the ladders to bid farewell, yet none of them made any move to leave the railings, their expressions brimming with heartfelt sincerity. The passengers, as if realizing anew the beauty in seafarers' hearts, looked back sorrowfully time and again, repeating their farewells over and over as they slowly walked to the cars waiting before the checkpoint.

Chizuko and Mr. Oki followed along with the passengers to the cars. “Goodbye, take care.” “Let’s meet again in Paris.”

When the three cars were filled, Yashiro glanced at Chizuko for a moment. Chizuko was smiling cheerfully as she bid everyone farewell, in a manner that suggested she looked forward more to the day they would meet again than to the parting itself. The cars drove off casually toward the station. Marseille’s station stood atop a small hill in the town lined with beautiful plane trees. When they alighted from the cars, the faces of the group appeared small and pale with a bluish tinge from the cold morning mist and the tension of departure.

Now, as they were about to board Europe’s international train at last—like athletes lined up at the starting block—each received their ticket in silence, eyes alert, simply following behind the guide without a word. Above the platform, high glass clouded with smoke arched in a dome-like circle, and beneath it—within the lukewarm, stagnant air—brown trains stood lined in countless rows. When Yashiro and Kuji took seats in one compartment, the young people noisily crowded into that single room.

“This should be all right now, shouldn’t it?”

For the first time, one of them spoke. At a time when they felt as though there were still many things left that needed to be done,

“Yes, with this settled, you just need to remain aboard until Paris.” The guide answered with a laugh. “Well then, shall we begin discussing last night’s affairs?” When one spoke up, everyone finally relaxed into ease and began recounting the curious aspects of Marseille’s nightlife they had witnessed. Yet while everyone found these tales interesting, they expressed that something about them ultimately fell flat. “How was it for you?”

Kuji asked Yashiro with a laugh. The group seemed to immediately sense he had been teasing them about being alone with Chizuko aboard the ship, and just as everyone turned toward Yashiro, the train departed for Paris.

“I found it rather interesting myself.” Yashiro had meant to preempt Kuji’s teasing, but once the train left the station, everyone was too captivated by the beauty of the fields to pay him any heed. As the peninsula they had seen from atop Notre Dame the previous day appeared—the hills coming into view and the sea opening up before them—Marseille gradually receded into the distance.

Fields where apricot blossoms bloomed in profusion, soft rural landscapes with sprouting young shoots, pastures, and rivers passed by in endless succession along the railway line—white apricot flowers overflowed everywhere they looked—until at last the Rhône River wound its course alongside the train, twisting its body with fluid ease yet refusing to part company with them no matter how far they traveled. Yashiro had increasingly come to feel the pleasure of travel. He marveled at how the French countryside possessed a soft, caressable beauty entirely different from Japan's. It was a field like a constructed garden, appearing as though even every single tree and blade of grass had been imbued with care.

As the Rhône’s flow widened and narrowed through those fields, nothing but supple pastures—like an unbroken stretch of lawn—continued to unfold. Apart from gentle curves that seemed utterly devoid of weeds, there was not a single mountain in sight. “The French countryside boasts of being the most beautiful in the world, but honestly, seeing this, you can’t blame them for bragging.”

Mishima said.

“If it’s this beautiful, I don’t even feel like looking. If it’s like this, how beautiful must Paris be, I wonder.”

the Commercial Attaché says.

“I’ve been watching since earlier, but there’s not a single advertisement on either side of the railway.” “Only one butter advertisement exists.” “The villages aren’t even a tenth of Japan’s size, yet urban culture has developed like this.” “Since France has within its borders all that its citizens need to eat, they should fully cover military expenses from colonial coffers.”

To this sort of doctor, the Commercial Attaché spoke again: "But when we kept clamoring 'Europe! Europe!' there was indeed reason behind that clamor." "The desire to improve one’s own country is natural human sentiment—anyone might feel it—but what’s frightening is how excessive noise breeds unnecessary sentiments." "Well now," said the doctor, "once you start pondering nations, we doctors face physiological hardships too." "But really—indulge in sentiment like you do, and patients would die."

The doctor said to the commercial attaché while looking at him. "But even doctors must possess that human compassion inherent to benevolent medicine." "With quacks we might make exceptions, but heartlessness spells disaster for patients." "You studied in Germany - would you really use the same dosages on Japanese people? That's dangerous business." "No," countered the doctor. "Our duty binds us to preserve life - even for those who ache to die."

Everyone burst into laughter at the doctor’s way of putting it.

However, once such topics arose, even those with opinions would suddenly realize their own minds were skidding to a precarious boundary and fell silent. Educated people engaged in some profession never failed to speak up whenever an opportunity arose to demonstrate their knowledge, but once the conversation touched on the precarious aspects of their own profession, everyone stepped away from the discussion. What was interesting in a different way were the faces of those who had secretly prided themselves on their intellect. These individuals wore expressions of dawning realization that the intelligence they had believed their own was in fact merely borrowed habits—fragments of others’ customs they had briefly been lent—while their exchanged glances warped by derision into dangerously optimistic distortions.

When the conversation came to an abrupt end, Kuji wanted some tea and tried to press the call button to summon a waiter, but he couldn’t find the button anywhere. As everyone clamored about which button it might be, Kuji suddenly stood up and tried pulling the stirrup-shaped handle dangling above his head.

Then, before long, the train that had been running until now suddenly came to a halt. Without understanding why they had stopped, the group were peering restlessly out the windows when the conductor entered the compartment. Kuji had been listening to what the conductor said, but his complexion began changing visibly. He stammered repeatedly and raised one hand, “No, no—there was no call button, so I just tried pulling this. My sincere apologies for that.”

he apologized profusely in French. The group, having finally realized it was Kuji who had stopped the train, stared at the conductor’s face in stunned silence as if expecting some catastrophe to unfold—but here such matters seemed routine, and even the conductor who had heard Kuji’s explanation left the compartment with startling nonchalance. “You’re quite something! Since you stopped an international train, you could return to Japan this instant and brag about it.”

The doctor said. While everyone was turning pale, the train started moving again nonchalantly.

The Rhône River became a narrow stream, the pastures turned into forests continuing onward, and as dusk gradually approached—at that very moment, suddenly—

“Ah! This is it—we’re already in Paris.” Someone compared the timetable with their watch and exclaimed in surprise. “This can’t be Paris! It’s the countryside!” “It’s the countryside!” “Well, it certainly is.” Rain began to fall steadily over the village. Everyone had been so talkative that they forgot to check the time; when they each took out their watches, indeed every one of them showed the time appropriate for Paris’s arrival. So thinking they should start getting their luggage down, they began taking them one by one from the racks, but before they had even unloaded half, the train came to a stop at the station.

“Is this really Paris, I wonder.”

One of them peered restlessly at the dirty, desolate station and said. “Well, it does say ‘Lyon’ here.”

he added, still half-doubting. In any case, as the group descended from the compartment toward the platform, a noisy throng of foreigners came disembarking from every car. Though everyone's doubts had vanished, expressions as if witnessing a dream devoid of tangible reality were etched vividly across all their faces. When departing Marseille, they had asked their guide to send a telegram to their initial lodging, so everyone stood lined up by their luggage expecting someone from the inn to appear—yet now they couldn’t distinguish who among the crowd might be that representative.

Soon the foreigners who had disembarked from the train vanished from the platform, leaving every car utterly empty; yet the group alone remained huddled together, dejectedly motionless for what felt like an eternity. “What should we do? Just staying here like this...” Kuji said.

“Because they said they’d come meet us, we’re waiting,” the doctor replied. “But there’s been no reply confirming they’ll come. How should we know?” “This isn’t Japan.” “This is Paris.”

“And another person said.” Indeed—this wasn’t Japan—their faces changed color as if jolted awake by this realization—yet none knew where the inn stood. Even so remaining rooted forever on this platform proved impossible. Thereupon they had redcaps carry their luggage toward waiting rooms. Yet even there they waited dazed—grasping at clouds—still ignorant of who might come from where. Night had fallen unnoticed. Their ears rang deafeningly while hunger pressed close.

“What kind of inn is this—one for foreigners? Or one for Japanese?” Kuji inquired. “Is it a Japanese inn?” Kuji inquired. “It seems they said the Japanese inn called Botanya was full, so they went with a foreigners’ inn instead,” said the mechanical engineer. “Then even if we wait until tomorrow, will they come? First of all, even if they did come, they wouldn’t even know whether we’re the guests or not.” Yashiro said. Since everyone agreed that was reasonable, they decided to first speak to the automobile driver themselves, go check the full Japanese inn once, and then proceed to the foreigners’ inn—and when this plan was finally settled, they called for an automobile for the first time.

The group were jolted along in the automobile through the dark, grimy streets. Though this was supposed to be Paris, no matter how far they went, nothing Paris-like appeared before them. When they crossed a river resembling a shrunken Sumida River,

“What do you call this river?” Kuji tried asking the driver. “Seine.” The driver answered with just that single word.

So this was the heart of Paris—the group stood rendered utterly speechless.

Though only a few days had passed, when Yashiro thought back to that night of their arrival in Paris, it already seemed like a distant memory from long ago. They had reached the station at six in the evening, yet didn't arrive at Hotel Masune until nearly eleven at night—a distance that would take barely thirty minutes by car now had consumed four or five hours through their circuitous route. After securing his current hotel in Montparnasse alone, Yashiro found no word from shipmates scattered across nations, meeting only Kuji who remained in Paris. That first night's dimness had made Paris appear some provincial backwater defying expectations, but dawn revealed not just a metropolis but ancient temple-like structures centuries old, unseen and unheard of before. Coming from a Japan that seemed all fresh vegetables and water, Yashiro couldn't acclimate to this parched city of black stone in those early days. Like a frog regulating respiration through its damp skin expelling gases, his own skin—accustomed to humid climes—now met Paris's desiccated air with clogged pores: senses dulling daily, colds persisting relentlessly. Even walking among sculptures and buildings vivid enough to startle eyes left him sinking into melancholy at beauty falling short of repute. When lavish feasts made his throat rumble, two bites brought nausea that left him sipping only coffee and water. Brief walks through town bred unbearable thirst for water until his feet moved unbidden toward the Seine's banks.

"I must say, my senses really do resemble a frog’s."

Yashiro thought this and gave a wry smile. Every time he walked, he wore a tearful expression from the piercing pain that rang from his shoe heels to his head; when he sat in a chair, Yashiro would first and foremost remove his shoes.

"My friends back in Tokyo must be having a good laugh about now." As he thought this, even the faces of all those friends charging headlong into Europeanism grew irritating to him. He often met with Kuji too, but at first they had nothing to talk about and simply sat in silence. Sometimes Kuji, "Isn't Paris lovely?" would murmur dreamily—but even then Yashiro found himself unable to nod agreeably, irritation prickling through him. "Can't you see this chasm between Tokyo and Paris? Try climbing down its face just once. Have you ever truly considered when you'll reach the far shore?"

And so Yashiro told himself in his gut. But when he looked around and thought about how people could build bridges across this great chasm without a single foothold, it ceased to be someone else’s problem and echoed back as his own. Compelled by necessity, he had crossed over that chasm before he knew it. First realizing he was in Paris, then observing his own condition—like a dog with parched nostrils—Yashiro came to understand that more than anything else, what he needed now was movement rather than contemplation. Thus he spent entire days wandering the streets without destination. For Yashiro, this place was entirely akin to climbing a dry, uninhabited high mountain region. And the moment he suddenly thought that this mountain had been entirely built by people, his thoughts clattered down headlong from the summit all the way to the bottom. At least once a day, in the midst of continuing to fall somewhere like this, he began to realize that he wasn’t the only one gradually rolling downward. Looking around, not only were all the foreign travelers sliding and rolling about, but many of them appeared completely immobilized—rooted in place on their behinds and unable to move.

"Well now, this is intriguing."

Around the time he began thinking this way, Yashiro—even as he himself kept rolling downward—felt as though he were still ascending to greater heights, and his vigor gradually increased. Yashiro’s room was a ten-tatami-mat space on the fourth floor where little light filtered in, equipped with a telephone and adjoining bath. Kuji often came here, but as he hadn’t lost much vigor, he hadn’t been at the hotel since their arrival night. Thinking of him, Yashiro felt certain he must have found some reason not to lose his vigor.

“Where did you go that night we arrived? We looked everywhere for you.” When Yashiro asked Kuji this one day, “I called a friend and they brought me straight to Montparnasse. Somewhere around here, I think. Since I’d asked them to find me a language tutor beforehand, they introduced one right away.” Kuji answered casually with a laugh. Not long after that, Yashiro began noticing the young language teacher Henriette frequenting Kuji’s place. Given Kuji’s carefree vitality—so unlike Yashiro himself—he immediately recognized that Henriette held special regard for him.

“You’re always so full of vigor, but that vigor of yours isn’t something to take lightly,” Yashiro said one day while absently stroking his own arm, teasing Kuji. “It’ll come rattling down on you before long—better stay alert. My own foundations crumbled long ago. The rising up’s what comes next.” “Don’t be absurd,” Kuji retorted. “I was the first to come clattering down.” Though they both burst into involuntary laughter, Yashiro couldn’t help feeling there must be an immense gulf between their perceptions—between Kuji, who’d thrown himself at some foreign woman and now gazed up at Paris like a frog clinging to a telephone pole, and himself, staggering about without footholds, gasping in distress. Yet even so, he now burned with resentful indignation—that at this unparalleled chance to grasp the chasm between East and West, Kuji had squandered it through his haste to leap across and wander blindly rather than linger at the brink.

Though winter still lingered stubbornly, on a day when his appetite had finally begun to return, Yashiro went with Kuji and Henriette to Auteuil Racecourse. The cloudless sky framed running horses in the broad lawn encircled by chestnut groves—their forms becoming the first living beauty that stripped away the numbness clinging to Yashiro’s senses. The shared gleam of chestnut coats between these European steeds and their Western-bred counterparts back in Japan flared like ungoverned gas igniting, abruptly dragging the surrounding landscape’s beauty into his consciousness. When sleet suddenly pelted the spring-chilled field near dusk’s end, a horse that had cleared the final obstacle shook off its rider—its sleek, unburdened body galloping through chestnut groves dusted with new shoots with such elegance that Yashiro, though battered by ice pellets, remained rooted. To this day he remembers that twilight’s stirring emotion.

From around this time, it could be said that the quiet, immovable beauty of Paris began seeping into Yashiro’s mind. He rode alone on the Seine’s penny steamer down the river. He also went to the Bois de Vincennes and visited the Château de Saint-Germain. He even ventured out to the forests of Montmorency and Fontainebleau, going as far as the distant suburbs of Paris. Each time he ventured out from Paris like this and returned, something that emitted a faint glow from every corner of this ancient Buddhist temple-like city would gradually intensify its radiance.

Thus Yashiro felt the seething turmoil in his mind—which had been churning until now—begin to settle in accordance with the city’s contours. The various doubts remained as doubts—he had ceased trying to resolve them hastily. Even if he rushed, what lay beyond understanding would remain incomprehensible. For he had come to believe the only thing he could trust now was first and foremost the Japanese within himself. Yet if he were to voice such thoughts carelessly to other Japanese people, he could vividly imagine their fury—even their mockery—but whether perceived or not, he had clearly witnessed with his own eyes the profound chasm between Japan and foreign lands. No matter what anyone might say, Yashiro resolved in his gut: he would not lose himself.

On one such afternoon, as Yashiro walked with Kuji, word came that Chizuko would finally be arriving from London. Though Kuji and Yashiro had often initiated conversations about their fellow ship passengers from both sides and reminisced fondly, when it came to Chizuko’s affairs alone they somehow took care not to broach the subject. While Kuji openly discussed letters arriving from Oki, the doctor, and Makiko among others, whenever Yashiro imagined his feelings in withholding mention of Chizuko specifically, he found himself wondering whether something had already begun developing between him and Henriette.

“When Ms. Chizuko comes, where should we have her stay?” At the very moment Chizuko was finally arriving from London, that Kuji would voice such concerns to Yashiro—of course Yashiro sensed Henriette’s shadow there. He tried saying this upon seeing Kuji, who sat uncharacteristically subdued.

“If taking care of Ms. Chizuko is troublesome for you, I don’t mind handling it.” “I see. If it’s not a bother, I’d like to ask you then.” “There’s nothing particular between Ms. Chizuko and me, but after being so attentive to her on the ship, it’d be rather rude to change my ways so abruptly now.” Kuji suddenly regarded Yashiro with a carefree manner. “If that’s alright with you, I’ll take charge of her.”

“That’s a relief.” “I don’t dislike Ms. Chizuko—but right now, having just you as my sole Japanese connection suffices.” “If I socialize with more Japanese now, my language will regress completely.” That Yashiro observed Kuji’s single-minded dedication to hastily becoming foreign-like since their Paris arrival was nothing new, yet somehow this mentality felt distinctly provincial—each time it struck him, Yashiro found himself wanting to confront Kuji.

“How about I invite Henriette for dinner?” “I’ll treat you tonight.” Following Kuji’s suggestion, the two came to Saint-Michel and then, with Notre Dame at their backs to the left, began making their way up toward the Panthéon. Where Saint-Michel Hill turns left stands an Italian restaurant called Italien-kan. Kuji had long favored the Italian cuisine here, so he chose this place for that evening’s dinner. Because Kuji had called Henriette en route, while Yashiro was drinking an apéritif, Henriette entered wrapped in a fox fur over a beige suit. Kuji offered her a chair while,

“We’ve got plans to go dancing tonight—so after you finish dinner, do me a favor and make yourself scarce.”

After saying this to Yashiro, he looked at the menu. “Yashiro, what will you have? Puureouri again? Ms. Henriette, I’ll leave it to you.” They ordered thinly sliced lamb cutlets, young chicken shoulder meat, spaghetti with cheese, and salad, and the three drank wine. This restaurant was famous among culinary connoisseurs because the poet Paul Fort frequented it, but neither Kuji nor Yashiro had ever once seen the poet.

“You, I want to practice conversation too. When you have time, could you have Ms. Henriette come around to me sometimes?” Yashiro tried saying this jokingly as he gazed at Kuji and Henriette. “No, that won’t do. This person is currently serving as my secretary, you see. Because I’m having her handle various tests, I’m quite busy.”

“But what’s wrong with me paying tuition and asking to become her student?” “That’s just your Japanese logic. Here, Japanese logic doesn’t work, you know. When in Rome, do as the Romans do—you’re aware of that saying, right?”

“That’s just Japanese logic!” Yashiro laughed. “But this alone is universal logic. When you enter a land, you follow its customs—that’s only natural.” “Then what about foreigners coming to Japan? If only Japanese must follow local customs when entering a land, then your precious universal logic loses all authority.” Once matters reached this stage, even jests between Yashiro and Kuji would inevitably spiral into debates that never reached conclusion.

“Let’s call it a day today, you. Tonight let’s follow Parisian etiquette.” Kuji poured wine into Henriette’s glass as he spoke. Henriette had been smiling all along while chewing on red baby turnips from the appetizer with her beautiful front teeth, but when the udon-like spaghetti arrived steaming, she deftly twirled it onto her fork.

“Then tonight，I’ll treat you.” Yashiro said. Here，their lives had somehow become an endless series of logical arguments that often proved unavoidable，so there had long been an agreement between them that whoever initiated such reasoning would pay for that day’s dinner—which was why Kuji，leaving his spaghetti halfway to his mouth，slapped the table as if sealing victory.

“Right. “I had forgotten.” “Tonight’s your turn at last—with this, I’ve made a hundred francs!” Kuji promptly explained to Henriette in French that since Yashiro was treating them tonight, they could eat as much as they liked. After saying “Thank you” in Japanese, Henriette passed the wine to Yashiro and laughed.

Though Yashiro heard nothing but French from Henriette and scarcely any Japanese beyond the occasional phrase, he supposed she likely understood simple matters in plain Japanese, given that she had studied the language for three years when her father had been stationed at the Massaajuriimu Shipping Company's Yokohama branch.

A dim twilight pressed in from outside the window. Amidst the scent of celery that Henriette had broken drifting over the white tablecloth, Yashiro thought the glistening juices pooling at the young chicken's flank now held an irreplaceable savor. "Whether it was Francis I or VIII who cried 'Could anything in this world taste finer?' before bolting past his retainers to sink teeth straight into the kitchen's prize—truly, this alone defies resistance."

Yashiro said, thrusting his knife into the chicken’s flank.

“Damn it. I should’ve eaten that too. I thought I was paying, so I held back—ended up worse off!” Kuji cut the limp lamb cutlet that resembled cold beef while casting frequent envious glances at Yashiro’s chicken. The dinner’s competitive edge—each flaunting their meals as they ate—somehow made the food taste all the sweeter. “Is Heichinro in Yokohama still there?”

Henriette asked. “Oh yes, it’s still there.” “I can’t forget the Sufuta there. Right, Kuji?” Henriette turned toward Kuji and, speaking to him alone in French, asked where served the best Chinese cuisine in Paris, though she herself liked Chinese food. When the oranges emerged from the fruit shelf, Henriette instructed Yashiro that to gauge the quality of a Parisian restaurant, there was nothing better than observing the fruits arranged on its shelves. When the oranges gave way to coffee, Kuji wiped his mouth repeatedly and stretched,

“Well now, Ms. Chizuko is coming tomorrow—this is going to be tricky. The fact that morals on ships and land are completely different—how am I supposed to explain that to women? This is tough.” “Such matters are better understood by her than by you,” Yashiro said with a laugh. “If I’m acting strange, then Ms. Chizuko must be acting strange too.” “Well then, I’ll leave that matter properly in your hands,” Kuji replied, his tone shifting. “Strangely enough, I wrote about Ms. Henriette in my letter, but even so—for you to not send her a letter and instead give it to me—isn’t this terribly rude of you?”

“There’s nothing rude about it,” Yashiro retorted. “Wanting to use you that much means you should respect me.” As if tripped up, Kuji glared at Yashiro momentarily before breaking into a sly grin. “Did you really do something so boastworthy without permission?” “Where ladies are concerned, I’ve always been an easygoing gentleman.” Yashiro’s voice hardened with wine-fueled bravado. “What I did is none of your damn business.”

“Alright, tonight I won’t let you all get away.” “I’ll follow you anywhere.” “Garçon!” When the waiter came, Yashiro ordered the check. By the time they finished paying and stepped outside, it had already turned completely to night. The three of them climbed the gentle slope toward Luxembourg Gardens. At the street corner where wavering clusters of light gathered, sunshades resembling Western parasols with fresh red and yellow stripes drew the aimless footsteps of people on a spring night. The terrace of Café Suflé was packed, but at last the three of them found chairs and sat down.

"I want to visit Yokohama." Henriette said to Yashiro when the chocolate arrived.

Kuji was gazing at the foreigners packed into the row of yellow rattan chairs while blowing cigarette smoke when he suddenly turned back toward Yashiro and asked with a serious face. "You, what's troubled you most since coming to Paris?"

Yashiro remained silent for a while, thinking, then answered. “Well, that not a single soul would deign to imitate Japan.” “Ha ha ha ha!”

Kuji couldn't help but burst out laughing. However, when he abruptly stopped laughing, he too gradually grew somber. It was at that moment when even the light texture of the chocolate on their tongues threatened to lose its flavor because of Kuji's careless question. Kuji heaved a sigh and,

“Ahh, why wasn’t I born in Paris?”

He let his cheek slump limply onto the palm propped on his elbow and murmured. In that instant, Yashiro felt anger surging from the depths of his chest and turned pale. Yet he remained motionless, staring fixedly at the blackened trunks of street trees standing in solemn rows. "If Europe were to learn from Japan, how happy we would be—that's all I've been thinking lately," he said. "That's precisely how it is." "Hmph."

Kuji snorted and called the waiter. After settling the bill, the three of them silently circled along the iron fence on the left side of Luxembourg's outer perimeter. Though both understood these were merely words of two wills stubbornly clashing, what made this Japan utterly unbearable for Yashiro was how such foolishness could lurk within Kuji—this brilliant, refined Japanese man. “Knowledge does have its ways of making fools of people, you know.” “It wears them down to something beyond fools.” “The only memento from my coming to Paris is that.” “People who come to a place like this and act all delighted—well, I suppose they must have some blessedly simple quality that lets them stay delighted.”

Yashiro said, feeling something chest-piercing—something he had to confront—rumbling within him. "Then why don't you just go back home already?" Kuji laughed mockingly. "Whether I go back or not—that's my own affair. I intend to see just how far human beings can go in making fools of themselves."

“What are you getting so angry about? You’re just dying to make Japan put on topknots and ceremonial robes again.” “That’s none of your concern. If you’re wearing Parisian topknots and ceremonial robes, you shouldn’t have any complaints, should you?” “Parisian topknots are still better than Japanese ones. Are you saying you could walk around sporting two topknots these days?” “If wearing two is bad, then go naked—Japanese people will be completely exposed anyway.” “Ha ha ha!”

Kuji tucked Henriette's freed arm under his own and laughed hysterically before addressing Yashiro: "You, let's part ways here. It's not fun anymore. I want to enjoy myself tonight." "Those who can enjoy this state of affairs should go right ahead and enjoy." "Well then, goodbye. With a fool like you around, the Japanese have no prospects of getting anywhere." "Do you want to get ahead that badly?"

When Yashiro said this, he stood staring at Kuji, who was trying to break away. Then suddenly Henriette approached Yashiro's side.

Kuji pulled back Henriette’s arm as she tried to approach Yashiro’s side, "Let's go, let's go," he pulled her along.

However, Henriette approached Yashiro, “You should come along too.” As she spoke, she took Yashiro’s arm and hooked Kuji’s with her right hand, turning right at the Luxembourg corner. “Let’s go to the Dome. It’s still too early for dancing.” “Why do you and I keep fighting like this?” Kuji said with a wry smile to Yashiro. “Ask Paris about such things. They say anyone who’s ever admired me is already dead. Look. Here.”

On one side of the pavement stood a blue gas lamp, and beside it where not a single soul passed, stone buildings that seemed moss-covered all had their windows closed and curved along the road. Walking between the thick trunks of horse chestnut trees and the tall iron fence, Yashiro now found himself devoid of even the energy to argue, overwhelmed by the beauty of this tranquil nighttime street. "Where are you, Mr. Yashiro?" Yashiro, who had never before walked arm-in-arm with a woman, felt as if one side of his body were being hoisted up even as Henriette firmly linked arms with him, his feet threatening to stumble at any moment.

“Raspail, 303.” “303.” In Paris, where no two houses shared the same address, simply stating a number seemed to make the corresponding building materialize before them. Henriette nodded in recognition. “Ah, there.”

"Then let's go tomorrow. I'll come at six in the evening," she said reassuringly.

“Go ahead.” Though Yashiro had said this, he still needed to consider Kuji’s complexion. “You sure about this?” “Well, no—I’d be satisfied no matter what happens here. Look at this very beauty here!” Between trunks that seemed to grow from dull ore, gaslight flowed faintly as the steady clack of three pairs of shoes echoed back. Yashiro suddenly thought that Chopin’s Preludes were exactly this scene before him. Moreover, here he was, walking arm-in-arm through it all.

“It will still take two hundred years for Japan to develop streets as beautiful as these. We’ve lived through two hundred years of Japan just by seeing this place. That’s certainly true. There’s nothing more to say now, is there?” Hearing Kuji’s heartrending words spoken through tears, Yashiro found himself unable to voice any objections. As he sensed Henriette’s rose scent wavering like the night’s own fragrance, his mind drifted hazily as through the underworld, wondering whether this aroma too might linger in Japan two centuries hence.

When Yashiro and Kuji arrived at Bourget Airport, Chizuko's scheduled arrival time from London was drawing near. In the waiting room of a hall standing on a sunlit grassy square, the two stood gazing at a map where countless air routes radiated from Paris like beams of light. These days Yashiro—who would sometimes be overcome by sudden waves of homesickness for Japan as dusk deepened into night—found himself desperately wishing he could fly straight from here to Singapore.

“Let’s go to London sometime soon too, don’t you think?” Kuji himself seemed caught up in some reverie. “London would be fine, but more than that, I’ve started wanting to return to Japan before long.” “So you’ve begun struggling too? They say anyone who doesn’t feel troubled when first coming abroad must be a villain through and through. You ought to endure a little longer.” “Then you’re showing villainous tendencies yourself!” “No, I’m troubled too—I’m just devising methods to avoid being troubled. Once things have come to this, there’s nothing for it but to enjoy them.”

No matter how sound they believed their minds to be, lately it had become undeniable that some pathological element had taken root within the two of them—yet neither could pinpoint exactly where this sickness lay. Whenever one side sank lower, the other would have to rise by that same measure to maintain their mental equilibrium—this frustrating imbalance had them growing irritable. Moreover, this state perpetually persisted between them. Just as they teetered once more on the verge of slipping into such a state, the sound of propellers whirring reached them from the western sky. Kuji looked out at the sky from the window.

“There it is. “It’s quite something, coming down from the sky like that.” “What they call a heavenly descent.”

A silver-gray monoplane bearing Air France's mark on its tail emerged large in the sky before their eyes.

"Seeing she didn't take a British plane—she must've desperately wanted to come to Paris," Yashiro observed. "Let's head down." He circled toward the entrance, watching the aircraft bank into its approach angle while imagining Chizuko peering down at them from directly above. The plane soon skidded across the grass to halt before the terminal, disgorging passengers who filed out like ants from its underbelly. Chizuko emerged sixth or seventh in line, her figure buffeted by wind from the still-whirring propeller blades.

"There she is!" Kuji said delightedly. The perfectly fitted black fur coat was splendidly different from how Chizuko had appeared aboard the ship. Her stride seemed accustomed to foreign soil as she walked toward them with undiminished pride. She still didn't appear to notice the two men's presence - how swiftly women transform themselves, Yashiro thought. "You've changed, haven't you, Ms. Chizuko." "Hmm." Watching this scene where Chizuko alone among the foreigners lent a luminous quality to the emerging group's atmosphere, Yashiro felt a bright excitement akin to observing a thoroughbred racehorse that had matured into beauty unnoticed.

When Chizuko saw the two of them, she smiled warmly and approached with nostalgic familiarity. Kuji immediately shook hands with Chizuko, "Wasn't it turbulent?" he inquired.

“No, but my ears still feel a bit off.” The hand that had shaken Kuji’s was about to be extended toward Yashiro by Chizuko when she abruptly withdrew it,

“You came all this way for me. "I had thought to inform you as well but refrained.”

What could it mean? Even as Chizuko laughed lightly, behind them the luggage inspection had already begun. At any rate, this was good for now, Yashiro thought as he watched Chizuko’s retreating figure opening her luggage on the inspection counter, letting out a sigh of relief. When they had arrived in Marseille, Chizuko had appeared so fleeting and faded, yet now she looked this beautiful—was it because he too had grown accustomed day and night to the women of foreign lands? Compared to the large-framed European women with coarse complexions, Chizuko appeared tautly poised like an agate gleaming with profound depth at first glance.

Yet even so, how strange this was. Though Yashiro had once resolved to marry Chizuko during those Marseille days when she appeared so pitifully forlorn, now that he encountered this Chizuko who had regained her beauty like a fish returned to fresh water, the ache from Marseille was already fading from him. This was fine. With this, Yashiro even thought that were he to abandon Chizuko alone in Europe now, his own anxieties would disappear. Chizuko, Kuji, and Yashiro skipped the airport bus and took a separate taxi to Paris.

“I’ve reserved a hotel. I thought being too far from us would be inconvenient, so I chose somewhere nearby.”

Kuji said to Chizuko. Yashiro thought that Kuji too must have forgotten about the previous night's matters due to Chizuko's unexpected beauty, but when he considered that very kindness he himself had shown her aboard the ship, he naturally began feeling a resigned withdrawal settling over him. Even inside the car, Chizuko and Kuji kept up an animated conversation, while Yashiro remained silent throughout, his face retaining that characteristically Japanese air of melancholy. As Paris gradually drew nearer, Chizuko peered out the window,

“This is already Paris. How elegant it is! I could never return to London now.” As Chizuko spoke buoyantly, Kuji drew her close as if cradling her, “Stay here with me. A woman must be in Paris. When did you say you’re going to Florence? If you go, I might join you.” “I think I’ll go in half a month, but you can’t come, can you? Didn’t you write in your letter that Ms. Henriette was arriving?”

Kuji grinned without hesitation at Chizuko's teasing smile, “Since I wrote it in the letter, you must understand. Right? You?” and suddenly turned sharply to look at Yashiro.

“Hmm.” Yashiro answered irritably, thinking that if he couldn’t handle matters with Chizuko as deftly as Kuji did, he wanted at least to follow Kuji’s plan of protecting her from foreigners. “Henriette has taken quite a liking to you.” “Last night I was terribly worn down again.” “You probably don’t know about it.” “Nothing at all.” Kuji laughed while peering at Yashiro and pressed further. “Yeah.”

Chizuko cast a fleeting smile toward Yashiro before falling silent again, letting herself be rocked by the car's motion. Yashiro didn't recall Henriette having made any particular show of affection toward him the previous night, nor did he feel compelled to justify himself to Chizuko about it now. "Now that you've come to Paris, Ms. Chizuko, I can finally breathe easier. Kuji and I do nothing but quarrel every single day." "Oh? Why ever?" Chizuko asked, her smile vanishing in surprise.

“If I were to explain that, we’d immediately start arguing right here, so I won’t,” Yashiro said. “When you’re here—I don’t know why—once you begin speaking your mind, there’s no stepping back anymore. It’s such a strange place. Back in Japan, I never engaged in these sorts of arguments.” “Yes, that’s absolutely true,” Chizuko agreed. Kuji chimed in, “Exactly.” “So I’ve arrived right in the middle of this mess,” Chizuko said. “What could you possibly be fighting about? If this continues, I won’t know how to handle it.”

“It’s not something that can be explained in a few words.” “It’s quite... this matter—well, you see—” Yashiro spoke with hurried articulation. “Here our minds have become like ropes woven from two strands—Europe and Japan. Unless we plant our heads firmly at one end of this rope, we cannot move forward.” “Attempt to straddle both ends while advancing, and you’ll not only fail to progress a single step—you’ll ultimately grasp nothing at all.”

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

Chizuko nodded with an air of realization. "But in truth, any young people like us back in Japan would be just as we are now. Yet when you're there, even if you remain silent, the surrounding customs and human relations naturally resolve things day by day on their own. So you can manage perfectly well without having to think about those unnecessary two ropes at all." "It's strange."

"No—how could anyone avoid thinking about that? Isn't that precisely what defines modern consciousness?" Kuji cut in again from the side. "Wait a second—even if I grant that what you say is true, in Japan one can manage without ever considering the most fundamental ethnic issues underlying human life." "The reason is, we're not just riding atop it—there's nothing inside us but our ethnicity." "If what fills our being is nothing but ethnicity, how could any human understanding concerning this possibly take shape?" "Because perception itself is essentially equivalent to ethnicity itself."

“How could there be such nonsense? Perception and ethnicity are entirely separate things!”

And Kuji seemed to have completely forgotten their original purpose of coming to pick up Chizuko. "But those European-style ideas you're so proudly touting are just what Japanese people conceive as European." "Even your passionate love for Paris—well, it's still a Japanese man named Kuji who's doing the loving." "No one has truly become human yet—they try turning European or Japanese, but not a single soul in this world can manage both at once." "Everyone's just perceiving the ethnicity within themselves."

“But if you start saying such things, wouldn’t that eliminate the very logic of universally accepted principles?” “It isn’t disappearing. “We’re trying to build them. “You’re just trying to protect what you’ve been made to believe exists.” “That’s sophistry,” Kuji declared vehemently. Yashiro regretted having spoken too harshly, but with no other recourse, he answered with a wry smile.

“What sophistry? If there truly existed such a splendid thing as a universal logic common to all nations, I too would want to bind myself with it. But you—both you and I—we each harbor personal thoughts that want to speak out separately from that. Isn’t that freedom?” The debate initially meant for Chizuko’s ears had long since dissolved, and now, with the two young men’s minds fiercely entwined like twisted ropes, the car carrying all three plunged deeper into Paris before they realized it. Still, Kuji’s agitation refused to abate. He tapped Yashiro’s knee and—

“The way you speak always ignores science.” “If one dismisses scientism like you do, they can make any outrageous claim without batting an eye.” “Had Paris lacked this scientific spirit it values, it never would’ve achieved such splendor, nor developed its concept of freedom to this extent.” Yashiro found nothing more tiresome than debates culminating in that hollow incantation of “science.” When he realized Kuji had finally unleashed his ultimate rhetorical gambit, a faint smile escaped his lips.

“Science?” “Science means nobody understands a damn thing.” “If people truly grasped this, how could wars ever start?” “Then what should we trust?” “You’re denying even the only science we can rely on—what do you propose doing with humanity then?” Though Yashiro had meant to avoid arguing with Chizuko present, Kuji pressed him like a dog snapping at prey. Yashiro twisted free of his grip.

"You came all the way to Europe, and you can't say anything beyond such simple things? Things like science could be thought up even back in Japan, couldn't they?" Kuji's complexion abruptly changed, his facial muscles losing their equilibrium. "That you can take pride in having lost so much knowledge—that itself is an illness. If you weren't ill, you wouldn't oppose even such an absurd perception that anyone could recognize!"

“I’m not saying what you’re claiming is wrong.” “I’m just saying I don’t want to hear things everyone already understands—especially not from you.” “What difference would it make to humanity if someone could state obvious truths flawlessly?” “Then are you saying we should state errors like you?” “What I’m saying is that to someone like you, who uses science as a tool of incantation, it can only appear as error.” “It’s precisely because I consider myself more of a scientific rationalist than you that I refuse to cheaply go on about ‘science this and science that’ like you do.” “You don’t even realize science has become the modern deity.” “If that were understood, humanity would perish.”

“Hmph, does such a thing as scientism even exist?” When he turned away and fell silent, the muscles from Kuji’s jaw to his ear twitched incessantly.

“You’ve changed quite a bit,” Chizuko said with an amused smile. “You’ve been doing nothing but argue about such things every day in Paris?” “Well,” Yashiro replied, “here quarrels like these pass for entertainment. Please don’t mind it.” He added wryly: “Anytime.” “Does this mean I must endure such exchanges daily from now on?” She frowned at the cityscape beyond the window. “How perfectly dreadful.”

Chizuko frowned and gazed out the window at the city spread below. "If you were present, I would devise ways to refrain from uttering such things." "No, you absolutely would."

With a tone in which his irritation had not yet faded, Kuji seemed to want to say something.

Wanting Chizuko to have a room bathed in sunlight, Yashiro had chosen a hotel at Luxembourg Gardens' edge—a choice that delighted her profoundly.

Chizuko’s room was a sixth-floor chamber with walls entirely covered in rose patterns. When the window was opened, the row of horse chestnut trees extending from the park spread out below like a sea of young leaves. Beyond them, the towers of the Pantheon and the meteorological observatory loomed hazily. "This row of trees is that famous avenue Fujimura used to come and enjoy every day, you know. Since twenty years have already passed since then, these trees must have grown considerably from that time's perspective."

Yashiro explained,

“There’s a café called Lila right next door, you know. Since Fujimura apparently came here every day too, this hotel might very well be the one where he stayed.” “Then I’d like to go see Lila!” Chizuko peered out the window to the right with a delighted expression and said.

Since there was nothing to unpack, the three of them quickly left the hotel and decided to stroll through Luxembourg Gardens until dinner. "But I want to go to Lila first." "Lila's just some old story now—it's tedious," Kuji retorted. "That place is crawling with old folks who do nothing but mutter to themselves." Having said this, Kuji briskly strode alone beneath the row of horse chestnut trees. Viewed from below, the pruned trees formed what looked like a long corridor lined with young leaves. At its center stood a fountain statue of a goddess restraining eight powerfully leaping horses, her gracefully sloping shoulders streaked with countless pigeon droppings.

"You need to leave now, don't you? Henriette said she'd be there at six!"

Kuji said to Yashiro and took out his watch.

"Oh right. "But she was mocking me—as if I'd go." Yashiro remembered his forgotten appointment with Henriette but wanted to stay with Chizuko a while longer. "No, that won't do. The French never mistake the time. If we're off by even a minute then, negotiations will halt completely. Japan and there are psychologically different."

On this day of all days, Kuji was insistent on pushing Henriette onto him, but Yashiro thought it was just the right kind of amusement for teasing himself. “But being alone with a Parisian woman is awkward.” “There’s nothing to talk about, is there?” “What did you say earlier?”

“Just talk about Japan or something. Go on and give us one of your expert lectures.” Yashiro confirmed the dinner time and place with them both, then parted ways and returned to his hotel.

Henriette came to Yashiro's room at the promised six o'clock. As soon as she entered the room, she 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 won't do—this time is for studying," and waited for his response in French. It was Henriette who had so quickly slipped into his hands after he had carelessly asked Kuji, intending it as a joke, to arrange for her to serve as his language teacher.

“I went to Bourget. Ms. Chizuko is walking through Luxembourg Gardens with Kuji.” Yashiro replied in broken French, his tone laced with a hint of teasing.

“Oh.” “You waited for me, didn’t you.” “Thank you.” Henriette could not be called a striking beauty at first glance, but in her fleeting smile—there emerged an unforgettable loveliness centered around her perfectly aligned teeth. “Mr. Kuji says I should talk about Japan if I meet you—but do you truly wish to know about Japan that much?” “Yes—that I do want to know.” “I do like that about Japanese men.” “I’d live in Paris or Tokyo.”

“So even among Parisians, you’re someone who seems Japanese.” “Who knows? I don’t really understand myself.” As Yashiro continued this halting conversation—transitioning from the coldness of having to regard the woman as a machine—he began sensing a certain bright European-style ease that made their exchange gradually more enjoyable. "I don’t know why, but ever since coming to Paris, Japan keeps weighing on my mind." “If you find any newspapers writing about Japan, could you buy them all for me from now on?” “I’ll pay triple the price.”

“No, you mustn’t speak in Japanese.” “Again.”

Henriette laughed and restrained his mouth with her hand.

When Yashiro found the conversation growing tedious, he tried asking Henriette to read a book aloud to learn proper pronunciation. Then, needing to share a single book between them, Henriette moved her chair so close their cheeks almost touched. Though Yashiro had requested the reading practice without any ulterior motive, finding himself leaned on this closely made him regret it as a miscalculation. To Henriette's mind, it seemed she assumed any Japanese language learner would eventually find this posture amusing enough to study in—a conviction that left Yashiro discomfited anew.

Yashiro followed Henriette in reading through the dialogue of Sacha Guitry's play, advancing his own reading as well. Henriette read fluidly in a moistened chest voice tinged with nasal tones, periodically tossing back her coiled hair. Each time their stiff shoulders—bent over pages held single-handedly—would loosen from this constrained posture, they would unknowingly lean inward again from both sides. It suddenly struck Yashiro that many Japanese who came abroad must have studied through such methods. Considering this education demanded considerable financial expenditure, finding enjoyment in learning seemed natural enough—yet when imagining how maintaining this awkward posture daily might continue hereafter, he resolved to keep his body rigidly upright without slackening, determined to preserve at least Japan's traditions of etiquette. This recitation practice made time pass unexpectedly fast through the strained support of their shoulders. Henriette slapped 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 then, how much is the tuition fee per hour?” he promptly asked. “Mr. Kuji’s is twenty francs, but I’ll set yours at ten francs.” Since she was coming all the way here for ten francs an hour—which converted to two yen and fifty sen in Japanese currency—it was an exceptionally cheap rate. “Thank you for that.”

Though Yashiro expressed his gratitude, finding himself charged less than Kuji naturally made him want to compensate through meal expenses. Henriette put on bud-green leather gloves, "My pronunciation still isn't perfect with this method, you know. The pronunciation of Parisians is still mostly poor. I suppose I'll have to enroll in Gaston Baty's acting school or something to learn proper pronunciation—otherwise I can't be trusted, you know."

Yashiro was surprised to realize that even Paris's high culture was like this. “Is that how it is? But even in Japan, there’s no such thing as perfect Japanese pronunciation. Even people from Tokyo are ultimately using the Tokyo dialect, you know.” Henriette went down the dark spiral staircase first. Though Yashiro was to descend after her, this urge to gaze unnoticed at the natural whiteness of her neck struck him like an ambush, making him repeatedly turn his eyes away. Yet the narrow spiral staircase showed no change no matter how far they descended. The only thing constantly catching his eye was Henriette’s smooth neck descending from above. Moreover, as they wound down the interminable stairs, each glimpse of her nape dropping before him like someone shot forward appeared as a raw eyeless newborn face, until Yashiro gradually began feeling difficulty breathing.

“Since Kuji and Ms. Chizuko should be waiting at the Dome, why don’t you join us?” Yashiro had said this thinking Henriette might restrain herself if Chizuko were present, but instead she seemed delighted. “May I really go?” she asked in return.

“Please do.” The two of them walked straight under the plane trees lined in two rows. From the subway entrance, stifling gas that emitted a sour smell brushed against their faces. Whenever struck by this airflow, Yashiro would feel nauseous, turn aside, and hurry across before it. “Those decorations at the subway entrance over there—they’re from before the war. Back then everyone was mad about such ghostly things. They say even people’s hairstyles looked like that.”

As he was urged to look, Yashiro saw that indeed the entrance had only two pillars curved like bracken fronds jutting up abruptly. "When ghostly things like that become fashionable," he remarked, "war is bound to break out." "Yes," Henriette replied. "That was the era of specters. It's quite famous, you know." Yet Yashiro wondered what it was like now. The streets were flooded with Japanese toys. The tableware and utensils in cafés and restaurants were almost all Japanese-made wherever one went. Having come from Japan with its low prices to Paris with its exorbitant costs, Yashiro felt that merely walking through these streets was like witnessing two extremes of the world.

When they came to the Dome, in a corner of the crowded terrace, three or four Japanese people were clustered together talking. When everyone saw Yashiro, they swiftly turned away as if stung by something painful. Yet among them, only one middle-aged man—Higashino, a former writer whose lecture Yashiro had heard in Tokyo and who now served as an executive at a washi paper company—continued staring silently in Yashiro’s direction while smoking, their gazes meeting. Having seen in the newspaper that this writer had departed Kobe slightly earlier than Yashiro, and since Yashiro had thought going there might let him meet the man, he now chose a chair beside Higashino, deciding to seize this opportunity to speak.

“Excuse me, but I heard the lecture you delivered in Tokyo about a year ago. “This is who I am.”

Yashiro said and presented his business card. "That may be so," said Higashino. "I've only just arrived myself and still know nothing about this place." "I'm the same way," Yashiro replied. "I arrived about two ships after you." "Then that makes me your senior, I suppose. Pleased to make your acquaintance." Higashino, looking somewhat forlorn, began searching through his wallet to produce his business card. At that moment, Kuji and Chizuko appeared from a corner of the radial road.

Kuji said, “Were you waiting?” and approached Yashiro’s side, “This is Ms. Henriette.”

and suddenly he introduced her to Chizuko. Henriette and Chizuko naturally faced each other and shook hands. Though no hostility could possibly arise in this situation, Yashiro nevertheless sensed a subtle awkwardness threatening to permeate the moment, and promptly introduced Kuji to Higashino sitting nearby. "So you were Mr. Higashino?" Kuji—thrown into disarray by this flurry of introductions and counter-introductions, his expressions scattering like birds startled from beneath his feet—seemed to sense that Higashino alone, unlike Yashiro, might understand his true feelings, and abruptly leaned toward him,

“How are you finding Paris? I fight with Yashiro here every single day—he’s such an obstinate Japanist, you see. I can’t help but side with Europeanism, but what about you?” To pose such a question abruptly to someone one had just met—in Japan this would naturally be seen as terribly affected, yet here when spoken aloud, it seemed strangely natural. Higashino did not even appear annoyed,

“Well now, while in Japan we might be trees with roots growing from the soil no matter what thoughts we harbor, having come here, it’s as if the soil around our roots has been washed away by water. At any rate, thinking that our soil still awaits us back in Japan—that’s my greatest comfort these days.” “But tell me—rationalism shouldn’t fundamentally differ between Japan and Europe, don’t you think? Even if the tree species vary, a tree remains a tree.”

And Kuji, swept up in the momentum, ended up chattering on about things he hadn’t even wanted to ask. "That may be so, but isn’t modern European skepticism precisely the realization that rationalism—which has governed the world until now—has proven utterly untenable?"

Higashino said with a look that seemed intrigued by Kuji’s unrestrained candor. “But if that’s the case, then we can’t do anything at all, can we? Ultimately we’ll have no choice but to accept violence outright, won’t we?” “Well, if I were to phrase it your way,” Higashino responded with philosophical composure, “that would make for swift comprehension. But knowledge refers to the totality of what has already broken free from rationalism. To criticize something like violence, a handy pragmatism would suffice.”

“In other words, then—it’s nihilism you’re talking about?” Kuji, now free from the matter, reverted to his disappointed expression and stroked his chin. “Aren’t you accompanied by ladies? That should suffice for today.” Kuji laughed loudly and said, “My apologies for that. 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 Mr. Higashino got you too, didn’t he? Your facade’s cracking there.”

He peered delightedly into Kuji’s face. “Hmph, any writer who rejects rationalism—whatever they write becomes transparent.” “No, by every measure you’ve lost. Delightful! Simply delightful!” Yashiro laughed again as he spoke. “Then you still insist we must discard every beautiful thing humanity has cherished till now?” “Oh—it’s snowing!”

Suddenly, Chizuko stopped in her tracks and exclaimed in surprise at something like a petal that had caught on her sleeve. "Snow?" "No, flowers," they debated while all gazed up at the sky. Through this exchange, Kuji alone walked ahead without so much as a glance to the side.

Yashiro, Henriette, and Chizuko lagged behind Kuji as he entered Coupol, though it seemed everyone already understood this dinner would prove thoroughly disagreeable. The interior of Coupol bore a striking resemblance to the Kabuki Theater. Thick pillars, pale pink walls, a ceiling that soared from the ground floor up through the upper levels—the more one looked, the more it resembled the Kabuki Theater's grand entrance hall. "All the Japanese in Paris seem half-mad to me," Chizuko said when she had finished ordering, turning to Yashiro. "How is it you all remain completely unaffected?"

“Well, there certainly is that aspect,” Yashiro replied. “As for me, I might be getting rather suspect myself.” “Once you start doubting rationalism, you’ve no choice but to go mad,” said Kuji, the wound Higashino had dealt him earlier still resounding in his head. “Your rationalism is just some measuring stick you brought over from Japan,” Yashiro retorted. “Do give it a try—since it’s stretching out in the Indian Ocean.” Though Yashiro no longer wished to force an argument with Kuji, sensing the intensifying silent hostility between Chizuko and Henriette, he thought continuing their male rivalry might at least soften the atmosphere around the dinner table.

However, the situation had grown even more hostile. They remained stiffly silent—no one attempted to speak nor dared meet each other's eyes as they mutually avoided interaction. “The food here is lovely.” Chizuko, seeming to suddenly notice the group’s despondent air, looked at the rows of fresh fish on the serving counter rotating between the pillars and spoke. “Yes, the cuisine here is quite excellent,” Henriette replied in French. Even when shrimp, chicken, and flounder were served, the four of them didn’t utter a single word. The hall, packed to capacity with guests, was filled with the smiling faces of people from various nations like a splendid flowerbed, but around their dining table alone, an indescribably gloomy and eerie atmosphere continued to thicken menacingly.

Kuji, swollen with anger, tore off chunks of bread and devoured them furiously, his silence screaming at Yashiro: "Why did you have to bring Henriette along?" Yashiro too mechanically used his fork and drank wine without registering what dishes had come or how he'd eaten them. Then suddenly Kuji, still staring at his plate, "Skepticism? Hmph," he sneered, laughing mirthlessly to himself. "Still on that?" Yashiro fixed him with an unblinking stare.

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

The entire group burst out laughing in unison. “What’s so funny? If I lost under those circumstances, I’ll cut my belly open.” Kuji alone remained sullen, but this instead caused lively chatter to well up among the three people around him. However, Kuji suddenly called the waiter and ordered the bill. When the group was dazedly silent, “Well, I’ll be taking my leave for today,” said Kuji, settling everyone’s bill by himself and walking out.

Since Chizuko had arrived, Yashiro's life too began gradually changing. Their mornings remained unchanged from before—each staying at their own hotel—but they developed a new routine: meeting at the Dôme at noon to share lunch, then strolling around to visit one or two notable sights, choosing different restaurants for dinner according to their daily preferences, and before returning to their respective hotels, stopping by the Dôme once more for tea. Even foreign travelers who had fallen into this habit were no different—when one considered it, everyone led an extremely monotonous life. Particularly in Paris, once one actually arrived there, all such feelings—of wanting to visit certain sights, meet particular people, or engage in study—would completely disappear, and it became a place where simply living in leisure came to be regarded as the greatest form of education. And indeed, there was no mistake in this fact.

The greatest pleasures consisted either in debating with others or sitting alone on a roadside bench without speaking to anyone—setting aside special amusement parks, there was truly nothing else beyond such activities. Therefore, once a debate arose, it would continue endlessly. The day’s debate became an extension of their previous ones each time they met, and no matter which stance they took, they had come to discover that there would ultimately be no loss for either side. If this debate were to take place in Japan, for instance, the conclusion would immediately run afoul of legal restrictions, causing both sides to fall silent and let the discussion fade into obscurity—or else diverting the flow by channeling it through European logic to battle over Japanese history as if it were a foreign matter. Even though the mistake had already been committed at that point, given that it was a succession of errors, if one were to correct it even once through their own intellect, they would have no choice but to spew forth every last shred of logic from its very roots. Then he would reconsider once more. Yashiro too was now in a period of endlessly repeating such things in his head.

One day, based on this conviction he’d formed, Yashiro tried telling Chizuko that she must never be servile toward Europe.

Though warm enough to make one sweat even while walking, Yashiro had entered the Luxembourg Gardens to rest after viewing the murals at the Saint-Germain church with Chizuko. On the shoulders of a stone statue swathed in young leaves perched several pigeons, while beyond them stretched rows of empty chairs save for a young couple sitting on one bench. Yashiro settled himself facing the lawn across from that pair. "Well now, Japanese temple murals mostly show scenes of hells and paradises," he said, "but these European temple murals are all about Europeans conquering barbarians and offering up crosses. When confronted with such paintings, even the altar becomes distasteful—one feels driven to leave immediately. Yet I suppose in those days, no one imagined Orientals would come view such works." Whenever they spoke, their conversations naturally turned into critiques of what they'd seen—that habit common to travelers abroad now manifested itself in Yashiro without resistance.

“Ever since I began touring Paris, I’ve come to realize that what’s admirable and frightening about France ultimately stems from its traditions. But when I realized Japan has those too, Paris didn’t seem so frightening anymore. If Japan had no traditions and I’d come here anyway, I can’t imagine how miserable I would have felt.” Rather than being correct, Chizuko's observation delighted Yashiro.

“That’s right. However, Mr. Kuji dislikes saying that. That man refuses to acknowledge even the Japanese traditions that silently embolden us—I find it exasperating.” A single green leaf fell heavily and straight through the soft flurry of apricot petals scattering from amidst the thicket of young leaves. Each time the wind blew, from amidst the swaying thicket, the white face of a clock would appear only to be hidden again by green leaves.

"But Mr. Kuji too only speaks that way with words, you know. Just the other day he told me, 'Paris is nice, but Japan is wonderful too,' then said he couldn't casually mention such things to you, Mr. Yashiro." "It was when we were viewing Mr. Fujita Tsuguharu's paintings." "That's exactly it." "That person too." "When Fujita Tsuguharu came to Paris, I believe he first recognized his own greatness here." "I can't help but marvel at how thoroughly he stirred up this city."

“The woman’s lines look like peony petals in that painting.” “That part—that’s precisely what makes it so intriguing.” Chizuko began to say this when she suddenly flushed crimson and lowered her gaze, “My, sparrows have come all the way here.” “How darling!” “Do look.”

She lightly tapped Yashiro’s arm. Yashiro was watching the sparrows when he suddenly straightened his back against the cold iron bench. Then on the bench across from them, he saw a man and woman who had been sitting quietly with their faces close together all along. Such scenes were commonplace here—Yashiro never found them particularly remarkable—but sensing Chizuko’s effort to focus their attention on the sparrows, those birds hopping about energetically in this soundless, constricted world gradually began to loom larger in his vision.

“Why are there so many sparrows?” “They’re everywhere, are they not?” Chizuko turned sharply away from the couple, but finding Yashiro still seated beside her, she straightened back around and traced the sparrows’ trajectories with her gaze. As they lingered in this unspoken tension, Yashiro felt their shared mood grow ever more rigid and stifling. He considered rising from the bench to leave. Yet reflecting that travelers in foreign lands must inevitably encounter such scenes, he remained seated—watching fixedly as if awaiting the moment when the couple across from them might disentangle their clasped faces.

“You shouldn’t stare at that so much. Come on, let’s go.”

Chizuko blushed and stood up. However, Yashiro did not move. Recalling how he had once felt in Marseille—that Chizuko was someone whose face he could mirror in his mind—he now wished to slowly and thoroughly resolve the natural outcome of the turmoil in his heart from that time right here. "Oh~, sit down here." "How beautiful."

Yashiro said to Chizuko, who remained standing. A pigeon that had landed in the grass waddled unsteadily toward them, parting leaf tips with its breast feathers as it approached. Apricot petals fluttered ceaselessly onto the entranced, motionless bodies of the couple ahead. As he watched, Yashiro found himself no longer able to dismiss the scene as absurd; he even began feeling envious of its astonishing beauty. A faintly cold wind rising from pigeons whose wingbeats cracked like bones sent a chill through the roots of his ears.

"Are you still staying here?" Chizuko reluctantly sat down beside Yashiro, "Oh, there's a monk now." She smiled warmly. When he looked, a young Catholic monk had taken a seat on a bench and begun reading the Bible with intense focus. The young pastor had entered from between the thicket on the right, so he was likely a monk from Saint-Thomas. However, this arrangement—seeing lovers in passionate embrace on the left bench and a monk turning Bible pages on the right—though hardly a novel sight here, became for Yashiro not a matter of social strata but a diagram of opposing poles dwelling within his heart, painstakingly gauging the shifting weights of his own mind.

As he looked to the right and gazed to the left, Chizuko too—as if something had struck her heart—suddenly raised her face and looked at Yashiro. Yashiro also looked at Chizuko, but when their eyes met in such moments—even devoid of any meaning—they would startle, hurriedly avert their gazes from each other, and thereby deepen the very meaninglessness between them even further. Even as they remained like this, Yashiro felt himself becoming engrossed in pursuing Chizuko’s thoughts before he knew it. He gradually began to feel suffocated, as if dirty smoke were enveloping the surroundings.

“Let’s really go now. Mr. Kuji, please wait.”

Chizuko stood up with a cold expression. Yashiro also rose and moved away from the bench.

On the iron benches arranged in a circular formation that clasped the thicket's waist like a corset, there was not a soul. As Yashiro gazed up at the falling petals drifting in from nowhere on the rustling wind, he forgot everything now, sensing only the hue of his homeland's sky as his chest grew desolately damp.

“Whenever I come here, I start wanting to go back,” Yashiro said. “I feel the same way,” Chizuko replied. He shoved his hands into his pockets; thinking how here, romance meant nothing compared to this longing for home, he walked kicking at the soft sand with his toes. Beneath a yellow canopy between the trees, the merry-go-round glowed while spinning empty circles. Chizuko surveyed the faint white buds among the branches, “But soon the horse chestnut trees will bloom,” she said.

"Yes, Paris runs a month behind Marseille." "In another month or two, people will surely be saying you won't return to Japan anymore, Mr. Yashiro." Yashiro let out a wry smile at what was likely a reference to Henriette, but made no move to explain himself as he walked on listening to the sand crunch beneath his feet.

In the streets, forests, and tree-lined riverbanks, horse chestnut trees aligned their white blossom tubes and began blooming in unison. This tree, appearing as though stately chinquapin branches bore graceful paulownia blossoms, stood beautiful like the faintest thread of hope calling the past into the present. One night, when Yashiro, Chizuko, Kuji, and Henriette had finished dinner and were at the Dome, they encountered Higashino.

It was customary for their discussions about where to go after dinner to spark debates and remain unresolved, but on this night, Kuji’s proposal to visit the lakes in the Bois de Boulogne was immediately accepted. One reason was that it also served as everyone’s farewell to Henriette, who would soon be departing on a journey to the provinces as a guide for newly arrived Japanese. “How about it? We’re planning to go to Bois de Boulogne now. Would you care to join us?” With his usual good-natured smile, Kuji also invited Higashino, who was standing nearby. The four immediately sent the car heading toward the forest. Inside the car, Chizuko—

“Just for tonight, please don’t start any debates.” She pleaded with everyone. Everyone laughed together. “The French never debate when there’s a woman present—they’ve apparently decided women are foolish creatures." “Yet we keep debating even with you here—precisely because we respect you.”

Kuji turned around, looked at Chizuko, and laughed. "But on such a lovely night, I don't want to get a headache." "But if we spend every day just amusing ourselves like this," said Kuji, "we won't feel we've done any work unless we have debates." At this remark from Kuji, Yashiro responded: "When we're here, none of us have any real life to speak of. If you want something resembling a life that bleeds us dry—well, there's nothing for it but debating. So why don't you consider listening to our arguments as your way of living, Ms. Chizuko?"

“No more debates! If you keep this up, I’ll just run off to Florence or Tyrol!”

“Right! Let’s go to Tyrol.”

Kuji suddenly exclaimed. “Just now I overheard some Japanese folks near us discussing a trip to Greece—why don’t we go somewhere ourselves?” “Debating while taking in Europe’s number one scenery in Tyrol would be extraordinary, you know.” “Ishikawa Goemon, right?”

While Chizuko laughed, they cut through Foch Avenue saturated with sweet-and-sour floral scents and neared the entrance to Bois de Boulogne Forest. "A friend told me something amusing when I left Japan," said Higashino. "'When you go to Paris, don't study anything—just enjoy yourself.' But even leisure turns out to be quite strenuous work, doesn't it?"

To this Higashino, Kuji— “That’s right. Who knows how much easier working would be,” he agreed. From between the upright trees of the forest, a portion of the lake’s surface already appeared like some pink-glowing creature. After abandoning the car, the group walked toward the lake, passed through pines that at first glance could be mistaken for Japanese torreya trees, and boarded a boat. Kuji and Yashiro took up oars while Higashino sat at the stern; with Chizuko and Henriette sandwiched between them, the boat pulled away from shore. The lake’s surface rendered even people’s faces indistinct. The smell of waterweed—transformed into Japan’s long-forgotten scent—drifted into Yashiro’s nostrils. Boats bearing alluring crimson lanterns as round as watermelons on their sterns slid wordlessly past their gunwales, one after another.

“Someone said that once you’ve rowed a boat in the Bois de Boulogne, you can return to Japan—well with this view, even you’d be satisfied,” said Kuji. “Well, this is fine, here.” As Yashiro thought how he had now come full circle—from sailing through the Indian Ocean and Arabia to rowing a boat in Paris—even a single drop of water on his hands became the melancholy of gazing upon a homeland far removed, a window opened in his mind. “Why so quiet? Isn’t this what youth is about?”

Kuji said and vigorously exerted force on the oar alone.

In the darkness, each time boats passed each other, the scent of cosmetics lingered, trailing across the water's surface. Over the canopy of Café Pavilion Royal visible in a corner of the shore-side forest, a crimson mist drifted like a veil while the lake showed tension swelling from the forest's horizon and glistened with lights. “Ah! That’s dangerous!” Chizuko cried out. At that moment, a tree branch hanging down from the island brushed against Kuji’s head, making the pure white flowers there stand out as they swayed wildly. From the water-soaked grassy bank of the island, several swans descended straight down to the water's surface in dignified postures and swam through the crimson circular glow of lanterns, their forms tinged with faint light. In the boats moored under trees, pairs of men and women occasionally merged into single shadows and remained motionless.

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

Henriette whispered to Kuji. After mooring the boat at the island landing, the group moved ashore and walked toward the café to drink tea.

Passing through the Dong and tulip flowerbeds arranged radially, they entered the bright café garden, and the five of them sat facing each other around a table. Yashiro knocked on the thick trunk of the horse chestnut tree and looked up, whereupon flowers pattered down and coldly struck his nose. Through the garden filled with countless inflorescences resembling candles thrust into candlesticks, bands of light rays could be seen flowing distinctly.

“What a pleasant night. Thanks to all that rowing, I’ve got blisters on my hands. Look.”

Kuji opened both hands and showed them to everyone. While the lemon torn by the waiter's hand continued to spill its juice across the serving tray, horse chestnut blossoms kept falling onto their table. Each time, the waiter swept away the flowers as he poured lemon into their cups.

When the spring chill had cooled their faint sweat, a gavotte began playing from the radio fastened to the treetops. Kuji looked up at the electric light shining through the dense foliage with an air of deep appreciation. For a while, the group sat drinking orangeade while absorbed in the radio broadcast, "Oh, Mr. Higashino is gone." Chizuko said and glanced around. Only the lonely echo of footsteps passing through the second-floor corridor draped with young leaves remained, while between the tree trunks stood rows of green chairs and tables devoid of guests, nothing but white flowers scattering purposelessly. A discarded cigarette amidst the blossoms mingled with sand at their feet 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 teasingly at Yashiro.

“Well, you can say whatever you want tonight.”

Gazing at the red lanterns circling the island, Yashiro suddenly found himself wondering what he would do if he returned to Japan. He felt with growing intensity the fatigue of losing, day after day, the capacity to think—a void born of having glimpsed what people desired most—and now wished only to dissolve into this whiteness of flowers, surrendering himself completely to its flow. “We mustn’t let the boat drift away. We shouldn’t go any further.”

Henriette cautioned Kuji.

“Ah, that’s right.” Kuji began to rise, but with Higashino nowhere to be seen, the four of them settled back into their chairs and waited.

“There’s a waterfall over there just like the ones in Japan—wouldn’t you like to see it?”

At Henriette's suggestion, Kuji shook his head.

“I don’t want to see anything Japanese even here—I came to forget for a while.” “Then I suppose we’ll have to consider whether we should meet you at all,”

Chizuko glared sarcastically at Kuji.

“That’s not what I meant. Since I’m in a foreign country, I want to feel like I’m truly living here as much as possible—that’s why.” Kuji’s halting explanation inadvertently betrayed his preference for spending time with Henriette over Chizuko, and even Chizuko’s faintly escaping smile now strangely withdrew from him and disappeared.

When Higashino emerged from the flowerbed, the group left the café and retraced their steps toward the abandoned boat. Beneath the trees' shadowy canopy, darkness enveloped them so completely that they had to grope their way along the path. Though the grassy slope underfoot descended gently, lacking any railing to halt a slide straight into the water, this wasn't its only hazard. Not knowing when or where amorous couples might be concealed—for this grove's darkness had been artfully arranged for such trysts—to blunder into hidden figures would mark nothing but their own recklessness.

The group, apparently aware of this, walked in a straggling line after Kuji without a word. Then Kuji, who was leading the way, suddenly stopped midway.

“What is it?” Yashiro asked. “I took the wrong path. This is a terrible place we’ve come to.” “But that lantern over there is definitely our boat.” “No, it’s not.” Even as he said this, Kuji started to descend toward the water’s edge. “Ah!” He said and stopped again. Yashiro approached Kuji’s side and looked around. Large, round masses lay scattered like stones across the ground, perfectly still at first glance—but upon closer inspection, each one could faintly be perceived shifting ever so slightly.

“This is a swan’s nest.”

Henriette said from above. “What in the world.” “Oh.”

Kuji's voice suddenly became energetic. Chizuko, who until now had been looking frightened, came down and peered at the flock of swans while holding onto Yashiro’s shoulder. In the darkness where water blurred into grass, Yashiro felt Chizuko’s weight against his shoulder as though some unspoken pact were being fulfilled, and he remained standing there gazing endlessly at the flock of swans. “I’ve never seen anything like a swan’s nest before. But it looks pitch black, doesn’t it.”

Chizuko whispered near his ear. Was Chizuko still unaware? To Yashiro, the metaphor of the swan's nest could also be interpreted as something not to be taken literally. "Oh my, it's so slippery!" "You'll hurt yourself!" "I see," he said. "It's slippery."

Yashiro said while pressing down on the wet grass beneath his feet. For a while, as the two of them stood there in the darkness, Kuji—who had been beside them—moved away unnoticed, and the sound of footsteps came from above where Henriette was walking and talking with him. “Let’s come back here at noon again, shall we? It’s so dark here, I can’t see a thing, you know.”

When they both sensed that merely watching the swans had stretched their time together a bit too long, Chizuko broke away from Yashiro and climbed up the grassy slope. Yashiro followed from behind, but his steps slowed with each stride, anxious he might collide with shadowy figures at any moment. Before long, not only had Henriette and Kuji's figures become impossible to discern anywhere, Chizuko's form too had been completely swallowed by the darkness until she grew difficult to distinguish. "This is bad. Ms. Chizuko, where are you?"

Even as he said this, Chizuko’s voice no longer came.

Yashiro wondered if he alone had lost his sight, dragging his toes like a blind man as he walked. His feet caught on flower-like things and the wire mesh marking the border between path and lawn. Having strayed slightly from the path, he grew irritated at their disorientation, but more pressingly—letting a woman walk alone here at night was like feeding a tiger in the terrifying lawlessness of Bois de Boulogne forest. When he imagined some shadowy figure leaping at Chizuko in the dark, shame and frustration tormented him for having walked without holding her hand.

“Ms. Chizuko,” Yashiro called out. “Here I am.” Chizuko’s voice, as she spoke those words, came from a surprisingly far distance. “It’s dangerous here. Please wait.”

Yashiro, thinking it was fine even if he collided with a tree, proceeded vigorously toward the voice, “Can you see anything like that?” he asked. “It’s dark, isn’t it.” Chizuko acted as though she couldn’t hear Yashiro’s voice. The landscape gardener here had planted trees with consideration for how human eyes perceive them at night—suddenly, Yashiro felt the sensation of seeing pitfalls layered deep, and it even began to irritate him. However, making Chizuko speak now was akin to informing a tiger lurking in the darkness of her whereabouts as she wandered lost.

“Please stand still.” Even as Yashiro said this, he contemplated Paris’s profound scheme of cultivating within its city a forest where humans become creatures more fearsome than wild beasts, felt the ineffable chill of modernity, and pressed onward with the realization: Yes, this is true darkness. “Where are you?”

“Here.”

This time, Chizuko answered right beside him. The moment their outstretched hands touched, they instinctively clasped each other's hands. The lantern light was clearly visible from here. Though the path had widened into a downward slope, the overlapping tree trunks soon concealed the lantern again. "This forest is called the Demon Forest—a terrifying place. Do take care." "How frightening! You mustn't say such things." Yashiro grasped Chizuko's approaching hand over her ring and walked as if leading her. The face powder scent that had drifted among damp tree trunks now clung to their moving bodies in pursuit. Whether due to the slope or not, Chizuko kept pressing insistently against Yashiro as they walked,

“When we came with everyone, the path seemed short, but we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

As soon as she said this, she stumbled hard on something and nearly fell. Yashiro walked while peering toward the water's edge as if guiding her, but the boat was nowhere to be seen. Even if the boat had disappeared, Yashiro thought it better not to find it as long as he remained alone with Chizuko, and now his resolve began to firm up. "Oh damn. Now we really can't go back." Yashiro said and stopped. The two stood silently looking down at the water's edge, but

“Alright, let’s go.” Then Chizuko said in a cheerful voice and, taking Yashiro’s arm of her own accord, started walking again. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the forest began releasing a variety of scents. Yashiro suddenly recalled the words of someone who had long lived in Paris—that nothing in this world brings greater happiness than walking through a forest at night with a lady. So this was happiness—could it really be just this? Even as Yashiro pondered alone, he nodded at the crimson of the perfectly round lantern floating on the lake—a sorrowful final red, its radiance utterly extinguished, lingering now in troubled beauty.

“It was Napoleon Bonaparte who insisted on preserving this forest in the heart of Paris, wasn’t it? I think he was an extraordinary man. That man was not merely a hero.”

"It's vast," said Chizuko. "I wonder how large it really is." "They say its circumference measures five ri," replied Yashiro. "Well then," she acknowledged.

Even as Chizuko said this, she showed no particular sign of surprise. Beneath the path where the two walked, the bank continued, and branches bearing pure white flowers hung over the water’s surface. Thinking it impossible that the boat could remain unseen like this, 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 went around the thicket and descended the slope to look, there in the boat sat Higashino alone, dejectedly.

“Is Mr. Kuji still not here?” Yashiro asked as he and Chizuko boarded the boat where the light had gone out. “What were you doing all by yourself, Mr. Higashino?” Chizuko asked sympathetically.

"I was composing haiku." "Did you compose a good verse?"

In response to Yashiro's inquiry, Higashino merely said "No" and lit a new candle in the lantern.

“Hey! I’m ditching you here!”

Yashiro called out to Kuji in the woods while trying a few experimental strokes with the oar. "Where are you?!" Kuji's voice echoed from the distant darkness. Yashiro kept shouting as he steered the boat toward the sound, until Kuji finally emerged at the water's edge with Henriette. "Oh hell, this is awful," he groaned. "None of these damn boats look right—I can't tell which one's ours!"

Into the dim lantern light where only their faces became faintly visible to each other, a swan came swimming through, parting clusters of flowers floating on the water with its chest. As everyone aboard was exchanging complaints about the dark path, Yashiro turned to Kuji—who had come aboard and begun working the oar—and said with a laugh: “Apparently Mr. Higashino was composing haiku. If you’re alone, that’d be nice too.” “Haiku? What kind of haiku could you possibly compose here?” Kuji also spoke in a somewhat mocking tone.

"A swan parts drifting blossoms on spring’s waters." Higashino said with a solemn face, offering only the verse. The group fell silent for a moment to contemplate it when suddenly—

“Oh, you got me!”

Kuji let out a shrill cry.

Yashiro wore a bitter smile as if 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 grew audible. “There it is—the waterfall,” Henriette pointed beneath the drooping tree.

Henriette pointed beneath the drooping tree. "Well then, maybe I'll try composing a haiku too," said Kuji as he turned the oar. "Let's see... Boulogne's waterfall breaks through wordless silence." "What do you think, Mr. Higashino?" "That's not a proper haiku."

When Yashiro said this, everyone burst into laughter. Kuji once again, “Then how’s this one?” he tilted his head slightly and said, “Boulogne’s oar chases birds a little.” With that shift, even Kuji’s previously jesting verses began to take on a touch of seriousness.

“Hmm.” Yashiro remained silent in thought for a while before saying, “Then, how about this one—‘A swan’s nest filled with blossoms in the spring forest.’” “You’re good at this. When did you learn that?”

Kuji said admiringly, “Alright then, I’ll do another one!” and once again began competitively pondering.

Chizuko was clutching her sides with laughter by herself at the edge of the boat. Occasionally, the lights of cars speeding along the road pierced through the forest trees and disappeared. The group moved their oars lightly, but having apparently begun composing haiku in earnest, everyone fell silent—gazing at the sky or looking toward the forest. After a while, Kuji, “Alright, got it. ‘This time it’s a masterpiece,’” he prefaced, as though recalling it from memory. “The spring night moon casts varied glows upon the water.”

he recited rhythmically. “Isn’t this a high school song?” When Yashiro teased him, laughter once again filled the boat. Yet Kuji alone kept rowing vigorously with a triumphant air while retorting, “Don’t talk nonsense.” Higashino flicked cigarette ash into the water while gazing fixedly at a swan’s elegant form. “Come on, let’s hurry ashore and go to the Champs-Élysées.”

In response to Kuji's voice, Yashiro too put his strength into the oar and rowed in unison. Henriette began singing a popular ditty to match their brisk pace. —A violin faintly played through the night. Its sweet, tender melody whispered to us of love's joys and life's delights. — When sung by a French lady, even these sentimental tunes made the swans floating on the water and the blooming flowers deepen Yashiro's travel melancholy. From passing boats too came low voices harmonizing with Henriette's song. Chizuko dipped her fingertips in the water while gazing back at the red paper lanterns of receding boats, refusing to look away from the ripples trailing like fishtails across the surface even when oars splashed. As Pavillon Royal's pink lights came into view, the island's flowering trees gradually emerged from the water's edge in a haze of white.

Café Touriouf, situated so close between Boulogne Forest and the Champs-Élysées that one scarcely required taking a car, stood among the grand cafés on the left when coming down from the Arc de Triomphe. Most Japanese in Paris who needed to operate with upper-class sensibilities never frequented the downtown Montparnasse district, yet were regular fixtures at these uptown Champs-Élysées establishments. The Montparnasse Japanese derisively called their uptown counterparts "Sixteenth Arrondissement types," while the Champs-Élysées group deemed them unworthy of engagement unless met with drawn blades—but Kuji and Yashiro, being recent arrivals, had no leisure to entertain such Japanese territorial divisions.

On the terrace of Café Touriouf, hundreds of crimson wicker chairs perpetually stood aligned toward the road. As night had fallen, Kuji's group entered the red-leathered interior and ordered Fin. Across walls entirely lined with pale pink hydrangeas, opulent curtains had been draped about, their tripartite reflections transforming the floral clusters into a garden where mist seemed to swirl upward. It was precisely when the musicians commenced their tango from among the hydrangeas.

“Well!” So saying, one of the three Japanese men who had entered spotted Higashino, raised his hand in greeting, approached, and immediately took a seat in a nearby chair. Higashino introduced the newcomers to Kuji and Yashiro respectively. These people were Shiono, a young engineer who frequented the Japanese embassy; Baron Hirao; and Ōishi, the secretary. All of these men—required by their connections to attend Parisian upper-class salons—could be counted among the most representative gentlemen of the uptown set; but as they nostalgically inquired about Tokyo’s unchanged state during their long absence—with Chizuko and Kuji answering—suddenly Ōishi turned to look at Chizuko,

“So you’re Mr. Usami’s younger sister from London?” he asked in surprise. “Yes—you know my brother?” said Chizuko with equal astonishment. “Know him? Why—I saw you when you were just this high,” Mr. Ōishi replied. “Ah—that Mr. Usami,” Shiono interjected as if suddenly recalling. “Mr. Ōishi and I were classmates at Gyōsei—your brother was too.”

As their conversation progressed with increasing alignment from such exchanges, common acquaintances began emerging one after another among the three. “Well then, I would like to invite you once—how about tomorrow? If you’re free, please come at six o’clock, since we’ll all be together there,” said Shiono.

“Yes, thank you very much.” Chizuko expressed her thanks to Shiono, but at the discomfort of being the only one invited when so many others were present, she shot a furtive glance toward Yashiro. Yashiro, who from his nearby position had been following the exchange, detected in Shiono’s offer—which seemed to single out Chizuko alone—a sincerity devoid of ulterior motives. With eyes tinged by Fin, he gazed at the musicians’ trumpets gleaming above the hydrangeas, thinking that those who frequented Paris’s high-society salons must be accustomed to offering greetings in Shiono’s manner even in public.

“Well then, we’ll be expecting you—six o’clock at dusk.” Shiono reiterated his invitation. In truth, this Shiono was the scion of an esteemed academic family—a young man whose finely sculpted features hinted at aristocratic lineage, yet whose openhearted sincerity and innate kindness radiated effortlessly through his bearing. As Yashiro listened to Higashino and Ōishi converse, he gathered that Shiono taught at a photography school and that his recent solo exhibition in Paris had earned considerable acclaim among local connoisseurs. Soon the conversation turned to recounting various hardships each had endured upon first arriving in Europe.

"I once saw such a place here." Higashino, who until now had remained silent without uttering a word, spoke. "That also happened at this very café—in fact, I was sitting right where Mr. Kuji is now. There were three other Japanese people too, but at the neighboring table, four Annamese from French Indochina sat huddled together. Then three foreign men came in wanting seats, but all chairs were taken." At that point, the man said to the waiter,

“Get all the Orientals here out, and I’ll pay for their seats.”

“He threw himself back and said,” Higashino continued. “I was furious, but first I kept watching intently to see how the waiter would handle it—and then the waiter, well...”

Higashino said this and glanced around the room to see if the waiter from that time was still present. “Unfortunately he isn’t here today, but that waiter—when pressed—pointed at the Annamese and said, ‘These are Orientals, but they are our compatriots.’ ‘Get out!’ he told you all, then struck a dramatic kabuki pose at that big man.” “What happened to that man?”

Yashiro leaned forward and asked.

“The man left without a word, but for a moment there, all the Japanese people were ready to kill, I tell you.” “What happened to the Annamese people?” Yashiro asked excitedly again. “The Annamese people remained quiet and silent.”

The group fell completely silent, and for a while, no one spoke.

“When there are idiots like that, war is bound to break out.”

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

“You—you’re still a Europeanist?” “Yes.” Kuji nodded gravely. Yashiro, still pale, settled his back heavily against the leather, and tears spilled from both eyes.

When eleven o'clock struck at night, Shiono and the others left the café, saying they were now off to see an event. Yashiro and his group also departed Toulon and walked down the Champs-Élysées.

The fountain rising from the clustered mouths of glass carps appeared like fireworks blazing brilliantly under gas lamps' blue illumination. The mist scattering from that fountain spread across a whole block, shifting direction with the faint breeze as it dampened the white forest of blooming horse chestnut trees.

The magnificence of the old horse chestnut trees in this forest was truly exceptional. The symmetrical branches, resembling steel in their dense growth, gently bent under the unbearable weight of their splendid clusters of blossoms, exuding an air of having grown utterly weary of people’s admiration—their noble form resigned to the sorrow of having no successors. It was no longer a tree—it became something akin to an aphorism that had endured through ages unknown to man, still unfurling pale crimson blossoms without cease.

Yashiro and the others walked along the gravel path and emerged into Place de la Concorde. The square spanning several blocks shone like the Hall of Mirrors, standing serenely quiet without a single soul passing through. The thousands of gas lamps encircling its perimeter exuded a chilling solemnity, like a surface formed from countless watchful gazes holding their breath.

The colossal goddess statues in all eight directions stood satiated with their respective cultures' solemn dignity, quietly gazing downward as they entrusted their weather-worn agedness to the moon and stars, maintaining deliberate postures of stillness. Fountains rose alongside these goddesses from every direction. They transformed into jewels and foliage studding the square, coming to symbolize all too perfectly Paris's resplendent artifice by night. "What an astonishing sight," Kuji murmured, rooted in place. "Seeing this makes Tokyo's wretched state unbearable. I could bite my tongue clean off."

Higashino gazed silently at the square while composing another haiku. Chizuko seemed to have already sensed the heads of the three standing rigidly—jostling in silent tension—and walked away alone.

“Come on, let’s go.” “You just want to go no matter what. Come on, let’s go.”

Kuji said irritably. "But that's right." "What do you mean?" "I'm already sleepy, you know." "You should get some sleep. Come on, let’s go." Higashino said and started walking. The group trailed after Higashino in a straggling line. However, Kuji alone shook the hat he had grabbed in his hand with reckless abandon, in a voice like a petulant child,

“I’m never going back to Japan,” he said. “They say if you stare at this place for twenty years, you’ll want to piss right here,” Yashiro said. “Hmph—that’d be a cat’s doing.” “If I were Tokyo’s mayor, I’d plant giant black pines straight through Ginza’s heart all the way to Kanda along the Tokaido Road.” “You can’t imagine how beautiful it’d be with pine needles scattered across that avenue.” “After all, foreign lands have no black pines.” Even as he spoke these words, Yashiro found himself utterly speechless before Concorde Square’s beauty—the Tuileries Palace anchoring its east, Champs-Élysées’ grand park bordering west, Madeleine Cathedral looming north, and Napoleon’s tomb facing the river southward.

“Here is the center of the world’s culture—no, the very center of that center, ah.” Kuji continued gazing tirelessly at the surrounding splendor while marveling.

“There’s no need to surrender so quickly.” “When things reach this point, those who lose their composure are the ones at a disadvantage.” “Mr. Higashino, have you composed your verse?” “I have.” The group hailed cars and returned to the hotel, utterly exhausted. Yashiro found Chizuko increasingly absent when he called. Though it was natural for feminine instinct to prefer the Champs-Élysées over Montparnasse, with each meeting her way of speaking had changed from before. One day while walking with Chizuko in Luxembourg Gardens, Yashiro heard her speak animatedly about Parisian high-society salons. He asked how she had gained access to salons many found impenetrable, despite having arrived in Paris after them.

“That was something even I didn’t realize myself.” “At first, Mr. Shiono told me he needed help because he was short-handed with his work.” “So when I said I was always available, he explained they actually needed one more woman to attend the French Finance Minister’s salon.” “The Finance Minister—why would he need to socialize with the minister?”

Yashiro found this strange and asked again. "I didn’t understand that either, you know." "But here's how it is, you see." "Apparently, Japan is currently exporting canned salmon to France, you know." “Since French law has now made it impossible to export any more than this, they need to devise some way to liberalize that law—it’s all part of the plan to increase exports further.” "The Japanese Embassy has been working frantically, you know." “The Ambassador can’t just suddenly appear for that kind of work, you know." "Before the Ambassador makes an appearance, the subordinates have to do all sorts of groundwork, so it seems they’re using salons for that preparation, you know." “But Mr. Shiono says it’s quite difficult to manage without a partner, you know.”

Yashiro finally began to grasp what Chizuko was saying as he listened that far.

“So, do you also ask various questions about salmon?” “Oh, no! I simply act as a dance partner at the salons and have tea with their secretaries. In the meantime, Mr. Shiono and the others gauge their general intentions.” When he heard such talk, Yashiro found it troubling that Chizuko—who had until now been close at hand—now appeared to him like a woman living at a distant remove. “Well then, there must be quite a lot of interesting things happening.”

“Oh yes, there are some now and then.” “The other day, a young French secretary named Pierre kissed my hand, you know.” “I got all flustered, you know.”

Chizuko brushed the back of her hand as if to briefly wipe it, then spoke again.

“But I must say, I’m quite impressed by the young ladies of Parisian high society.” “I thought it was so different from Japan.” “At eighteen, they’re reading difficult philosophy books and coming to ask the men questions, you know.” “The house on Avenue Foch along the way to Boulogne.” “The lower hall is as large as Ginza’s Shiseido, and a chef from Maxim’s comes to a separate room.” “We have our meals and tea there before dancing in the hall, but the walls and such are beautiful, aren’t they?” “The tapestries are all Gobelin weaves, with large Renaissance-era statues placed there—it’s truly a magnificent classical sight.”

Yashiro entered the park listening with nodding interest to this conversation that seemed somewhat incongruous for a scholarly type. Then his feet naturally began moving toward the bench where he often sat with Chizuko. Though Chizuko—second daughter of an iron wholesaler—had no lack of financial means, Yashiro enviously thought that frequenting Paris' most exclusive salons might instill unexpectedly luxurious sensibilities within her. Yet he also considered how seeing what others couldn't in one's youth would become future consolation free from regrets, allowing her heart to find peace.

“If you start frequenting salons like that, it’ll become difficult for us to talk, won’t it?” Yashiro laughed and looked up at the sky.

“I wonder if that’s how it is, but I think it must be exhausting for the men who are always going to those places. We women just have to sit still, but when they come home, they’re utterly exhausted, like boneless creatures.”

“Is Mr. Shiono actually skilled at these salon techniques?” “He’s so naturally at ease that he handles any setting effortlessly.” “The young ladies there kiss cheeks when meeting someone, you know.” “Even then he comports himself flawlessly, maintaining several salons where he needn’t address women as ‘Mademoiselle such-and-such.’” “They say it takes a full year to drop the ‘Mademoiselle’—every time those people establish such a salon, they celebrate like they’ve ‘captured another fortress today!’” “Isn’t it absurd?”

Yashiro looked at Chizuko with fresh eyes while thinking that life indeed had its own peculiar hardships.

“So taking salons is their actual job? Those people.” “That’s right. You see, when those people complain to the Japanese about embassy staff being cold, we can’t afford to dwell on that—securing even one salon is like storming a castle. They say they’re utterly exhausted from it all.” “I thought it only natural myself.” “Well yes—since handling Japanese concerns is the consulate’s duty, they can’t possibly deal with every service request too.”

“Moreover, they say that if you use even a bit of Montparnasse-style language in the salon, they’ll refuse to engage with you at all.” “So they say that the more fluent you become in the language, the more clearly you recognize your own shortcomings—and that anxiety leads to nervous breakdowns.”

“Hmm.”

Yashiro nodded in agreement as he listened to each point. To Yashiro, merely being moved by the various sights of Paris one encountered already seemed an intensely laborious task, so when it came to having to conquer castles through social maneuvering on top of that, it wasn’t hard to imagine the hardship involved. “Don’t you have trouble with things like Western clothes?” “That’s been a problem.” “Thanks to that, I’ve had three salon outfits made at Saint-Honoré.” “Won’t you let me see you wear them sometime?”

Yashiro laughed as he imagined Chizuko attending the salon.

“I truly want you to see them.” “Let’s go to the opera one of these days.”

Chizuko looked up at Yashiro with a bright expression.

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

The iron bench beneath a particular thicket in Luxembourg Gardens had become Yashiro and Chizuko's place of respite. Yashiro thought that to write a historical account of his work, he must soon part from everyone and depart alone for Germany. Though he would return to Paris again, whether Chizuko would still be there then remained uncertain; yet their friendship had not deepened to where parting would prove difficult. It was May—when even gazing at a single tree's blossoms could ignite one's heart with their beauty—and these were none other than the horse chestnut blossoms overflowing along every boulevard and through every park. Yashiro too felt that rather than spending days alone gazing at this entrancing travel scenery, he would prefer to enjoy viewing it together with someone.

However, since entering this most splendid season of May, the hue of the left-wing wave began to swell more intensely through the streets of Paris. Particularly after the general election results, when the Socialist Party’s majority began to clearly prevail, it intensified even further.

On one such clear afternoon, Chizuko and Yashiro met again at the park. An old couple with immaculately polished shoes walked slowly forward, keeping their steps in perfect 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 with her hand. “The other day, Mr. Shiono went to take photographs of Notre Dame, you know.” “Since he specializes in photography, while taking photos from various angles, he finally lay down on his back on the ground covered with pigeon droppings and pointed his camera upward.” “Then one of the American tourists watching nearby tried lying on their back to take photos the same way.”

Yashiro couldn’t help laughing as he said, “Mr. Shiono seems like such a pleasant person. Is he planning to stay here much longer?” “What do you mean? He mentioned he’d be returning soon—once he compiles all his Notre Dame photos into a book, that’ll be enough for him.”

Whenever he heard of someone returning to Japan, Yashiro found himself unable to shake off that envious feeling.

“When are you planning to return, Ms. Chizuko?” “I really don’t mind whenever, you know. But you see, if I don’t take a look around here while I have the time—since I’m a woman—the chance to see will disappear, don’t you think?”

“Then you should visit as many places as possible while you can,” Yashiro said. “But I’m surprised your parents have permitted you to come here alone.” He naturally asked the question he had always forgotten to pose. Chizuko seemed troubled to explain why she enjoyed such special trust. “Well, perhaps because my brother is here,” she replied briefly. “They didn’t say anything particular.” “But wasn’t your brother concerned? Did you come to Paris entirely by yourself?”

“Do you think my brother would worry about something like that? Besides, I told my brother about my friends from the ship.” Yashiro silently nodded, but he thought that Chizuko’s solo journey must have been permitted by both her brother and parents to give her the opportunity to choose a good marriage partner, and that by being overly familiar with her, he might be causing her to lose that very chance at a favorable match.

However, Yashiro had learned that women visiting Europe—unlike men—often disliked openly stating their research purposes, and he thought Chizuko too must be secretly engaged in some sort of study through this arrangement.

“Ms. Chizuko, since you’ve gone to the trouble of coming all the way to Paris, you must be conducting some research here. Is that your intention?” “I simply want to keep it to observing. But someone like me is just an unremarkable woman who can’t do anything special. So compared to those who have to work normally, I’m somewhat fortunate. I think I must at least cherish the happiness I’ve been given, or else I’ll be punished for it. Don’t you agree?”

Yashiro could not immediately respond to Chizuko's way of thinking. The painstaking efforts of women who wished to safeguard their happiness during fortunate times were becoming something that society increasingly viewed as a seemingly under-examined perspective.

"There's something quite bold in your thinking." Yashiro said what he thought was a safe initial response.

"But you see, we can't obtain happiness so easily. Since something like happiness came to me a bit earlier than others, I still want to cherish it. I think that way about everything. Is that wrong?" Chizuko peered into Yashiro's eyes with a gentle gaze. "Well, there's nothing truer than that. Everyone makes such a fuss precisely because they all want to feel as you do. That's how Paris is now."

“Do you think so?” Chizuko smiled as if told something unexpected and turned her gaze toward fast-moving broken clouds drifting between treetops. Sunlight fell upon the pale thighs of a child pedaling a bicycle; through gaps where trailing plants swayed in the breeze, a gentleman walked quietly alone, his trousers creased with razor-sharp precision. "But honestly, I don't have anything particular on my mind. It's like... standing atop a high mountain and gazing at distant places." "Somehow, it's like standing atop a high mountain and gazing at distant places, you know."

“Hmm,” Yashiro merely nodded. At a time when simply looking should have sufficed, he lacked the vigor to dissect others’ merits and flaws. Beside an old woman reading a novel aloud from behind, another elderly listener occasionally gasped as the story unfolded. As Yashiro gazed at the slender hawthorn blossoms—their bewitching coral tints rising from crepe-textured leaves ridged like furrows—Chizuko beside him gradually transformed into the flower’s very essence.

“What beautiful flowers!” Yashiro blurted out. That a person and flowers could look so much as one was something he had never experienced before. Though his chest fought to suppress this drowning peril within, Yashiro found himself leaning closer—peering at those exquisitely wrought hawthorn blossoms as if drawn toward danger—unable to tear his gaze away.

When the two of them circled through the park and came out beside the pond,

“Tonight I want Alsatian lamb. Won’t you try Alsatian cuisine?” Chizuko invited Yashiro with a smile that suffused her entire being—lighter and more carefree than usual. When they emerged through the trees into a sunlit square, they found themselves before another expanse of hawthorn flowers. At first glance, they were blooms that escaped notice. But once they struck one’s senses, they became flowers that would not cease until they had relentlessly eroded the heart. Drawn by his longing to be near Chizuko, Yashiro approached the hawthorn blossoms as though intoxicated—yet with each step, he grew more uncertain whether he could ever bring himself to depart alone for Germany.

Every two weeks, new Japanese appeared in Paris from the mail ships docking at Marseille and the trains that had come via Siberia. Even at the Dome, Yashiro felt himself growing more seasoned with each passing day. The Japanese men who had left wives behind in Japan all looked gloomy during weeks when no letters arrived from Siberia, but on days when letters came, they became so buoyantly cheerful that one could tell at a glance. Among them was even a young man who would dash back to Japan for a month upon finding disquieting passages in letters from his lover, only to return again. Conversely, there were also jovial types who went out of their way to write to their wives in Japan about having acquired lovers, insisting they shouldn't worry.

However, generally speaking, those who had been in Paris for two or three years were the coldest and most annoyed by the newly arrived Japanese, and these people unanimously agreed on being the most ardent Europeanists. However, the reason these people despised Japan entirely boiled down to the single fact that the Japanese could not fully imitate Europe. Indeed, as they said, Japan had many shortcomings. 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 and played active roles. The educated scrutinized others’ flaws with relentless focus. When it came to culture, it was a mixture of Europe and America. If one were to enumerate all its flaws, there were so many—so countless—that one would want 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 a bulb that could be seen as remnants of a flower unseen in other countries. Moreover, even if those were considered flaws, Yashiro found greater joy than in any of those shortcomings in the virtue of Japan’s nature-loving civilization having fewer villains. He could not help but feel that a barbarian dwelled within such thoughts of his own. However, he thought that this was a barbarian who loved the beauty of emotion—entirely different from the savagery lurking within European knowledge. In advancing the writing of his historical work as well, Yashiro came to think that he must first thoroughly examine this difference, establish his foundation there, and then connect it to the development of human life. As these thoughts deepened daily, he gradually solidified his resolve to leave Paris alone; yet whenever his mind was suddenly seized by Chizuko as an individual, the human history taking shape in his thoughts would halt with such delicacy that he would smile bitterly at this fundamental human anguish—no mere trifle—resigning himself yet savoring it still, while from this heartrending pain that defied severance, he greedily yearned to seize even the essence of thought itself.

One day, as Chizuko and Yashiro were drinking hot chocolate at the Dome, right before them a Black woman and a white man were deeply engrossed in some intimate conversation.

As he watched, Yashiro found himself plunged into the realization that he was witnessing living specimens of races that could never be reconciled. In the palpable void between those two people, he felt a desolate rift akin to despair well up, and tears began to seep forth. Why was he crying over this? Thinking that this must mean his neurasthenia had grown quite severe, he continued staring fixedly at the pair; the more he looked, the more tears streamed forth without cease.

“Oh my, what’s happened to you?”

Chizuko, having apparently seen Yashiro’s tears as well, asked this.

“It’s nothing. I’ve come to realize this is a place where one can no longer love others.” “Why?” Chizuko’s eyes glinted momentarily as she looked at Yashiro. “Love doesn’t steer things here anymore.” “It’s all technique now.” “And even that technique has reached its end.” “Then what remains?” “Nothing.” Chizuko fell silent with an astonished expression, as if she had entirely lost grasp of Yashiro’s meaning.

"But the reason I've come to like Paris more these days is precisely because I've realized there's nothing here that we seek. It's like watching a yokozuna whose strength has waned lose bout after bout—as long as you only watch the ceremonial entrance, you can keep a tranquil mood without any mental strain." Yashiro's manner of speaking—chopping his words into abrupt bursts—conveyed not mere roughness, but a desperate urge to expose himself to the thrill of self-sacrifice. Yet even as he spoke these words, Yashiro found himself growing somewhat calmer through the very force of his own utterances.

“This is a place people come to rest, isn’t it? If you want to rest, it’s somewhere you can do so as much as you like.” Chizuko tried to soothe Yashiro’s irritation by making noncommittal remarks. “Exactly,” he said. “We came here to observe what expressions people wear when they rest. I’ve thought about many things here, but ultimately only one thing became clear—people must work. When it comes to one’s spiritual home, there’s nothing beyond working.”

Chizuko, from the road surface where even the shadows of her fingers were distinctly visible, narrowed her eyes at the glinting brass studs reflecting back,

“But that’s ironic,” said Chizuko, her eyes glinting momentarily at Yashiro. “Someone like me can’t work at all.” She stretched out both hands before him and laughed—pale fingers catching the brass-studded light from pavement stones where even nail shadows showed clear. “You came here to cultivate your critical eye,” Yashiro countered, voice sharp as alpine air. “In our lifetime, Paris remains peerless—no greater culture will emerge. Once seen, you gain lifelong license to critique anything with assurance.” He leaned forward, words chipping ice from some inner crevasse. “So while here, indulge yourself—it’d be wasteful otherwise. Dwelling on Japan’s sold village girls won’t strengthen your vision.”

“So, I can go to the salon again, right? That’s what I’ve been meaning to ask you.” “You should enjoy yourself thoroughly before returning home.” “That is your duty.” “You mustn’t concern yourself with others’ opinions now.” Delighted at having elicited an uncharacteristic response from Yashiro, Chizuko gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. “Then I feel reassured too.” “Actually tomorrow evening at six, I have an engagement to attend.” “The salon of President Prederi One.”

"Anyway, I've enjoyed our time together, but I think it's about time we said goodbye. I have to go from Munich toward Vienna." Yashiro found himself able to voice even things he'd thought unspeakable with unexpected ease, and now that the time had truly come to act on them, he steeled his heart and envisioned the distant skies he must journey toward. Chizuko did not seem particularly surprised by Yashiro's sudden announcement, perhaps because she had already noticed his unusual changes from before.

“Then if you find any scenic places, wire me a telegram. I’ll come right away. Could you check the dates of the hotels you’ll be staying at?” “Very well, I’ll do that.”

Yashiro said. Yet in his heart, he had resolved that here and now he would part with Chizuko and never see her again in his lifetime. If they were to meet any further, not only would his mental equilibrium collapse—forcing him to continue this disgraceful pursuit of her even upon returning to Japan—but his financially strained studies would undoubtedly be overwhelmed by the hardship of supporting Chizuko, a truth clearer than fire itself. As Yashiro walked Chizuko back to her hotel, he thought that even this—being able to part without uttering a single word that would attest to his love—was another gift of traveling in a foreign land. When he looked up at the faint sunlight shining on the upper floors of the buildings, calm drifting clouds flowed across the sky. The clusters of light flowers, washed by the rain and gathering like dried cotton between the cobblestones, danced up with each passing car only to be sucked into the wheels and swept away in swirling vortices.

After departing Paris, Yashiro entered Southern Germany, traveled through small towns and rural areas, and emerged toward Tyrol.

The mountainous region spanning Austria, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland is called Tyrol, but for Yashiro, this journey marked the first time he was completely separated from Japanese people and truly alone since departing Tokyo. In this area, hardly any of the words Yashiro knew were of use. In this place where not a single Japanese face could be seen and no words could be understood, Yashiro drank deeply of true solitude—to such an extent that he marveled at how liberating and delightful such isolation could sometimes feel. Ah, so such joy existed in the world? Every 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 as though it were being constantly washed with fresh water. From time to time, lakes would appear and disappear from within the forest, but he did not even try to unfold a map.

Yashiro would sometimes recall Chizuko, but now believed parting with her had been the right decision. After finding himself alone, whenever he glimpsed a woman of sensual physique on trains or streets, he would be assailed by an unpleasant sensation—as if grimy hands had stroked his skin. As he approached Southern Germany's border, mountain ranges multiplied—glaciers streaming down from rocks standing erect among meadow flowers. The path wound through cliffs emitting a pale iridescence like seashell undersides, their faces interrupted by drifting clouds as they towered into pristine sky. When he finally reached the Austrian border area, Yashiro was for the first time disembarked from the train.

Because he had been told it was a direct train, Yashiro was completely at a loss as to what had happened when he found himself dumped at that chilly station in the village. Using the German he had once studied and forgotten, when he finally learned that he would have to wait two and a half hours for the next train, Yashiro rather considered this fortunate and settled onto a bench in the flower field before the station. Among all the mountains he had seen while passing through the plateau, there had never been another that surprised him as much as the one Yashiro now gazed up at, towering directly before him. Resembling a colossal mass of milk, not a single blade of grass grew upon it. From its peak that appeared to pierce even higher than the sky, its form draped with glaciers seemed less like a thing of this world the longer one gazed upon it. Perhaps having stared too intently, the back of his neck grew tired, but as he walked along picking flowers, he found himself gazing absently at the mountain once more.

Fatigue seemed to have permeated his entire body; though not sleepy, his eyelids gradually began to close. As he kept rubbing his eyes while repeatedly looking up at the mountain, his surroundings grew hazy. "This is truly it," Yashiro thought.

When he had departed Japan in a severely weakened state, he himself had thought he might die during the journey, and recalling that several friends had cautioned him as well, he resolved that this solitary trip would likely not end safely. Yet now Yashiro was filled with a swelling joy that expanded in his chest. He entered a teahouse that stood in the flower field, sat down on an outdoor chair, and ordered milk. As he poured freshly squeezed cold milk into a large beer glass—sitting with his legs apart and gazing up at the mountain—the mountain, the clouds, and the glacier all slid coldly down his throat together.

Leaning back on the creaking chair, Yashiro looked around the surrounding plateau and drank more milk. Lush green pasture grass spread uniformly with flower stalks, trailing all the way beneath the glacier where they vanished. On the wooded mountainside behind him stood hotels and villas, but the passersby were mostly sunburned figures of villa daughters who had gone flower picking.

“I’d like some postcards.” Yashiro ventured to say to the teahouse hostess. The hostess studied his complexion before producing postcards—among alpine plant designs were two showing a fawn emerging from an eggshell beside an antlered stag. Yashiro startled anew: Could deer here be born from eggs? Since even the scenery seemed unearthly, he reasoned its creatures must differ too—what better souvenir! Fatigue forgotten, he revived; yet upon leaving for the station, dizziness-inducing weariness returned. Before seeing that milk-mass mountain looming ahead, he’d felt no particular exhaustion—so why this crushing fatigue since beholding it? What could it mean?—

Yashiro tilted his head slightly and remained standing in the middle of the road, still unable to tear his gaze away from the mountain. Then, the towering cloud-piercing mass of milk began to appear like a nest of silently coiled thunderbolts—the longer he gazed, the more strength seemed to be siphoned from his chest.

"This mountain—it’s bad to look at," Yashiro thought. He hid in the waiting room where the mountain remained unseen until the train's arrival, keeping close to his luggage, yet unable to shake his preoccupation with that mysterious peak—occasionally stealing out from beneath the roof to gaze upward at it in secret. Each time, he felt a gloomy pain pierce through his spine and, flustered, would burrow back under the roof. When the time came, a narrow-gauge train arrived. Yashiro regained some composure once he boarded. Coal dust poured fiercely through the window, but the plateau surrounding the rails became filled with flowers so dazzling they stole one's sight. Leaning out the window as the train carved through floral waves, he found amusement in the locomotive—a clownish old man puffing labored smoke bursts. Beyond meadow blossoms, Swiss mountains draped with glaciers emerged in procession. No sooner had a sheep flock materialized like ground-hugging smoke in a grassy gorge than flower-carpeted plateaus resumed flanking both sides.

If this place was so beautiful, Yashiro thought, he could send the promised telegram to Chizuko after checking into the hotel tonight. When he had left Paris, he had notified Kuji of his arrival date and lodging in Tyrol, so he thought that perhaps even Kuji alone might have already reached the inn by now; yet despite this, for the time being he still had no desire to meet him.

When he thought back to their various debates in Paris, his longing for Kuji grew daily until he found himself muttering in Japanese—a language he hadn’t spoken much of late—in solitary whispers directed at Kuji. Yet even now, the joy of this solitary journey through lands where he couldn’t understand the language remained irreplaceable. “Not coming to a place like this—what a fool you are, you utter fool.”

Yashiro voiced such words aloud. And resting his chin on the window frame while gazing at the glacier-veiled mountain range, he felt as though all the world's air had been bestowed upon him alone—tears welled up and he wiped his eyes repeatedly. It defied description—as if the accumulated weight of time since birth had been suddenly released, resembling a dream of winged liberation.

He leaned out the window as if to ensure he wouldn’t miss a single point of the unfolding scenery. Waves of multicolored flowers undulated high and low, enveloping the ancient castle. A girl pedaled her bicycle straight through the plateau. Fog welled up from the valley.

“No, I’m glad I came. I don’t need anything else anymore.”

Before Yashiro’s deeply nodding eyes, the locomotive—as if declaring the plateau’s scenery had only just begun—unfurled endless pages of landscape. And so, when he finally arrived in Innsbruck, Tyrol, just before dusk, Yashiro was utterly worn out with disappointment.

The Hotel Kaiser, which he had reserved in advance through Cook, stood right next to the station. When he asked whether any letters had arrived from Kuji, there were none yet; but as he wrote his name in the guestbook provided, he suddenly noticed Chizuko's name inscribed in familiar handwriting just above his own.

As weariness finally gave way to longing for human company, Yashiro felt the room around him suddenly fill with a brightness warmed by body heat. Even the unfamiliar stairs he was being guided up now felt like his own under his touch, carrying such intimacy that he wanted to hurry up them eagerly. After unpacking his travel gear in the assigned room, Yashiro immediately went to inquire about Chizuko’s room and knocked on the door.

“Enter.”

A voice came from inside, and Yashiro opened the door. "Oh!" Chizuko, who had been writing a letter, turned around and—as if suddenly relieved—flung down her pen and rose to her feet. "I was so anxious! I arrived this morning, but I kept thinking—what if Mr. Yashiro wasn’t coming? What would I do?" For an instant, Yashiro felt as though a wind resembling the scent of chrysanthemums was blowing in from Chizuko’s body.

“Oh! Your face is so pale—you must be exhausted.” Standing before Chizuko, who spoke worriedly, Yashiro said: “You’ve understood perfectly.”

With that, he gave a firm handshake. He stood there in a joy he had never even dreamed of—filled as though brilliant flames had entered him—gazing blankly around the room for some time. “This is the first time I’ve used Japanese today. It feels rather strange.”

"But I'm glad you're safe." "I'm safe enough, but it feels like I'm dreaming. On my way here just now, I saw an incredible mountain—like a towering thunderhead, yet seemingly made entirely of magnet. Looking at it leaves you completely worn out." Perhaps due to this sudden ease that threatened to make their words disjointed, the mere fact that the two of them were here now rendered any conversation utterly insignificant.

“Oh! What kind of mountain?”

Though Chizuko asked this in return, there was no further sign she wished to probe deeper. Yashiro, maneuvering his shoulder that had begun to ache, "Well, the postcard says 'Mittenwald,' but when I kept repeating it aloud, it started sounding like a warning—'If you look, it'll be bad'—so I got startled and ran away."

The two of them sat facing each other on the sofa, laughing.

"But I found this town to be such a strange place as well." "That’s right—this place is frightening too. After all, it’s part of that ‘If you look, it’ll be bad’ business." Even within the view from the window, from the treeless stone summit of a high mountain—its surface like rhinoceros hide—a glacier flowed down all the way to the town below. At the narrow base of the glacier that spilled down from three directions stood this town—a metropolis in hushed stillness. Wrapped in saffron-filled pastures of immaculate cleanliness where not a speck of dust could settle, the town lay still—holding within it the deep, cold folds one might see in the finest sculpture.

“It’s fine now that it’s evening, but when I look at that mountain during the day, I feel so frightened I start trembling. I couldn’t last a single day alone in a place like this.” As Yashiro gazed at the mountains, an imperishable sorrow seemed to well up within him, and he felt even the profound emotion of reuniting with Chizuko after so long being drawn away into the stone’s icy chill. That resembled both pressing one’s skin against an intellect of incomparable cold severity and being ceaselessly compelled by an irresistible fate.

“This place is even more unbearable than Mittenwald. But tomorrow I’ll climb up that mountain.”

Having said this, Yashiro turned his back to the mountain and inquired about Kuji and Higashino's subsequent movements. After bathing, the two of them had dinner, and as they talked about their journey, the rain began to fall. Saying they would wait for the rain to stop before taking their evening walk, as they continued talking in Yashiro’s room, the rain intensified into a downpour that fell with such force it seemed to pierce through bamboo grass. Yashiro, exhausted from parting with Chizuko, decided to turn in early that night, but even after extinguishing the lamp, he found himself unable to sleep due to the relentless pounding of the rain. He got up again, raised the curtain, leaned his elbow on the window, and looked up at the mountains. The heavy rain fell diagonally as if piercing through the glacier, slammed into the building, cascaded down the stone walls, then collapsed onto the road with a crash.

The rocks of the mountains, warmed by the daytime sun, must have cooled by now. The sudden chill made Yashiro’s body shrink, but the beauty of rain pouring into the deeply carved night city—not a soul in sight—carried an unearthly, bone-chilling intensity. When Yashiro heard a knock after some time and turned the key, Chizuko stood there in a pure white dress. "I’m so scared I can’t sleep. Please talk to me a little longer." Trembling from the cold, Chizuko hunched her shoulders and entered.

“What terrible rain, isn’t it?” “I couldn’t sleep either, so I was watching the rain.” “Shall I close it?” “No, it’s fine.” As they were speaking, a fierce flash of lightning lit up the nearby sky. The glacier glowed blue and crackled violently in an instant, then flashes of light darted from mountain to mountain like a shuttle. Chizuko had covered her ears and shrunk against the back of the chair, but the lightning continued to flash with a sound that seemed ready to tear through the mountains. Yashiro closed the window.

“That mountain’s all iron, so it draws the lightning. It’s like war.” Because Chizuko was still covering her ears, Yashiro’s words seemed inaudible. “I hate 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, uncertain how far it would continue. The rainfall became a white forest and came raging down.

“Oh, not again!”

Chizuko turned pale. The glacier, flickering amidst the explosive sounds, resembled an imposing deity guarding the nocturnal world. Yashiro forgot his fatigue in the visceral pleasure that felt like his very body being sliced apart as he waited for the next flash. Each time lightning illuminated her, Chizuko—her expression vanishing and resembling a cowering pistil within her white garments—appeared beautiful to Yashiro. "I won't sleep tonight," she said. "The thunder frightens me most." "Then rest in this room. I'll wake you when it's time."

Chizuko remained silent and motionless, as if uncertain whether she had heard him or not. Soon, as the thunder gradually subsided and the rain lightened, the air grew colder still. Her face regained its vitality and began to stir. When the rain had ceased completely, the two composed a joint letter to Kuji describing Tyrol's terrifying yet beautiful mountains, conversing late into the night.

It was a morning without a single cloud. In a dining hall adorned with Rococo-style life-sized portraits, Yashiro had a meal with Chizuko. In the room where morning sunlight already spread across white roses on the dining table, their late breakfast—with none of the other guests present—instead became a time of relaxed ease for the two of them.

After finishing their meal, the two of them went out into the town. The glacier floated in the clear sky, enveloping the town as if about to touch it—it felt like seeing refreshing white buildings lining a beach. Yet as they kept gazing, the mountain surfaces began emanating a haze like peering into deep ocean depths. Chizuko went from shop to shop wanting one of the locally made Tyrolean hats displayed in decorated windows. "How about this? For me?" The Tyrolean hat with its soybean-curd-textured brim and rope-twisted ribbon had an air that pleased urban women, yet even this seemed to mirror travel melancholy. Few locals were visible in this town; among visitors, travelers from England and Germany appeared predominant. Decorated windows brimmed with cameras, wooden mountain-region carvings, folk-style ribbons and hats. Even postcard images—showing local girls sorrowfully bidding travelers farewell against glacial backdrops, or figures gazing at rains flowing toward distant foreign lands—these scenes had accumulated within Yashiro as travel's inherent pathos.

“It’s truly so quiet here that it almost hurts my ears, doesn’t it?” While walking along the pavement where their footsteps echoed, Chizuko stopped when she caught sight of the glacier’s base visible between the buildings.

“If Mr. Higashino were here, he would surely compose haiku again in this place.” “At Lake Brounui, it was rather fascinating, wasn’t it?” Yashiro walked toward the park while nodding faintly at each comment. The park at the town’s edge was more beautiful than any park Yashiro had seen before. Through gaps between great trees whose branches hung down to the earth, the glacier that had slid down the lead-gray mountainside stood sharply defined, seeming almost within reach.

“It looks like it’ll be hot today. It must be because that mountain has been heating up.” Beneath the looming summit of Halfrekar lay a terrace. Under the shade of trees stood tables draped with white cloths; in this vacant white expanse, the two rested and ordered milk. The aged call of a bush warbler continuously descended from the treetops, overwhelming the chirps of small birds. Along the shaded path still damp from last night’s rain came an elderly gentleman with a splendid Viennese-style white beard, advancing with faltering steps as his cane tapped repeatedly. Chizuko wiped the milk from her lips with a handkerchief while,

"You should try composing haiku too." Chizuko suggested to Yashiro with a laugh.

“I’m past that now. When you’re in a place like this, you find yourself at a loss for what to do. I feel like a complete fool.” Yashiro, looking down at the nimbly moving tail of a squirrel that had scurried up to his feet, appeared completely devoid of vigor, his face in the clear air as if he might yawn at any moment. “If someone were to live their whole life in such a beautiful place, they might either feel compelled to study intensely or end up doing nothing but gamble.”

"But here in Austria, they say it's where the wealthiest people gather." "Well, if you startle people out of their wits like this, no wonder they can make money—they're trying to profit from glaciers after all." In the park thick with large trees, not a single leaf stirred as if suspended in vacuum. Around tree trunks where birdsong resonated clearly, clusters of pale pink hydrangeas gathered bees. As Yashiro leaned against the table propping his cheek on an elbow, the mountain ants crawling across the tablecloth began appearing increasingly large. He couldn't tell whether his body was floating upward or sinking downward. When the sunlight on his chest grew oppressively languid, Yashiro murmured "Well then," rising slowly. People clustered on benches in the dappled shade, yet none spoke. Every tree seemed a fountainhead of birdsong. Only the squirrel sliding down the trunk moved freely, scrambling like insects swarming glacial crevices.

“Let’s climb the mountain after lunch. I think I’ll buy a camera.” When Yashiro thought that Chizuko too had nothing more to say, even her single meaningless phrase appeared pure to him—something he wanted to cradle in both hands. “Are you good at photography?” “I’m terrible at it. 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 tree shade, Yashiro could only nod at Chizuko, whose laughter unfurled around her with the sudden vividness of forsythia blossoms bursting open.

Rather than letting Chizuko buy the camera alone, thinking that purchasing it together would better serve as a memento of their travels, Yashiro insisted they split the cost equally and bought a reasonably priced Schupassix at a shop.

“I’ll take this camera.” “But that can wait until we part ways.” “I want to keep it safe and treasure it.”

Of course Yashiro had no objection to this Chizuko. They were two people who would soon have to part. And even thinking that way, they felt no particular sadness. Given that this was but a fleeting friendship encountered during their foreign journey, even their mutual past from Japan had already become a blank slate, with neither needing to probe into it; though there existed a sorrow that permeated their very beings as they guarded shared loneliness and transience together, it amounted to nothing more than the sweet sentiment of travel.

"My, a town where bicycle chains are so clearly audible—how unusual."

Beneath the church's lofty cross, Chizuko turned to watch a bicycle glide along the immaculate street and spoke. None of the towns held many people. To Yashiro—now inured to glaciers—even this city's peculiarity felt natural: those quiet streets carved like deep-relief sculptures where only shadows breathed with vivid clarity. From shops glimpsed in passing too came clock sounds ringing preternaturally clear.

After lunch, Yashiro and Chizuko took a mountain bus to the mountainside. The passengers inside the bus were those returning to the hotel there and those heading to the summit, but to Yashiro and his companion, none of the surrounding packed faces appeared foreign anymore. Before they knew it, even people of a different race now looked no different to the two of them than faces waiting together for a bus at a Tokyo street corner. At the mountainside, they transferred to a cable car, then changed rails about twice more before reaching the summit. Beneath the cable car stretched a flower-covered meadow slope. As the town gradually sank lower, they saw the river flowing alongside the valley steadily opening out toward the Vienna Plain. The terminal station doubled as a mountain lodge. People would all pause in its hall to enjoy the view before descending again, but Yashiro and Chizuko left the station and kept climbing toward the summit. No one followed them afterward.

It was a mountain path without a single tree. On both sides of the path, ice-hardened clumps of residual snow sloped and flowed. In areas without snow, twisted shrubs that crawled along the ground were abundant, their surfaces entirely covered with small bud-like flowers resembling pieris blossoms.

“Oh my, there’s a cow.”

Chizuko said, peering into the valley. It was a cow that had climbed up from the pasture where a blanket of saffron flowers spread upward from the foothills. The cow walked alone through the snow, its neck bell ringing. The sound of melting glacier water flowing occasionally made Yashiro think it was raining. When they stepped onto the rocky path that made their soles ache, the clouds drifting toward the Swiss mountains gradually hung lower. “Is this area where we are already Switzerland, I wonder? “Not yet, I suppose.”

Chizuko’s yellow waist belt, as she looked around at the mountain ranges encircling them, now stood as the sole scent of human habitation. Where the mountain summit curved off to the side, there was a mountain hut. Yashiro bought two ice axes, socks, and sandwiches there, then shared carrying them with Chizuko and walked the mountain path again. Having heard from the hut keeper that the path to the opposite summit would be severed unless they crossed the glacier soon coming into view, and wanting to traverse it once for memory's sake, they made some preparatory purchases; yet without seeing the glacier's width, the two still found it difficult to reach a decision.

“Mr. Shiono mentioned crossing that glacier last year as well.” “If you cross there, I hear there are many flocks of sheep in the valley beyond.” Chizuko looked at Yashiro with childishly sparkling eyes,

“Let’s go see that.” “At dusk, shepherds sing Tyrolean songs to gather their sheep, I hear.” “He said it was so beautiful—utterly beyond description.” “Let’s go see that.”

"Seeing it would be fine, but by dusk we probably wouldn’t be able to return," said Yashiro with some perplexity. "But there’s a mountain hut where we can stay overnight, I’ve heard." "But instead, you sleep in the hay, I’ve heard." "That sounds good too." “Who knows how much better it might be than staying at a hotel. “So let’s rest there tonight.” Even if no one was watching, Yashiro found himself hesitating and falling silent at the prospect of sleeping in the hay with a well-bred young lady who was neither his lover nor someone he intended to marry. Yet that innocence with which Chizuko made her suggestion without a trace of fear was the very beauty that had allowed them to deftly slip through their repeated moments of danger in Paris. Moreover, Yashiro had now easily adopted the traveler’s mindset that harbored no suspicion toward such things.

“Well then, shall we go? But can you endure this better than I can?” Yashiro said, looking at Chizuko’s attire.

“I might find this so much better than staying at a hotel. Since we’ve come to Tyrol, it’s only natural to embrace what’s truly Tyrolean.”

Once their plan was settled, the two of them grew even more energized.

A swarm of bees droned loudly as they flew about on both sides of the mountain path. The German border mountains stood as continuous indigo-purple cliffs, while shelf-like strands of white clouds - severed at mid-slope - flowed around ridge after ridge, their movement revealing the valley's sharpness below. No trace of human settlement remained visible. When they rounded a bend, fresh cold air suddenly struck their faces. The Swiss mountains writhed in coquettish play with the sky, and from within the sunlit expanse before them emerged a white sea of ice.

“Ah, that must be it. “We’ll cross over there, then.”

Chizuko hurried along the path at a brisk pace as she spoke. The semi-transparent glacier - its sawtooth ridges of ice stretching endlessly - now fully revealed itself before them with a slight tilt. Yashiro stood where the path ended, gazing down at the glacier, "But I must say, this thing looks rather dangerous," he muttered. "Then Yashiro-san, please follow behind me to cross. I'm unexpectedly skilled at this sort of terrain, you know."

Having been told this by Chizuko, Yashiro could no longer retreat. When they went down to the ice edge, they saw the glacier flowing down the valley with sharp tooth-like undulations about five meters high, densely packed with countless such formations across its two-cho [approximately 218 meters] width. The two pulled the prepared socks over their boots to prevent slipping, put on gloves, and began climbing the glacier slope. For the first few ridges, Yashiro took the lead, chipping at the ice with his boot heels to create footholds for Chizuko climbing behind him. But after crossing three or four ridges, the crevasses between ice peaks had deepened into unfathomable voids. Gaping like vitreous glass cross-sections, these fissures waited to swallow any misstep into unknowable depths. As all vegetation disappeared and icy teeth surrounded them completely, Yashiro had to advance by choosing irregular ice clusters while detouring steeper slopes—this endless ice traversal made him realize it required stonemason-like patience, so he carefully avoided haste.

“From above it looked narrow,” said Chizuko while striking her ice axe and gripping the rope Yashiro had lowered from above, “but once you enter it, you realize how truly vast a glacier is.” “I thought it would be cold,” she continued, flushed face glistening with exertion, “but it’s not really. Look how much I’m sweating here.” “Me too,” Yashiro replied hoarsely from above. “We should take photos somewhere soon.” As he hauled Chizuko upward through crystalline teeth of ice,Yashiro burned with shame at his physical inadequacy—each pull on the rope a fresh reminder of his deficient strength and intellect alike.The glacier’s translucent maw seemed to mock his fleeting fantasy of marriage,a divine punishment for daring such thoughts while suspended between indigo cliffs and bottomless crevasses.

Chizuko's face took on a reddish hue and grew hot. With fine sweat beading at her hairline and flexing her thighs as she inched her way up the ice surface, even the glint of their exchanged glances appeared as nothing more than a single point of light within the piercing white glare.

When a dull ice slope appeared, the two slid down with their hips pressed against the ice, scraping unsteadily. Sharp icebergs occasionally hollowed out cavities at their centers, and through those openings, Chizuko’s figure sliding across the far side could be clearly seen. The tips of the ice teeth formed by the ridges had been blunted and eroded by sunlight, yet still stood translucent, each maintaining its sharp form as it reached toward the sky. “Just a moment, Mr. Yashiro—don’t move.”

Chizuko aimed her camera at Yashiro in a stance that straddled the ridge. Yashiro, having crossed the crevasse, remained still while peering into the lapis lazuli-colored depths of the rift. “Thank you, Mr. Yashiro. Next time there’s a hollow, could you look over here from there? I’d like to get that spot too.”

The ice surface, slightly soiled with fine grains of sand, revealed fresh glimmers from fractured cross-sections each time footholds were made. When Chizuko’s crimson-clad figure emerged fully atop the ridge, seven-colored iridescence radiated across every icy plane, enveloping her elongated shadow bending over the traversed peaks. "If you tire yourself out, I’ll take the lead instead," Chizuko said upon noticing Yashiro’s weariness. "Just give me the word."

“I’m a bit tired,” Yashiro said. “Are you good at mountain climbing?” “Somewhat—though it seems I’m better at this than you are.” “It appears I’m being gradually outmatched in everything. Perhaps this is a Japanese trait.” Yashiro laughed while patting his waist. Chizuko flashed a fleeting smile before planting her elbows behind her, balancing the camera on her bent knee, and sliding down the ice slope without losing her smile. Below, Yashiro made a catching motion but wiped his clammy palms on his trousers and leapt across the crevasse again.

"I think this might be the place—I remember reading somewhere that a newlywed groom fell into this glacier crevasse." "In that story, since the body was never found, the bride went down to the mountain's base and waited there forever until the glacier melted away and died—you know that tale, don't you?" "Now that you mention it, I do recall that story." "That story might very well be about this place."

“I think this is the spot. This is the kind of place where such people end up, you know.” While saying this, Chizuko chipped off a fragment of ice with her ice axe, threw it into the crevasse’s depths, and peered down. The fragment vanished from sight almost immediately, but the sound of ice striking the curved surfaces continued with a light yet forlorn clinking, growing gradually fainter until it faded away. “Oh, what a lovely sound. Do listen to it for a moment.”

Chizuko called out to Yashiro. The two crouched close together, throwing fragments into the crevasse and pressing their ears to the fissure. It was indeed the sound of nothingness falling into the glacier's endless depths. Even after the sound vanished, it lingered as an auditory hallucination resembling a half-tone vibrating string. Yashiro looked up at the sky. Though sunlight blazed down, a desolation like wind through pines quietly upheld drifting clouds. "Shall we eat sandwiches somewhere? I'm getting hungry."

When Chizuko's unmediated voice reached his ears as she climbed up, Yashiro opened the cloth bundle at his waist and took it out.

"If you dawdle here, you'll fall into the crevasse." "Then you should have some too." Yashiro averted his eyes from Chizuko’s smiling cheeks as she reached out to take a sandwich. It felt as though they were leaping over a rift in their mutual reserve—that which they had each strictly forbidden themselves to voice aloud. "I am the supervisor, after all."

Seeing Yashiro laugh lightly and begin to eat as well, “Well, well.” As she said this, Chizuko now took the lead and began climbing up the jagged ice teeth. Yashiro took the camera from Chizuko. Along the line of the ice ridge stood a hazy rainbow. Within it, the two continued to climb up and down. As sweat began spreading across his entire body, Yashiro found himself no longer able to perceive his surroundings as entirely glacial. Speaking grew increasingly burdensome, and he ceased to feel any dangerous depth in the crevasse yawning at his feet.

“Are you getting tired?”

Chizuko straddled the ice teeth about two-thirds up the glacier and looked down at Yashiro as she asked. Yashiro grabbed the rope she had let down and climbed up while saying, "What's this? I'm fine," but the intense white light flooding the area began to ache around his eyebrows. "If you climb so quickly, I'll feel jealous." He muttered this veiled as a joke, but in truth, whenever Yashiro saw Chizuko effortlessly crossing the glacier ridge without the slightest sign of fatigue, the glint of her brooch's metal clasp at her chest each time she turned around irritated him.

"You’re hopeless." Though meant as another joke, it struck Yashiro with force, searing his physical inadequacy like a brand. Occasionally, cracks about an inch wide ran in lightning patterns across the ice surface. Yashiro—hooking his ice axe into a fissure, lagging behind with ragged breath until finally catching up to Chizuko—found the pleasure of losing to her now beginning to prevail. "Just a moment, Ms. Chizuko. I’ll take your photo now."

Yashiro, his heart brimming with emotion, aimed the camera at Chizuko and spoke. Without giving her time to prepare—the moment she turned from the peak—Yashiro pressed the shutter. Feeling a thrill akin to a defeated husband photographing his triumphant wife, he let slip a self-satisfied smile to himself,

“I’ve already taken it. There we go.”

he said. Chizuko twisted her body and glared down at him from atop the ice spires with a coquettish pout, uttering, “Oh.” Yashiro climbed up to the top and stood side by side with Chizuko. “Come now, we just need to cross this one last part.” “That was somehow fun, ah.” Yashiro looked back at the perilous, danger-filled peaks they had crossed. The long shadows of the two standing side by side fell across the ice in the western sun, and from there, seven-colored radiant beams bounced back into the sky even more intensely than before.

“Since this is the end, let’s line up and slide down together.” Following Chizuko’s bright proposal, the two lined up on the final glacier ridge and clasped hands. With a count of one, two, three, they slid down the icy slope together. “I’ve finally conquered it.”

Yashiro laughed as he mopped his sweat with a handkerchief.

“Truly, 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 small hut constructed of logs could be seen slightly below the summit. Chizuko took the lead and opened the door. Inside the hut, cows lay with their heads and hips alternating, filling the room entirely. There was a narrow pathway barely passable through its center, and upon advancing along it, another door stood at the far end. When the door opened at Chizuko's knock, a bright room with chairs and a table—what appeared to be a parlor—came into view. An old woman who had been knitting alone inside came out, so Chizuko tried requesting lodging for the night in French. Given that it was the off-season with few guests, the two were able to secure a room without difficulty. When Chizuko then asked where the valley was where the sheep returned, the old woman pointed to the mountain gorge visible gently below through the window,

“The sheep will soon gather in this valley.”

After informing them of that, she turned to look at the old-fashioned pillar clock.

“Soon, soon. Go on outside and see.” Following the old woman’s words—urging them with accompanying hand gestures—the two placed their belongings on the table and went outside. Now that they had secured lodging for the day, the two of them felt at ease. They emerged onto a path overlooking a pasture that spread across a treeless ravine, and there began eating their leftover sandwiches.

“Since we had such fine weather today, I’m sure the stars will come falling down.” “We truly did well to come here.” “How happy I am!” “My heart’s pounding now.”

Chizuko swept back her hair while surveying the surrounding mountains. Yashiro remained silent, alternating between lying down and sitting up amidst the saffron blossoms. The glacier revealed its twisted, sweeping bulk flowing along the left slope. Yashiro was beginning to feel somewhat tired. As he lay there with his arm for a pillow, sniffing the cold saffron blossoms that brushed against his cheek, the temperature seemed to plummet abruptly, sending shivers crawling up his neck. “Still not here… the sheep?”

Having said this, he plucked the flowers and let each petal fall from his lips one by one. “They should be here soon. They’ll definitely come.” Chizuko, perhaps having grown tired of waiting, started to lie back next to Yashiro for a moment but immediately sat back up. “From here, Japan really does look like the edge of the world.” Yashiro suddenly let out a sigh and said. “Yes, it does seem like the very edge.” “In that tiny place at the edge, made to sit silently without a sound—if told to face west, we’d keep facing west forever. If we dare consider even for a moment that East should remain East, that shrewish taskmaster called Ideals would come prodding at us with her whip, you know. What a strange thing.”

Chizuko seemed not to understand why Yashiro had suddenly brought up such things and remained silent. Yashiro sat up and gazed for a while at the far side of the ravine, then suddenly threw down the crushed saffron petals in his hand. The setting sun was casting its rays through breaks in the clouds ahead.

By the time the two had nearly forgotten about the sheep, a sound resembling frog croaks began to reach them from afar. As it continued, they came to realize it wasn’t frogs but a Tyrolean song calling sheep from somewhere in the pasture. “Ah, there it is.”

Chizuko pulled Yashiro by the arm as she spoke. The Tyrolean song carried a hoarse, mournful tone that first resonated in a rolling rhythm before gradually transforming into higher, clearer undulations that swelled through the air. It was a voice honed by clouds and ice—the voice of a true shepherd. As the singing continued, the sound of countless bells beginning to stir arose from every direction. Then flocks of sheep swarming from all quarters gradually materialized in the valley. What had first appeared as intermingling white clouds soon became thousands upon thousands of bleating creatures surging forward like a great river breaching its banks, filling the ravine to bursting before cascading downward in an endless torrent.

Yashiro felt the area beneath his chest grow cold and hollow. In the sunset light, the mountain peaks were faintly aglow across their expanse. Beneath them, the sound of sheep bells resounded in symphony as they echoed through valley after valley, their doubled reverberations swirling through the air like a massive swarm of mosquitoes rising all at once. The Tyrolean song became a main melody piercing through it all, calling and gathering the flock of sheep high and low as they drew near. *Rukurukuruku，rururururu— Rukurukuruku，rururururu—*

“It’s as if we’re looking upon a god.”

After whispering this, Chizuko stared vacantly downward once more. The sheep still scattered downstream were pressed tight by the dogs' barking into a new dense mass that quickened its pace and merged with the forward herd. The sky's light faded moment by moment into purple. As the ovine current grew mist-like along the earth while their bells' resonance swelled ever larger, a stifling animal stench resembling heated breath came swirling in.

“Incredible.” Even Yashiro’s involuntary exclamation was now drowned out by the barking of dogs chasing directly below. The river of sheep descended with a lapping rhythm akin to ripples, winding through the ravine opposite to the glacier as it carried the shepherd’s song toward the distant mountain slopes. With each passing moment, the echoing bells’ reverberations—“clang-clang, clank-clank”—flooded the sky with lingering resonance while gradually crossing through the deepening twilight valley floor into the distance.

The sun had completely set. When the flock of sheep had also vanished from the ravine and disappeared from view, Yashiro and Chizuko looked at each other's faces for the first time, but neither said anything. In the now-empty pasture below, darkness flowed where the sheep had been. From the direction of a far-off valley, after listening for a while to the bell sounds that still continued like a dream, "Well, it's gotten quite cold."

Yashiro said and stood up. The two returned to the mountain hut.

During dinner too, the two remained silent without particular reason.

After finishing the meal, Yashiro wiped his body while gazing at the stars scattered across the window. The fatigue hit him all at once, and once he lit a cigarette under the lamp, he found himself unable to move any further. In the next room, there was already the clattering sound of chairs being moved in preparation for sleep. Chizuko too appeared genuinely tired, leaning back in her chair as she gazed down at the ravine, yet her face retained its glossy sheen, and her slightly sunken eyes appeared 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 experience this happiness again in my life, it terries me somehow.” “You’ll be all right,” Yashiro replied.

Though Yashiro had said this, he thought that Chizuko's feeling that way wasn't entirely unreasonable.

“But you’re right. I don’t believe such things could be allowed to remain one person’s secret forever.” Yashiro masked his smile with a laugh and fixed his gaze on the stars again. The cold air carried a mingled scent of dry grass drifting from somewhere. Chizuko suddenly stood up and wordlessly walked out past Yashiro. The stars shone with an intensity that seemed ready to come crashing down at any moment, each one blazing in turn. When Yashiro finished his cigarette, he left the room to search for Chizuko after her prolonged absence. Yet she was nowhere to be found. After scouring the hills on either side for some time, he spotted her figure kneeling motionless in prayer at the edge of a dark hill overlooking the glacier. Yashiro had long known Chizuko was Catholic, but seeing her quiet praying form now—overlapping with the mountain peaks chained across the night sky—he felt gripped by a sacred chill and stubbed out his cigarette.

While Chizuko prayed, Yashiro gazed up at the stars in the sky. His heart filled with a melancholy that reached back to ancient times, and gradually he began to forget his own position standing there on the mountain peak.

“Oh, so that’s where you were.”

Chizuko stood up laughing and approached Yashiro. The starlight on the glacier they had crossed during the day flowed white with bared fangs.

The next day, when Yashiro and the others returned to the hotel, a letter from Kuji in Paris addressed to Yashiro had arrived. Since you left, so many days have passed that I’ve lost count. In any case, I may have gotten a bit ahead of myself, but you must have already departed for Innsbruck by now. Since then, strikes have been occurring frequently in Paris. This being an event of historic proportions, we have encountered what is for us the most fascinating once-in-a-millennium opportunity. To miss this opportunity to observe it would, in broad terms, result in failing to witness a pinnacle of history. If you can, why don't you return here immediately? With you, ever since Paris, I’ve ended up spending days doing nothing but arguing, but thanks to that, I’ve come to feel that even our quarrels have gradually started to become useful to me. If we meet again, I think we’ll just keep arguing like before—but even that can’t be helped now. Additionally, since there was talk of Ms. Chizuko following after you to go there, you may have already met by now—but given that Mr. Shiono and the others seem to have some urgent matters arise, please convey to Ms. Chizuko that she should not stay settled there for too long.

On my end, some troublesome matters had recently arisen. As you were probably aware, Ms. Makiko, who had gone to Vienna, suddenly showed up alone in Paris relying on me. After much agonizing over where to place Ms. Makiko, I concluded that your hotel would be better than having her stay here at the same hotel, and taking advantage of your absence, I took the liberty of using your room. Ms. Makiko apparently discovered that her husband had become involved with a Hungarian woman, which led to their separation, and she fled here. When I thought about it, this year was my unlucky year. Then at the Pantheon, a Russian film titled Our Youth appeared. This was wonderful.

We are still young. Let both you and I give full meaning to this youth of ours. I have my own share of difficulties, but no matter what I say, I find myself deeply convinced that Paris remains a splendid place. I have actually lost much of my desire to travel anywhere. And finally—forgive my abruptness—why don't you have any intention of marrying Ms. Chizuko? As I had promised you, I too had intended to go to Tyrol, but thinking it would be ill-advised to create distance between you and Ms. Chizuko, I decided to refrain. Given who you are, even if Ms. Chizuko follows you there, I think things will remain just as they were before. However, when humans express themselves, it requires decisiveness. Since coming abroad, you've become so enamored with Japan itself that people—especially women—no longer seem to matter to you, but I believe this is a grave delusion. As you say, I too may now be viewing foreign lands through a continuous series of illusions. However, you too must be viewing things through illusions that are the exact opposite of mine. After all, regarding this exact opposition between your perspective and mine—as to which is legitimate—I suspect that among all Japanese people up to now, there has not been a single one capable of providing an answer. Moreover, since this critical issue must be seen as continuing to weigh upon us young people permanently from now on, I wish to find some method to bring unity to the conflict between your opinions and mine. Without you, I still feel as though one of my wings has been torn away, leaving me lonely. I want you to return as soon as possible.

Kuji

Mr. Yashiro Kōichirō

When Yashiro finished reading the letter, he felt an urge he couldn’t ignore to not remain as he was, and even thought about taking the night train back to Paris right then. He stuffed the letter into his pocket without showing it to Chizuko and, inviting her along, walked toward the street corner where a fountain rose.

The post-rain sky cleared as evening deepened. Montparnasse's tiered houses glowed faintly like sunlit mountain ranges. Beneath people's radiant, dazzling smiles, the crimson sky mirrored in cobblestone puddles—Kuji sat in the café composing a letter to his mother, gaze fixed on that watery reflection. Under still-dripping trees, abandoned chairs glistened wet while voices rose strangely bright from the street below slow-drifting peach-hued clouds.

“How is your health? I am in good health, studying earnestly day by day with deep enjoyment.”

Kuji had written this single line to his mother, but just as in his student days, the words that should follow still refused to come. The tobacco smoke exhaled by passersby did not flow away or take any distinct shape, remaining stagnant in an oily hue. In the watery dusk among the tree leaves, the clock tower's light came on. "When I think of your neuralgia, Mother, I grow depressed even here, but if you were to visit a hot spring, I would feel at ease. The places I want to go in Japan now are all hot springs."

Kuji suddenly realized that where his mother was now lay beneath his very feet, and he thought that right about now, she must be awake in the middle of the night, contemplating tomorrow’s auspicious direction. Throughout the year, Kuji’s mother would prepare tea while obsessing over directional alignments; even for short trips, if the orientation proved inauspicious, she would first stay overnight at a relative’s house to disrupt the unfavorable bearing before departing for her destination. On the day Kuji had departed from Kobe too, since the Anken-satsu lay in the west, she had repeatedly warned him to exercise caution aboard the ship. Once there had been a relative’s house where the toilet stood in the southeast direction—the very year when a daughter there entered her fourth green phase according to geomancy—and Kuji’s mother had kept worrying over this, persistently urging them to change residences. It was said that if they remained there, the girl would die upon turning twenty-three. The relatives had laughed it off, but when that perfectly healthy daughter with no apparent illness reached twenty-three, she suddenly succumbed to pulmonary gangrene within two or three days. Ever since then, Kuji’s mother had grown even more fixated on directional fortunes, reaching a point where nowadays, upon hearing someone’s age just once, she could immediately recite into empty air the auspiciousness of their birth month’s corresponding orientation. Partly due to his mounting antipathy toward his mother’s superstitions and partly because Kuji—an inherent adherent of scientific positivism—found this Eastern fatalism utterly insufferable.

“Mother, really—if you take every single one of those things seriously and act on them, even what should be possible becomes impossible, doesn’t it?” “How impossible you are.”

Kuji used to often scold his mother.

“Oh no no, we’ve always kept to the ways passed down from our ancestors like this without ever making a mistake, so as long as we move according to favorable directions, we can be at ease.” “As long as humans can have peace of mind, isn’t that happiness?”

And Mother, for her part, continued upholding her inherited simple beliefs, taking these abstract concepts—the twelve zodiac signs beginning with rat and ox, and the nine celestial bodies—as the foundation of her own science, convinced they held power equal to the Western abstractions Kuji believed in, and no matter what anyone said, she would not budge.

"This hemisphere beneath my feet moves solely according to directions. "It has continued for three thousand years and still shows no sign of tiring."

Thinking this, Kuji found himself disinclined to write about anything beyond health matters in his letters to his mother. However, no matter what one said, there was nothing to be done—she was his Oriental mother. From time to time, as if suddenly remembering, he would write in the margins of his letters about things like microscopes here that could magnify objects sixty thousand times or telescopes capable of seeing to the farthest edges of the universe’s directions, attempting to shatter the fatalism 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 came to understand that even the power of his scientific spirit—which he held as his sole and absolute creed—still left much to be desired in terms of persuasive force. Moreover, this was not limited to his mother alone; even Yashiro—the intellectual who had actually come here with him—was gradually becoming more Eastern with each passing day. When he considered this reality, Kuji could only click his tongue in dismay: Ah, has even that Yashiro been reduced to the twelve zodiac signs now?

As twilight deepened, the clock’s light amidst the horse chestnut leaves turned yellow like fireflies. Even after Kuji finished writing the letter, not a single automobile passed on the street.

"Ah right—there was a strike today," Kuji realized belatedly and stood up from the table. In these days when the Blum Socialist cabinet had formed and not a day had passed without incident, the streets grew increasingly deserted as strikes continued under the Popular Front's growing dominance. The emergence of a Socialist cabinet in Paris—a city that had long prided itself as European civilization's center—marked an unprecedented event since the French Revolution, and this leftward political shift kept swaying people's minds like a raging torrent. Therefore travelers moving through this European climate had to choose one path when walking—they couldn't advance by charging blindly in both directions. Even Kuji who advocated "When in Rome" found nothing more disheartening than walking while pondering which ideology he truly supported. Being Japanese, I devised ways to consider myself separate, but there was also the fear that we Japanese alone would become like stepchildren, our knowledge left behind by the world.

"No, I am a scientific positivist. No matter what they say, scientific positivists must advance toward the unification of the world's knowledge. That is the will of humanism. Japanese people too—there’s no reason they can’t participate in that." Kuji thought briskly. Every time the word "humanism" surfaced, he would lose himself in its beauty like a youth intoxicated by poetry; yet this very habit had him riding an elevator of convenience that let him stroll about while maintaining some reassurance in his position. As he walked, geometric ridgelines seemed to radiate toward him like sights trained on his chest. Within the ordered balance of city blocks, darkness descended. When flower shop roses—unremarkable by daylight—burst into luxurious glowing bloom, the foreigners who had been promenading began streaming back to their regular café for dinner. Just as hunger drove Kuji toward his usual restaurant, he came upon Higashino, who appeared equally intent on dining.

“It’s really coming down now,” Kuji said, looking up at the sky. “Here one can walk without even using an umbrella—in that regard alone, it’s more agreeable than Japan.” “It’s not just that point, surely.” Higashino, who knew Kuji as a cheerful man yet possessed of an oddly tenacious honesty, seemed to think Here we go again and smirked. “Are you dining here too?” He sidestepped. Once when Kuji had confronted Yashiro’s Easternism with his own scientism and sought agreement from Higashino—who had been silently listening nearby—only to be rebuked with “What you have isn’t scientism but mere expediency,” the frustration of that rebuke now hung over him like a stifling haze. But at this moment, Kuji suddenly remembered that long-forgotten grievance.

“How about we dine together?” “Please do,” Higashino answered with a thin smile. For these two had entered a phase where the suffocating need to respond with European-style etiquette and timing—always freighted with unspoken implications whenever meeting people since arriving on the continent—was beginning to resemble samurai discipline.

Ever since Parisian politics had shifted to the left wing, whenever people encountered others, their gazes would first clash like blades, probing whether the man was left or right. Higashino seemed to sense an air of impending entanglement from Kuji tonight,

“Hmph, come at me from anywhere,” Higashino muttered with a combative stance, taking the lead as he found a secluded vacant seat and dropped heavily into it. “The strikes are worsening by the day,” Kuji remarked. “This might well spark a revolution. I can’t make sense of it anymore. Not for us.” He said this with a calm, almost dismissive smile. “But more pressingly,” Higashino responded with a slightly troubled expression, “Japan appears in upheaval—last night I met someone who witnessed the February 26 Incident firsthand. Our homeland too is making abrupt turns.”

“Japan moves to the right, and here to the left?”

Kuji clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back against the chair. Though he could no longer bring himself to voice the question "Which side are you on?", the present reality saw that very essence of a logical world—where no middle ground existed between either extreme—transmuted into ideology and political consciousness, piercing through every mind. "What on earth does it mean that there's no longer any middle ground in knowledge—neither right nor left?" "Wasn't it there until just the other day?" "Has something that existed until recently suddenly vanished?"

Kuji had no intention of attacking Higashino, yet naturally and almost imperceptibly began skillfully doing so. Then Higashino, "No, I’m neither right nor left." Higashino laughed and answered preemptively. Kuji thought that Higashino’s evasive tactic from before had been just that, and resolved that tonight he would not let him escape no matter what—

“In other words—what does that mean? Is it that thing called liberalism?” he asked. “I do use those foreign-bred abstract nouns for analytical purposes,” Higashino replied, “but when measuring human life psychology, I take great care to avoid them whenever possible. Because they’re more likely to lead us astray. You seem convinced that knowledge can’t exist outside these imported abstractions—but as I told you before, what you’re practicing isn’t scientificism. It’s expedientism. If you’re content with expedientism, why suffer? Just follow what others teach you. Left or right—those labels don’t matter.”

“Hmm.”

Kuji seemed deep in thought for a moment. However, he increasingly came to view Higashino as nothing but a defeatist man who kept evading this ideological reality now pressing in—a reality that permitted no denial. "So then, what are you—are you dismissing even what might be called systems of intellect, the product of such immense human effort? So you consider logic—in other words—to be nothing but a useless appendage."

When Kuji inadvertently slipped into debate—during that Parisian period when one found oneself in a world of irreversible logic—Higashino made a slightly bitter face. Just then, the waiter came around to their side. After ordering flounder and poultry, Higashino flung down the menu as if declaring "Well now it'll surely taste awful," and

“And you?” Higashino asked Kuji.

“That’d do for me too—no, wait, I’d rather not have flounder. Spaghetti.” When the waiter left, Higashino laughed—for some reason—and asked, “Why go for udon?” “I like udon with fromage. Haven’t had it in ages.” “So you don’t actually hate flounder.” “Don’t hate it at all. I rather enjoy flounder’s delicate flavour.” “Well then, keep enjoying it. That’s precisely the point.”

Higashino said, lit a cigarette, and closed in from afar as if leisurely preparing his opponent like a meal. Kuji, who was much younger than Higashino, began realizing he'd misjudged his adversary when he perceived that his opponent's train of thought rotated peculiarly around food matters. "Lately I can't see anyone without wanting to argue—but aren't you becoming rather neurotic yourself? The things you say keep getting stranger." "What's strange? You weighed flounder against udon and chose udon, didn't you? Honestly, such choices hardly matter—why not try eating both? You'd have us analyze udon's nutritional value versus flounder's before deeming them fit to eat, wouldn't you? But minds exist that consider such analysis ruins the meal's inherent flavor—making the eating pointless."

Ha ha! When Kuji realized this was the "middle ground" Higashino had meant, he burst out guffawing. "In that case, you're the neurotic one. You're trying to devour both right and left through this nervous breakdown. Maybe I'll try that approach too." "It's not just right and left. Up, down, and middle too." Higashino further expanded Kuji's mind, dragged him into a wilderness of confusion, and laughed with composed ease—as if saying *Now get ready*. Kuji felt dizzy and stood momentarily still, concentrating his mental faculties on the two forms of flounder and udon.

"But you see, when there are clear statistical tables here showing flounder and udon's nutritional components, there's no precision beyond the minds that made those tables." "Without trusting that exactness, knowledge doesn't exist." "Scientism means praising the intellectual sharpness of brains that rely on such precision, I suppose." "And you dare call even that expedientism?"

Higashino started to say something but, after surveying the foreigners gradually filling the spacious hall, suddenly—

“Have you been to Montmartre?” he asked. To bring up such irrelevant matters just when we’d reached the crucial point where he should have delivered a decisive blow—how cowardly, Kuji thought, feeling the blood rush to his face for an instant.

“You should come see Montmartre after midnight sometime. They’re always shooting at each other with light machine guns—the Apaches. Do drop by my place too. It’s quite something, I tell you. But what’s amusing is what those gang members say. When it comes time to die, they claim machine guns are quicker than swords. Now that’s scientific thinking, wouldn’t you agree?” “But what does that have to do with nutritional value?”

“Aren’t you tallying up nutritional values for dying? Quite the expedient method.” Kuji suddenly sensed a gaping pitfall opening before him. Yet he now burned to drive one unshakable nail into Higashino’s eel-slippery mind without delay. “That applies to humans marching toward death, doesn’t it? Our calculations concern the nutritional value for living—an entirely separate matter. It’s precisely by considering how to live that knowledge enriches humanity, you see.” With the sensation of watching an eel’s tail-tip flicker restlessly, Kuji regarded Higashino through a smile that kept flickering into quiet existence.

“That’s right. We must live.” Higashino agreed with solemnity that threatened to twist his defeated feelings into compromise. Just as Kuji was thinking he might as well have stayed silent from the start and composed haiku instead, Higashino launched another attack—having made a grand detour unnoticed—with abrupt intensity. “Our knowledge must live, yet expedientism kills even what’s alive. What science is this that stabs to death all the vibrant energy of human emotions? If killing is science, then a machine gun would be more expedient.”

“That’s just your bluff.”

Kuji said in a voice like a startled cry and then took up his fork. "There are all sorts of bluffs." "Refined scientific conclusions all take the form of bluffs." "Bluffs are the truth." "You wouldn’t understand."

Kuji finally fell silent before Higashino's outrageous manner of speaking. The fork in his hand trembled faintly. His head kept ringing shrilly; he gulped down a full glass of wine but, feeling he might suffocate, drank water instead. Yet no matter how hard Kuji racked his brain, the next words wouldn't come. Still, he couldn't bring himself to feel utterly defeated. If this meant defeat, what had Europe's greatest civilization taught us after all?

When the flounder and spaghetti arrived, Higashino said while picking up his knife: “Let’s pause our debate awhile, Mr. Kuji. Such carefully prepared dishes deserve living appreciation.” Kuji felt his head might detach and fly away, thinking Higashino meant to resume arguing. “You—while we Orientals agonize over knowledge’s universality—obsess over particularities of objects and ethnicities! In this you resemble Yashiro. Though he doesn’t dig pitfalls like yours—with you, language’s general utility crumbles! Never have I encountered such illogic! Where’s progress here? This absurdity—”

“Well, let’s eat first,” said Higashino. “It’s not that I’m saying everything you claim is wrong. —Do you know shogi?” Suddenly making a wild-eyed face, Higashino drank his wine. “What is it? Are you laying another trap?” “Indeed, I intend to set one. I’ll show you how it’s done.” “No, I won’t fall for it.” Kuji shook his head violently, wound spaghetti around his fork, and began eating in haste.

“That won’t do. Unless you fall where you ought to fall, scientism will bear no fruit. You insist on choosing only the safe paths that others have already spoken of or trodden, you see. It’s precisely because European sciences have fallen into the depths they needed to fall into that they’ve blossomed so splendidly, you see. You’re clinging to science like a lion because you’re terrified of straying from the path, but a path isn’t something laid out from the start. Your path is one you create yourself; it’s not something others lay out for you.”

Kuji, feeling mentally exhausted from navigating this labyrinth, let out a sigh and began to vaguely realize that this old man's weapon was of a rather peculiar kind. "I can't comprehend there being so many types of logic—your logic, others' logic—as you claim. If such multitudes truly existed, we wouldn't need to deliberately call logic 'knowledge.'" "Yours is all sensation." "Sensation isn't publicly verifiable knowledge."

“What knowledge without sensation even is—I can’t say I understand that—but in any case, well, tonight you should just plunge into this empirical sensation we call a feast.” “Then you’ll grasp the technique of cuisine.” “Knowledge without technique—such a thing isn’t science.” “If you accept that everything begins with sensation, you stand to gain rather than lose anything, wouldn’t you?” “Even you have gone to the trouble of plunging all the way to Europe—if you don’t grasp even a single sensation here, you’ll end up being nothing but a fool who can’t comprehend how Europe’s technical order connects to its science.” “Why torment yourself so? What need is there to become a fool?”

Kuji, who had been continuously cornered, felt something like a vibration from his tailbone reverberate through his brain as the wine's effects accelerated. Then, as both his fatigue and the alcohol dissipated, Kuji grew even more animated. Each time he lifted his back from the sofa's Moroccan leather, the sharp crackle of his clothes peeling away from the leather clung by body heat resonated through his spine. "Today I'll let the elder have his flowers." "Well, this can't be helped either."

With that, Kuji said, grabbed the bird leg that had been brought out, and bit into it.

“Oh come now, it’s not as though you’ve lost all your spirit. Paris has no such thing as age. Here we’ve got nothing but pieces that strip away logic’s veneer called universality—so you must wield them. In shogi there’s a piece called the knight—why does that bastard leap diagonally over one square? You still don’t know, do you? When it comes down to it, that’s what makes the king surrender. I tried a royal fork on you tonight—which will you give me? Come on, answer me!”

Even during their amicable laughter, when Higashino suddenly thrust forth his verbal blade from within that very moment, Kuji found himself all the more at a loss for how to respond. When he tried to silently pour wine into Higashino’s glass, Higashino abruptly covered the rim of the cup. “Answer me.” “The rook or the king?” Though too harsh for a joke, Higashino’s face—with its mischievous air—declared that a single response would determine your worth. “Alright then, in that case I’ll defeat you no matter what tonight.” “Let’s have a serious match.”

With that, Kuji declared and downed his wine in one gulp. “Are you giving up both your king and rook?”

Then Higashino, as if flipping a shogi board mid-game, smiled and poured wine from his own bottle into Kuji's glass. Kuji grew increasingly irritated by Higashino's tendency to slip away when pressed, only to strike at vulnerable moments when his guard dropped. In the cavernous recesses of the room thick with tobacco smoke, debates between left and right factions erupted from every corner. ...that Trotskyists dominated Communist Party activities, that some tacit understanding was forming between Stalinists and Trotskyists. Amid talk of strikes raging fiercest in northern departments and near Marseille, only the diminutive figure rumored to be Germany's former finance minister sat silently nursing his post-dinner coffee, utterly disinterested in the actual discussions. The lanky youth said to be a Russian prince—with lifeless eyes and a narrow forehead—paced incessantly through the crowd without engaging anyone. Beside Higashino, a German youth remained absorbed in reading Yanagita Kunio's Legends of Japan in the original text, while others debated leftist theories in their native tongues. Some grew so heated they pounded tables, sending waiters scurrying over, mistaking the noise for summons.

When they finished their meal, Kuji and Higashino felt a postprandial lethargy and remained silent for some 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 about.” “So which are you?”

“I thought I’d been talking to you about nothing but that all along, but must I still spell it out?”

Higashino answered in a voice drained of enthusiasm as he gazed at the foreigners. "No, I still haven't heard."

“To me, you—a Japanese caught up here—are far more interesting to observe than any foreign left wing or right wing.” “But what truly worries me is what on earth someone like you intends to do once you return to Japan.”

“Hmm.” Kuji said a word and fell silent for a moment.

“What on earth do you intend to do once you return? This isn’t an era where merely having gone abroad holds value like it once did. If you apply wholesale those left-wing or right-wing theories you’ve learned here to Japan, they’ll inevitably become riddled with errors—yet you can’t remain as you were before coming either. The fact remains that both you and I have had our ways of seeing things warped; all that’s left is determining where and how we’ll recalibrate our bearings from here on out.”

“Please wait a moment.”

Kuji cradled his head even more pensively and began staring at the tabletop. “What do you mean by our consciousness being distorted?” “Both you and I have become unable to express in a way that aligns what we’ve seen with the words we’ve conceived in our heads. While we hadn’t yet come here, even when reading or hearing about foreign lands, there remained the blessing of not having seen reality—we could impose meaning upon the arbitrary fantasies we each conjured and legitimize them as doctrine. But now that we’ve shattered those illusions, we’ve become unable to assign meaning even to their destruction. It’s as if we’re being laughed at with ‘Serves you right!’”

With a lonely smile tinged with self-mockery, Higashino kept his eyes fixed on the face of the foreign woman he had been watching all along. “However, human perception doesn’t change whether in foreign countries or Japan—if there were such variations, no one would trust knowledge anymore. We came here to observe how what we perceived in Japan as the essence of modern thought actually operates here—so by seeing what underpins these ideologies firsthand, haven’t we become enriched?”

“That’s precisely why I’m worried about you,” said Higashino. “If what you’ve observed here isn’t directly applicable back home, what will you do? What Japan shares in common with what we’ve seen here amounts to mere fragments. Yet Japan’s intellectual class believes all of it exists there wholesale. So they rush to imitate everything from this side indiscriminately. The masses won’t budge an inch. Both camps think the other fools them.” “But if there are so many errors among our people,” Kuji countered, “we must find ways to point them out. Even speaking up imperfectly beats maintaining silence.”

“However, what do we do when the masses—those outside Japan’s intellectual class—turn out to be correct? Lately, it’s become increasingly common that those masses who haven’t seen foreign countries are more correct than those of us who have.” “So we’re supposed to treat even mistakes as correct?”

Kuji said irritably and laughed, looking down. Having said his piece, Higashino already seemed unable to hear Kuji’s words from that moment onward. The reason was that the beautiful woman with unnaturally blue eyes whom he had been watching was being tightly embraced by a one-eyed, bald-headed publisher despite her literary husband sitting right beside them. The handsome husband maintained a pretense of not seeing his wife being increasingly pressed against the one-eyed man as she giggled delightedly, all while calmly discussing left-wing matters in English with a neighboring customer, his thinly bearded face wearing an air of self-satisfaction.

At that moment, Yashiro entered through the doorway, his sunburned face scanning the room as he looked around. Spotting Kuji, he approached and gave his shoulder a light tap. "Oh, when did you get back?" "Just now." Yashiro settled into the seat beside Kuji and began gazing nostalgically at the ceiling of the dining area he hadn't visited in ages. "But Mr. Higashino," Kuji said again to Higashino, who remained fixated on observing the blue-eyed woman's movements, "rather than contemplating what we'll do after returning to Japan, I believe it would be more advantageous—while we're still here—to think of ourselves as remaining here indefinitely."

“As you can see, we’re being done in tonight.”

Higashino said while looking at Yashiro. "You're referring to yourself?" "Of course I mean you."

“Don’t talk nonsense,” Kuji said, raising his head. “This Mr. Higashino here often says things quite similar to what Yashiro does. “It’s just that his approach proves slightly more skillful than yours.” “After all, I’ve always been someone interested in global public discourse, so unless it’s something applicable worldwide, I think talking about it would just be a waste.” “But you and Mr. Higashino keep dragging the conversation into matters that seem applicable nowhere but Japan, and obsess over plans that suffocate me.” “The presumption that we Japanese can smugly confine our ideas to domestic applicability is precisely what leads Japan astray.” “That’s already been settled, hasn’t it?” “Where exactly is the error in that?”

“So now those who’ve deluded themselves set out to save the world?”

Yashiro thrust the blade he had just rested in the mountains straight in with a single motion. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Kuji glared at Yashiro in silence for a while but soon let out a dry laugh and, "You don’t love Japan." "You’re in love with Japan." "Only love remains beyond science’s grasp." "You’ve finally realized there are things even science can’t handle, haven’t you?" "That is what will destroy Japan."

“The ones trying to destroy Japan might already be emerging.” After Yashiro and Kuji began their heated exchange, the one-eyed man embracing the blue-eyed woman—without so much as glancing aside—persistently whispered enticements while bringing his mouth closer to hers. Beside them, the woman’s husband continued tirelessly championing the idealistic Trotskyists while denouncing the pragmatic Stalinist faction without respite. The heads of Kuji and Yashiro remained frozen—their debate having ceased abruptly when the American’s booming English overwhelmed them—until suddenly Kuji:

"But can ideals be stripped from us? With a mind stripped of ideals, how could anyone build anything?" Kuji pressed Yashiro in an irritated voice. "What does it mean to contemplate ideals through translated terms? Are you saying it's like some country bumpkin fixating on urban ideals through standardized speech until they perish?" Kuji fell abruptly silent mid-sentence, his fist trembling slightly.

“Can academic progress exist if we make no effort to participate in this world’s humanism? Do you think morality could even take shape?” “But humanism exists in our Orient too. It does exist properly. Yet it differs somewhat from this Western humanism. I won’t say now which is better, but if they differ, then to bring them closer—we must consider ourselves a bit more, you know? Ourselves… Japan.” “It does exist properly.” “However, it differs somewhat from this Western humanism.” “I don’t want to say which is better now, but if they’re different, then to bring them closer, we must give some thought to ourselves—to Japan.” “Ourselves… Japan, you know.”

Kuji formed a bitter, pained smile as if laughter were being forced back into his mouth, then suddenly dropped his voice in mockery.

“Does humanism have an Eastern and Western distinction? Isn’t precisely because no such division exists that we can devote ourselves to that ideal?” “Will you eternally repeat this drill—denying even the evident differences between East and West—out of intellectual vanity? In short, that’s your training regimen.” “If this regimen stems from analytical power, then isn’t it precisely what safeguards the world? There exists one immutable path beyond anyone’s alteration. It’s analytical power that discovers it—since when does analysis have Eastern or Western variants? When measured by the same standards, defeat simply proves the loser’s weakness. That much is indisputable.”

With a motion like delivering the final blow, Kuji pulled down one shoulder and stared fixedly at Yashiro as he spoke. "You fail to see beyond just the parts where you’ve lost." "Turning even winning situations into losses—that’s analytical power." "Look at this! Can you truly claim that this... is living with its whole being?" Beside Kuji and Yashiro’s ongoing debate, Higashino—already seeming annoyed by their argument—kept his eyes fixed on the one-eyed man’s feverish yet eerie, almost animalistic expression as he tried to seduce the woman. Higashino’s gaze—intent on uncovering whether the woman’s husband was letting his wife consort freely with the one-eyed publisher to establish himself in Paris, or whether she was complying with the man’s advances out of single-minded hope for her husband’s career advancement—had not slackened in the slightest from the start. However, for some reason, the writer husband showed not the slightest sign of perturbation regarding his wife’s infidelity. He argued that the idealist Trotskyists would inevitably clash with the Stalinist faction’s actions in the near future, and that the Paris strikes would be exploited by the capitalists.

Higashino observed calmly, contemplating whether his argument—delivered while satirizing the one-eyed man’s bestiality that exploited the vulnerabilities in his wife’s heart—was indeed intended as such.

“Are we done here, hmm? “If you’re done here, let’s get going and move somewhere else.”

Higashino, after watching the woman abruptly turn her face away when the one-eyed man tried to steal a kiss, said to them. Even after Kuji had ordered the waiter to bring the bill, the two remained silent for some time.

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

A car passed by with its roof open, packed with people. From the roof, those who had clenched their fists and raised them shouted in unison, “Front Populaire” (People’s Front). Then even those walking on both sides of the road lifted clenched fists and joined in unison. “When did things come to this?” “It’s changing moment by moment, huh?”

Yashiro said as he watched the car moving away.

“This happens every day now.”

Kuji wore an expression that seemed to say what was coming had simply arrived. "Japan will start imitating this soon enough too, won't they?" Yashiro laughed.

“They’re already out there,” said Higashino. “Movies, cameras, electricity—since no country has traditions in these fields, competition arises immediately. But ideas of this sort without tradition are merely forms—they quickly become fashionable and get replaced by the next trend.” “It’s like how automobile designs change every year.” “Yet now that you mention it,” Yashiro continued, “even tradition has solidified into a formalized mode of thought—temples remain temples, scientists remain scientists.” “You’re no exception, Kuji.” “You’re a technician who mistakes the form of thought for thought itself.”

Kuji turned back from a step ahead to face Yashiro, “Let’s go to Montmartre. Then it’s a real showdown.” Having said that, he walked toward the subway. In front of the subway, a young man clutching a stack of pamphlets to his chest was shouting, “Buy this! It lists the addresses and family members of two hundred fifty bourgeois households in Paris. When the time comes, crush these bastards immediately!” while selling them. “The Japanese bourgeois—here there are two hundred fifty of them alone,” Yashiro said. “In comparison, Japan has only two. If there are only two, then Japan is far too impoverished to even be called capitalist.”

“Then you’d have them multiply further?” Kuji turned back again to face Yashiro. “That’s right. Unless we reach 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, does it not? Even if you rant about capitalism—where is there any capitalism here to smash? Japan has been a nation of circular harmony since the Nara period. In such a capitalism-free country, brandishing leftist logic would only make younger brothers beat their parents and elder brothers to death. Japanese people could never do such things.”

“Japan has been about circular harmony, you say? Where on earth did that opinion come from?”

As Kuji descended into the metro entrance, assaulted by a stifling wave of carbon dioxide, he asked Yashiro:

“Isn’t that written in history? When emperors revered temples, temples amassed vast domains. Then the Fujiwara would force them to shrink. When the Fujiwara seized power instead of temples and expanded manors, Emperor Go-Suzaku consulted Regent Yorimichi to liberate those estates. Next came warriors—when they ruled autocratically, they’d pose as champions of the people only to be suppressed. When pawnshops and liquor stores started bleeding the people dry instead of warriors, warriors were ordered to crush them again. Japanese politics has been an endless cycle of circular harmony. Then came Meiji—when reason prevailed over logic—and that European intellect you adore barged in. This analytical force dissected everything—reason, emotions—that’s Taisho and Showa for you. Analyze parents and masters, they lose value; only your own worth remains. But analyze yourself and you find utter banality. Not knowing what’s even worth valuing—that’s the intellectual class. We weren’t meant to become this, yet here we are—look up and there’s this country. I came yearning for true freedom here, yet all I find is leftists brawling with rightists—ah, if only that existed—”

Having said that, Yashiro suddenly stopped in the middle of the subway stairs. “This is nothing but carbon dioxide!” he exclaimed. Higashino looked up at the ceiling while tugging at Yashiro’s sleeve—the latter still blocking the path—and said: “Well, enough of that. Let’s go, let’s go. People ought to see what there is to see.” With that, he boarded the metro. “Let’s watch them exchange fire with light machine guns in Montmartre.”

As Kuji led the way searching for seats ahead of the two, the car began to move.

The area of Montmartre emerging from the metro appeared beneath a thin haze as a gently sloping sea of flowing light. The clustered amusement districts here differed from Montparnasse, suffused with an old-fashioned lushness. The three climbed a rising slope road toward the summit, leaving behind the town's commotion. The road paved with pottery-like cobblestones remained uneven yet proved slippery. The winding slope extending from blue gas lamp eaves no longer held any passersby. Each time they passed motionless black figures standing like trees while kissing, the three abruptly ceased talking.

“There’s a poet called Saijō Yaso, you know. He once said that when he was walking alone here at night, someone suddenly grabbed him by the neck from behind, and when he came to his senses about thirty minutes later, he found himself collapsed right in the middle of this slope.”

Higashino said as he looked around the area. His voice resonated clearly through the densely wooded slope. The buildings, colored like old blood, stood with all their windows closed, while between the cobblestones' loose gaps writhed black patterns like fierce scales crawling upward.

“What’s gotten into me tonight? I can’t stop 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 fresh leaves cast sharp shadows across Kuji’s stern forehead as he turned without smiling. “Everywhere’s drowning in political talk these days. At least we’ll get to see some proper clashes between rightists and leftists during Bastille Day.” “You two had better settle your debates conclusively soon,” Higashino said, pausing on the suffocating slope yet chuckling alone. “Or there’ll be blood spilled by July fourteenth.”

“They say they’ve already composed a Popular Front song as of yesterday.” “The national anthem isn’t La Marseillaise anymore—they claim it’s now the Popular Front’s song.” To this Kuji, Yashiro retorted— “Isn’t the right-wing’s Marseillaise itself a revolutionary song?” “And now another revolutionary anthem?” he laughed with bitter amusement. “No matter how many revolutions sweep through, only temples endure eternally.” Higashino turned his gaze toward Sacré-Cœur Basilica’s spire looming at the summit as he spoke. The closer they climbed, the more dilapidated buildings dissolved into hues stained by maroon and sickly green oils. Preserved as a historic district where renovations were forbidden, this worn hat crowning Paris kept its inhabitants shrouded in mystery. Each time Kuji spotted light seeping through windows—likely from where nightly machine-gun exchanges began—he stole furtive glances inside.

On the door of a small establishment with only "Café" written at its entrance, there was a small window at eye level. When Kuji suddenly peeked through it, inside was a café filled with waitresses rarely seen in Paris. “There are waitresses here. That’s unusual. Let’s go in for a bit. I’m thirsty.” Kuji pushed open the door with his shoulder without consulting the others and went in. Yashiro and Higashino followed through the narrow entrance that forced them to turn sideways, then leaned against chairs that creaked loudly. The dim cramped room’s air struck their nostrils with the stale stench of sweat.

“This is filthy. Let’s get out of here.” Just as Yashiro said this and began to rise, three young waitresses from among the roughly ten who looked like flower girls suddenly flung themselves against him.

“Oh, leaving already? Fine then. Give me a cigarette.” They twisted their bodies unnecessarily, swaying their hips as they pressed closer, their wrist bones protruding prominently. Beneath the mottled white powder on both sides of their noses, fatty bumps rose in clusters alongside the foul armpit odor. The women pestering Kuji and Higashino for cigarettes hunched their shoulders and pleaded in coaxing voices. Kuji and the other two frowned in unison as they silently handed over cigarettes. The women stepped back and began smoking while singing nasal, somber songs each in their own way.

“This one’s a man.” Kuji whispered in a low voice to Yashiro. “Right.”

Yashiro nodded in a way that revealed he too had actually been suspicious from the start. The more they looked, every aspect appeared feminine, yet there remained an irrefutably male core. As they examined each woman one by one, they realized even the cashier and violin player were all men. Each revelation sent waves of revulsion through Kuji's chest, like uncovering blue lizards squirming from beneath a peeled-back rotten mat. The exposed men-women no longer approached, but a new one came over and asked cheerfully in a feminine voice, "What will you have?"

The three ordered beer, but even when the glasses were all set out, no one took more than a perfunctory sip, and in their revulsion, they neither drank further nor spoke. The women who first approached Kuji and the others remained huddled in the corner of the room, as if ashamed of being disliked, heads bowed in dejection, staying silent beneath the blue light indefinitely. As Kuji thought that if these had been real women, they would indeed have suffered such a blow, he found it strange that their sorrowful demeanor now began to look like that of real women once more,

"Oh." For an instant, he doubted himself. Even while knowing they were unquestionably men, the way his unsettled feelings sank into pity created an illusion like stepping into some unfamiliar new realm. Even if one considered it their skillful artifice, each might have already become ideal women surpassing actual women through this very performance. "I can't stand this anymore." "Let's go."

“Let’s go,” Yashiro said. No sooner had he started to rise than the women—who until then had been slumped in dejection—fluttered over with sudden swiftness and draped themselves against him once more.

“I can’t breathe.” “What? “Huh? “Huh?”

With an enchanting smile, the woman cradled Yashiro's neck in one arm and peered into his face, but finding nothing to say, she again begged him for a cigarette.

The woman at the counter made her eyes glint sharply over the waitresses from afar, as if assessing their performance. Only the woman playing the violin moved her body gently in rhythm with the music. As he watched, each woman maintained her position like cryptogamic plants, their gazes nevertheless absorbed in some moist pleasure. The pervasive squalor surrounding them constituted an art approaching meticulous realism achieved through layered artifice.

Kuji felt as though he were a living audience member who had stepped onto the stage. When he glanced at Higashino and Yashiro, they appeared as two swollen radishes—talentless monkeys bloated in agony without ever realizing they had become actors. "Ah, this has already stripped reality bare," he thought. Unconsciously stroking his knee with this realization, Kuji began examining how they bent their hands when walking, the spacing between their feet, and how their wigs were attached, now wanting to peer even into the depths of these women's consciousness.

“Alright, the check.”

When Yashiro said this, a woman approached Kuji. "Oh, leaving already?"

As she spoke, the woman placed her hand on Kuji's knee. The man's husky body heat felt stifling as his rough breath struck Kuji's cheek. Even Kuji, that devoted lover of Paris, 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 into laughter in unison. As they left, they looked back at three or four tourist-like customers entering inside again and all wiped their faces. "Ah, I feel sick. Isn't there somewhere we can get some fresh air? I feel like I'm going to throw up," said Yashiro, taking the lead as they climbed toward the mountaintop. "What on earth kind of ideology is that?" Yashiro asked Kuji. "No, actually, I'm done with that too."

At Kuji’s words, the fervor of their evening-long debate seemed to scatter all at once. "I didn't know about that place either. Next it'll be machine guns. Visiting the upper temple is quite the ordeal too." Higashino said and chuckled quietly to himself. In the square beside the temple at the summit, about twenty beach parasols with hanging tassels had been opened, beneath which round tables covered with Benkei-striped cloths were spread out across the space. The terrace here too was constructed in an old-fashioned open-air style unlike any other. On every table, lamps with cornflower-shaped shades were emitting faint trails of oil smoke. In the center of the spacious, customerless terrace there, the three had stationed themselves and ordered lemonade, but as they propped their elbows on the table and sighed, once more they burst into laughter from no discernible source. They wore the faces of prisoners who had just fled a shared eerie cave. Amidst their smiling faces avoiding each other’s gazes, the lamp chimney squeaked quietly like a cicada.

“This whole area’s like a jack-in-the-box.” As Kuji, drinking his lemonade and surveying the dim surroundings, made this remark, Yashiro asked: “Where exactly does this machine gun exchange happen? Is that too just the lid of a jack-in-the-box?” “At night, the Apache gangs around here apparently exchange blows over turf disputes,” Kuji replied. “But Mr. Higashino, they’re not actually fighting for real—they’re just putting on some kind of tourist attraction show, aren’t they? This area does seem rather dubious.”

“They’re giving you special treatment without even realizing it themselves.”

Higashino answered with a composed face. At first, the two seemed unable to grasp his meaning, but they suddenly burst into laughter again. "Well, who knows—maybe they're even getting a monthly salary from the city hall for this, putting on some kind of live performance art. Not like that café earlier, though."

And Kuji, this time, sank into earnest thought. "But even if you call it art, dead art ceases to be art." "Only through life does something become art." "What we saw earlier—that was too alive. That's where it erred." "Art must kill just one point somewhere, or it remains a lie," Higashino said. "Anyway, shall we go witness those machine guns tonight?" "Or perhaps seek out real women?" "I feel rather inclined to return to nature this evening, don't you?"

Kuji looked at Yashiro and grinned slyly. "You've finally let your guard down. But if that café had real women, would we be here in front of this temple right now?"

Yashiro said and looked up at the towering white Sacré-Cœur Tower before his eyes. “Well then, shall we settle for achieving enlightenment tonight?” “But honestly, a world without arguments isn’t interesting at all.” “It feels like our work’s disappeared...” “This suspiciously friendly atmosphere—I tell you, God must’ve messed something up.”

Kuji said and looked up at the temple tower. "Just building this temple atop the mountain—you can't imagine how much foolish hardship the people of Paris must have gone through." "It's only natural machine guns should go off every night." "It's as if it's preaching we'll invite divine punishment if we forget our predecessors' struggles." Higashino seemed to have recalled coming to the mountain for worship and gave a slight bow toward Sacré-Cœur. Yashiro's eyes momentarily gleamed.

"Mr. Higashino, do you too ever find human efforts appearing foolish? It happens to me sometimes too." "No, well—I'm foremost among those who've diligently toiled at foolish efforts. But when even one person acts idiotic, it seems all humanity becomes equally guilty, regardless of their good deeds. That's precisely what makes humans interesting, don't you think? Anyway, let's head down now. And tonight, I'd like to see just how you all get back to nature."

“Alright then—humanity stands equally guilty.” “Let’s move.”

Having said that, Kuji called for the check and stood up. “Now it’s time for a serious contest.” Yashiro declared.

Before long, the three of them descended from the mountain toward the entertainment district below, their shadows falling behind them as they went.

In Paris, at the foot of Montmartre, there were many top-class dance halls. From among them, they selected one of the most prestigious establishments and went inside. Maison Rouge was entirely red inside. From brass instrument pipes coiled around musicians positioned at the narrow front stage, a tightly controlled sound came surging into Kuji's chest. Suddenly he recalled having an appointment to meet Makiko, but the moment he settled into the chair, he promptly forgot about it.

After the dancers had approached the three of them, champagne was promptly brought over still in a bucket filled with ice. In the center of the room, those who danced danced, and those who rested rested on chairs.

“Ha ha, this is from 1926.”

Higashino read the champagne label and nodded appreciatively. According to Higashino's explanation, that year had yielded the finest grapes in fifty years, with that vintage's flavor being incomparably superior. A mixed-race dancer from the West Indies—her teeth gleaming white—swayed her lithe body even while resting, laughing in time with the music as she turned her head, chattered, and tapped rhythm with her knees. The guests' hearts could no more escape the band's relentless tempo than leaves could resist a torrent. The ever-ascending rhythm swayed the room's atmosphere endlessly like a ship ferrying its passengers. The Italian woman with Carmen-like spiral curls at her temples kept laughing as she poured champagne—a mirth that persisted through every task. These puzzling smiles that made one wonder at their cause adorned not just dancers but every patron alike. Yet with the band's ceaseless playing, the room no longer felt saturated with music. Their hearts simply kept advancing toward some indefinable focal point.

“The women here are genuine, I tell you. Surely they haven’t been lying all this time.”

Having said that, Kuji stroked the Italian woman’s shoulder.

“But this doesn’t seem natural either.”

And then Yashiro raised his glass and laughed again without reason. “That’s right．You see—no matter where we go now，we can’t seem to return to nature anymore．We’re just being swept along．What do you say，Mr．Higashino—are you still thinking up haiku？” Kuji peered excitedly into Higashino’s face． Higashino grasped the Italian woman’s arm，

“This lady keeps asking why I look so lonesome, but do I really still appear that way?” Higashino countered. “Excellent champagne,” Yashiro remarked, lifting his glass alone. “Yet being told I seem lonely by such a woman gives me the queerest sensation. It’s like having a telephone line that’s been connected since antiquity fastened to one’s rear end, listening to conversations leaking through from eternity,” Higashino said.

“Hey, I hear you’re a telephone now.” “Ha ha ha ha, let’s dance with the telephone.” With a body thoroughly addled by drink, Kuji hoisted up the Italian woman’s arm. Yashiro too led the West Indian woman out to dance. Just then a flower seller brought roses, and the French dancer sitting nearby asked Higashino if she might buy some. Without even glancing at the roses, Higashino gave a single nod. Then came the revelation: a small rose costing twenty sen in Japan was priced here at thirty yen. Yet whether thirty or fifty yen mattered little—the band had already lifted Higashino’s head skyward before he knew it. From the room’s corner emerged a Jewish-looking manager who’d been staring fixedly at the champagne bottles; timing his move precisely, he began rotating them to ensure even contact with the ice. As champagne flowed into glasses, plates stacked upon the table—in this dance hall where plate counts tallied revelry’s cost, the hazy-headed patrons found their towers of crockery rising ever higher. Each time Kuji returned from dancing, the Italian woman refrained from pressing Higashino to join.

“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, all three of them had stopped listening to anyone’s words. While offering champagne to the dancers and talking about whatever they pleased, “Well now, what do we have here?”

Yashiro laughed as he looked at the plates stacked high like pillars. “Ha ha, they’re full of life.” “They’re alive, these things!” Kuji laughed too while gazing amusedly at the plates on the table. What had started as a single pillar of plates had grown into two. Before they knew it, the room had filled with guests, yet the three men no longer noticed anyone else. The Italian woman, pitying Higashino who was being shunned by the other women, spoke only to him. Even as Higashino made Carmen open her palm for a Japanese-style fortune reading and inquired about the best time to visit Italy, Kuji and Yashiro kept dancing vigorously. Soon the two plate pillars became three, each competing to stand tallest on the table with segments as beautiful as bamboo shoots after rain.

“This is fascinating—they’re locked in mortal combat now,” said Kuji, gazing at the pillars of plates with delighted eyes like a parent measuring their child’s growth. “So they’ve finally reverted to nature,” Higashino remarked, though Yashiro seemed to be rebelling against the establishment’s brazen tactics—flaunting consumption figures while stealing time through relentless plate-stacking. “Bring it on!” Yashiro shouted, pouring champagne over himself and splashing dancers alike. Kuji refused to be outdone by this swordsman-like charge. Champagne spilled halfway down their hands as they drank, yet they kept rising to dance, drenching their chests anew. All the while, the tireless band fertilized their targets, stretching the plate pillars ever upward.

Having finished a dance and returned, Kuji slumped into his chair when suddenly the pillar of plates caught his eye again. Then, from the shape of that pillar, he suddenly recalled those columns supporting the roof at the four corners of Notre-Dame’s sanctuary—countless vertebrae-like segments stacked one upon another. “Oh! This place is a temple!”

Before he knew it, Kuji exclaimed. “A temple?” “That might be it—I do hear something like sutras being chanted.” “Alright, let’s keep at it!”

Yashiro declared and took to dancing with the Italian woman again. Though it remained unclear who was drinking when or why, the plates alone kept rising upward at an uncanny speed of their own accord. "This creature—it's practically intellectual," Kuji remarked. Each time his eyes fell upon the plates, Kuji chuckled softly to himself and sipped champagne. Even amidst the general merriment, the manager never once smiled—materializing silently to rotate champagne bottles in their ice with surgical precision, stack plates, then vanish again. Sensing perhaps that Kuji and Yashiro's contest might rage eternally, Higashino raised his hand like a referee signaling victory,

“Alright, let’s head back now.”

Having said this to the two, he told the Italian woman to bring the bill. When they looked at the bill that came immediately, it amounted to over two thousand francs. After combining their wallets and going outside, the three decided to spend the night at Higashino's hotel and once more climbed Montmartre's slope.

The clock was nearing three in the morning. There were absolutely no passersby. Amidst the tall, ink-black buildings, the piercing gas lamps cast a bluish light like moonlight. Having abruptly shifted from a world of crimson colors and noise to this profound silence at midnight's deepest hour, the three walked wordlessly for some time, each maintaining their solitary distance. Then Kuji suddenly drew near Yashiro and seized him by the neck.

“Hey, how was Tyrol?” Yashiro, faced with Kuji’s belated inquiry about the trip, seemed at a loss for how to respond and merely said, “Hmm,” before falling silent.

“Hmm.” “That’s all you have to say?” “The glacier was nice.” “I’m not talking about the glacier.” “Then what are you talking about?” “You’re such a fool.” “Didn’t I warn you enough?” “Get married. Get married.” “Your Japanese nationalism may be childish, but you’re irreplaceable to me.” “Marry Ms. Chizuko already.” “If you don’t, once you return to Japan, you and that person will surely never meet again.”

“Why do you call my Japanese nationalism childish? It’s only natural for Japanese people to embrace Japanese nationalism, isn’t it?”

Yashiro grabbed the arm Kuji was swinging and looked at his face.

“Childish—that’s what yours is. Even if you flaunt that nonsense here, who in all of Paris would ever imitate it?” “Who could possibly be one to imitate it?”

“You bastard,” Kuji said, shaking Yashiro by the neck. “Has anyone ever succeeded by selling goods that can’t be imitated? True greatness lies in making others copy you!” “Then what exactly are you copying?” Yashiro pressed again. “I’m demonstrating how to copy the world itself! Acting superior without imitating anything just proves your own inability.” “How long will you keep up this monkey mimicry?”

As Yashiro said this, he tried to free himself from Kuji. "If you can't imitate something, try until you can." "That's what training means." "Why do you think we keep climbing this slope here?" "You think you can scale this steep incline without imitating anything?" "Hmph—this is a chest-pounding slope." "The world's own chest-pounding slope." "Let your chest take more pounding through training! Do it!" "What exactly were you doing in Tyrol?"

With that, Kuji shoved Yashiro hard. Yashiro pushed back his body that had staggered against the stone wall with one hand while— "You don't understand the suffering that is history." "Can Japanese people ever escape the suffering of being Japanese?" "If you want to run away, then try running away." Just as Yashiro was about to collide again with Kuji's body—which was trying to break free with sword-drawing force—Higashino, who had climbed up from behind, pulled them apart. "Hey, hold on. They're at it again."

Kuji and Yashiro turned around and looked at Higashino’s face. Meanwhile, the staccato of what sounded like machine gun fire—reminiscent of beating tatami mats during a thorough cleaning—reached them slightly muffled yet vividly from afar. Kuji, who had been listening intently in a daze, not quite believing what was happening, suddenly recalled from that sound the machine gun fire from military drills he had often heard late at night in his study on the outskirts of Tokyo. Then, in an instant of strange rawness, his room and desk floated before his eyes.

"They're at it again," Yashiro said, staring through the gaslight toward the sound piercing through. The three resumed climbing the slope side by side in silence. The crisp solitary notes snapping through air persisted briefly before ceasing abruptly. Their intermingled shadows stretched long across the hushed slope, intersecting and bending fore and aft with blade-like precision. When they rounded beneath the gas lamp on that alley where water streamed over stone pavement, a woman clad in deepest black stood motionless alone as if awaiting someone. Shortly after passing her by, Kuji glanced back. A man in a black workman's jacket kneed the woman's waist once and caught an upward blow to his brow before trudging wordlessly downslope with her in weary tandem.

With the drowsy sensation of having finished shaving, Kuji changed his collar. Across the street ahead, amidst a field of grass growing thick over the stone roof of the architecture school, vertical clusters of irises stood in full bloom. As Kuji gazed at the pale blue sky above the irises with the feeling of one looking upon a marsh's edge, students who seemed to have escaped their teacher’s notice crawled up one by one through the weeds like skirmishers, each choosing a sunny spot to flop down. Given that this was a school renowned for its strictness allowing no leisure for play, the sight of students sneaking about like scattered soldiers on the roof struck one as a comical scene. Some would remain at school from early morning until two or three in the night, gripping their desks like lions as they applied themselves to drafting and calculations—a sight Kuji observed every evening.

At that moment, hearing a knock, Kuji opened the door to find Chizuko standing there with an unusually sorrowful expression. Kuji offered Chizuko a chair while fastening his tie. “Well, this is a rare visit. Your trip seems to have ended unexpectedly early.” Kuji recalled that he himself had sent Yashiro a letter urging him to return early, but precisely because he hadn’t imagined they would actually come back so soon on account of that letter alone, even he had been wondering for days about Chizuko and Yashiro’s hasty return.

"But it was interesting." "I can't forget Tyrol." "It's truly a wonderful place." Chizuko was gazing with enraptured eyes at the roof of the architecture school across the street when— "Oh, look at them sunbathing over there."

She suddenly laughed with amusement. “In France, you won’t find what we call weeds anywhere in the countryside,” he said. “The idea is to plant weeds on rooftops and turn them into meadows. With Japan being so different in this regard, I suppose we simply can’t keep pace.” After changing into Western clothes, Kuji sat on the bed and considered where to go that day. “What a strange country France is.” “There’s nothing strange about it. Eventually every place becomes like this—if you accept that perfected ultra-realism looks this way, everything turns fascinating. Yashiro refuses to grasp that appeal. How did he end up such an utterly dreary man anyway?”

“Is that so?”

Chizuko murmured discontentedly under her breath and resumed her vacant gazing at the irises on the roof. “Perhaps not.” “If it’s unpleasant, I beg your pardon—but why aren’t you compelling Yashiro to act?” “To have followed him all the way to Tyrol without him making a single preparation for marriage—how utterly absurd.” Despite Kuji’s blunt words, Chizuko remained unmoved—she merely narrowed her eyes and kept silent.

“I’d go to any lengths if you don’t mind, but since neither of you says anything, there’s no way to push forward. When I sit alone wondering ‘maybe this, maybe that,’ I can’t help feeling that the biggest fool here is probably me. Well, what exactly is going on here?” “I don’t know either—that sort of thing.” Chizuko said this in a small, lifeless voice and faintly laughed. Kuji thought that Chizuko’s smile—like love lingering deep in her heart had suddenly spilled over—was quite a beautiful expression.

"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 keeping so quiet still holds more enjoyment for you both, then that’s another matter altogether—but I don’t see you two as such refined souls."

Chizuko wrapped her arm around the back of the chair and turned around, “Somehow you’re making a fuss all by yourself. You’re quite the amusing one, aren’t you?” she said, looking up at Kuji through narrowed eyes and laughing. “Anyway, you all have tastes that are terribly opposite to mine—classicists, I suppose you’d call them.” “You’re so proper.”

Grabbing the iron scrollwork of the railing as he leaned out the window, Kuji peered down at the street below. A white horse with thick legs and hairy fetlocks passed by pulling a carriage. A woman carrying several pole-like baguettes under her arm wove between the fresh green leaves of street trees lined in double rows on either side. The crisp clear sky and town lay perfectly still, without even a wisp of breeze. “I’m thinking of going back to London for a bit,” “I could return again soon, but then again, I’m also considering just going straight home to Japan.”

“Just stay a bit longer.” “You have to stay until the Paris Festival. It’d be such a waste otherwise.” “Even if you did come back, it’d be such a hassle, and besides, there’s no place as good as this for you anymore.” “This place is truly wonderful.” “When I think that I’m here in Paris, just that alone makes me happy.” “After all, there are iris flowers blooming on stone roofs like this.” “Just enjoy watching it.” “You’ll be punished for that.” As Kuji smiled while gazing at the irises and watched the drifting clouds above the buildings, he suddenly recalled the close days spent with Chizuko aboard the ship crossing the Red Sea. It wasn’t what could be called love, but rather an easy companionship born of mutual comfort; at that time, Chizuko and Yashiro still hardly exchanged words. Before he knew it, while becoming carelessly absorbed in Paris, Kuji had shifted into a position where he took pleasure in mediating their marriage. One reason, Kuji thought, was that Yashiro refrained from advancing his closeness with Chizuko beyond a certain point—his own lingering restraint, aware of the intimacy he’d shared with her aboard the ship, still remained unresolved.

“I wonder if Ms. Makiko is still staying here.” Chizuko approached Kuji’s side and peered down over the railing as she asked. During Yashiro’s absence while traveling through Germany, when Makiko had suddenly arrived from Vienna and taken over his hotel room, they had kept it unchanged even after his return—merely moving Yashiro to a room below Makiko’s. Kuji imagined that Chizuko might now feel uneasy about having them both in the same hotel.

“Ms. Makiko also spoke as though she might return to Japan. “We could have changed hotels, but to do so right after Yashiro returned would be impolite. But there’s really no need to worry so much about that.” “Oh, how disagreeable of you.” Kuji watched Chizuko’s flushed face with a heart tinged with something like jealousy. Even when immersed in observing how his Parisian life deepened with each new development—regardless of who ended up with whom—he considered his concern for Chizuko’s affairs another pleasure, like watching petals swirl into a vortex. Yet today, for some reason, Chizuko struck Kuji as more beautiful than ever.

“Mr. Kuji, you’ve truly changed.” “Somehow I feel you’ve changed in an unfortunate way.” “Yashiro’s no different.” “That he changed so drastically is largely your doing too.” “For him to turn fascist while here in Paris—it’s because I’ve gradually come to see only you Japanese.” “The entire world now appears to him as nothing but you, Ms. Chizuko.” “Why don’t you hurry and take Yashiro back home already.” “That man has fallen into depravity.”

Even Kuji’s strained attacks—finding some point that might please Chizuko and forcefully jamming it in—now seemed to her like mere play.

“To dismiss what someone as respectable as him is earnestly contemplating with such a frivolous word as ‘fascist’—that’s simply unacceptable.” “Even if it were a mistake, he must be agonizing over it.” “To me, you appear far more fascist!” “What? “Have you already become so utterly infatuated?”

With that, Kuji suddenly looked up at the sky and laughed.

“You interpret everything through that lens.” “You’re truly spiteful.” Yet Kuji found himself unable to dismiss Chizuko’s perspective outright—her refusal to label Yashiro a fascist while instead perceiving him as one—by reducing her to mere ignorance. Even if uttered in jest, when he reflected on being chastised by her like this, Kuji too felt the sharpness of that rebuke.

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

Kuji moved from the window to the pull-down bed, lay on his back with his arm as a pillow, and gazed at the ceiling.

"But isn't that precisely how it is? If someone as knowledgeable as Mr. Yashiro were to turn fascist, it's certain nobody would acknowledge him back in Japan. Even knowing it's disadvantageous—if he still believes it right—I find that beautiful. It's not something anyone could imitate." Lying on the bed while gazing toward the window, Kuji saw light streaming across Chizuko's forehead—still tense from defending Yashiro—her hair glowing translucent against the blue sky, making her appear more radiant than ever. Though Yashiro and Higashino had lambasted him two nights prior, there was something in how Chizuko's tender words now resonated most deeply—a quality irreducible to mere femininity.

“Go on, say a bit more.” “Ms. Chizuko, you’re quite skilled at speaking.” “I’ll listen today.” As Kuji spoke these words, the soft singing of the Romanian girl from the neighboring room, who attended embroidery school, could be heard. They had always only passed each other on the stairs without ever speaking, but lately, it had become clear from her bright, bustling demeanor on Sundays that she had likely taken a lover. Kuji listened in silence to the cheerful song of the girl from the neighboring room for a while before speaking.

“How pleasant. In movie versions of Paris beneath the rooftops, you’d hear an accordion drifting over at times like this—but today it’s a fascist sermon.” “Then let’s go out. I have an appointment with Mr. Shiono tonight, you know. Another soirée. There was a soirée before too, for laying the groundwork to import Japanese canned salmon here. That salmon business still isn’t settled, apparently. I truly find these soirées exhausting.” “A salmon envoy, eh? Like something out of the Dragon Palace—quite the tale.”

With that, Kuji rose to his feet, closed the shutters, and followed Chizuko out of the room. In the downstairs letterbox he checked, there were two letters for Kuji—one from his sister in Japan and another from Henriette, his conversation teacher who was traveling. Henriette had grown close to Kuji while Chizuko was away in London; logically speaking, she had effectively ruptured the intimacy that had developed between Kuji and Chizuko during their voyage. Yet for Kuji, these emotions resembling romantic love with Parisian women were mere ornamentation—if anything, he could be said to feel true love for Paris itself. Consequently, even the growing closeness between Yashiro and Chizuko—who both cherished their Japanese homeland—appeared natural to him, and he felt no loneliness. A drifting heart—such a thing, when severed from one’s homeland, shifts swiftly with travel, becoming nearly impossible to resist.

Kuji left the hotel and walked toward where Café Lila stood. The shoes of passersby glittered with blinding intensity. When sunlight reflections from the road struck his face with intermittent sharp rays, Kuji shut his eyes. Approaching Chizuko - who stood staring absently at an intricate floral arrangement of blades displayed in the small shop window - he suddenly wondered what had become of his youthful heart that now felt no stir of emotion.

“Even if you return to Japan, your ideas won’t work.”

Suddenly, Kuji recalled again what Higashino had told him the previous night. That's right, this won't work anymore, Kuji suddenly thought, and with a coldness as if doused with cold water, he gazed at the surrounding streets. The truck's body, tilting into the dented part of its stationary tire, meaningfully seized and held Kuji's gaze from within the balanced landscape. "Even in such a quiet town, people's minds are raging with storms—how strange, huh."

And muttering this, Kuji walked again toward Lila.

“If only war doesn’t break out, I’d agree to anything”—that’s what the hotel’s old lady told me. “That old lady is quite a character, you know.” “Even though I didn’t ask anything, she said, ‘You’re mistaken to think this is Paris.’” “‘This isn’t Paris.’” “‘Paris has already disappeared,’ she claims.” “‘Apparently it was much better in the old days.’” “‘Ever since the American military was stationed here during the Great War, Paris has completely gone to ruin,’ she says.” “Why do you think that is?”

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

Suddenly gazing at a flock of sparrows that had burst upward from a chimney, Kuji spoke. When he arrived at the square before Lila, he crumpled the two newspapers he had bought there and pointed to a building. “Last year—or was it the year before?—Gorky came to lecture at that building’s hall over there. When a crowd filled this entire square, the police suddenly charged in on horseback and scattered everyone without letting a single person hear the lecture.” “They were apparently terrified then.” “They say this year’s Paris Festival will be even more intense—you should stay until then.” “With how things look now, there’s no telling what might happen.” “Yesterday alone, three hundred companies went on strike.” “If three hundred major companies have shut down, that’s practically a revolution. The right-wing Croix-de-Feu are already fighting with their lives on the line.” “They say they’ve started joining hands with Germany’s right-wing too—we can’t make heads or tails of it anymore.”

“So, there won’t be any wars between nations here now, will there?” Under Chizuko’s questioning gaze that seemed to ask why things had come to this, Kuji silently sat down on a chair at Lila’s terrace and opened the newspaper he had bought. Then, letting out a soft “Ah,” he buried his head in the paper and began intently reading the front-page headlines. There, emblazoned across the entire front page under the 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 the reports, having it dominate the entire front page like this is unprecedented.”

Kuji looked at another paper and found that this newspaper too was dominated by a large headline titled "Sino-Japanese War." The two silently read the spread-out newspapers. Even though there had been daily headlines reporting crises between Japan and China up until now, they had always been treated as minor incidents relegated to the corners of the pages. Even though they were accustomed to articles rife with false reports and speculation, this incident now dominating the front pages of both newspapers—having risen from the margins through sheer competitive urgency—must have contained some kernel of truth worthy of such exaggeration, if indeed it was an exaggeration.

"But is this a means to quell the strikes here, or is it actually real? It’s still unclear." "It’ll likely become clear by tomorrow."

Kuji said. If war broke out, they had to return immediately. Though they didn't know what they would do upon returning, the necessity of their return remained certain. The row of horse chestnut trees extending from Luxembourg Gardens displayed their natural hues through fresh green leaves uniformly arranged between buildings on the square's left side. With the sensation of observing water pooled at a rocky gorge's base, Kuji gazed at this arboreal flow when he suddenly recalled the truck's body tilting under gravitational force toward its single dented tire. If the principle of war held true - that conflicts erupt where tension grows weakest - then hostilities might indeed soon break out in China.

“I’ll ask Mr. Shiono tonight. “Since he works at the Foreign Ministry, he’d know best about such matters. “Was it last year when the Emperor of Yugoslavia was assassinated in Marseille? “They said even then there was an embassy secretary researching something when a call came in—he suddenly slammed those big documents on the floor and yelled, ‘Now it’s finally happened—the Great War in Europe!’ “‘Don’t need this junk anymore!’ he shouted, apparently. “And then everyone burst out laughing over it.”

“Even today, there must be quite a few people slamming down their documents over this.”

Kuji said, secretly allowing himself a wry smile as he realized he too was certainly among those thrown into disarray. Then, as if the outbreak of war were nothing but a lie, he regained his composure. When the waiter approached the terrace, Chizuko ordered a hot chocolate. She had grown fond of this Lila because Fujimura was said to have frequented it daily twenty years prior. Though the café's service proved more agonizingly slow than any other establishment's, this very languor became a conduit for evoking its former heyday, giving travelers an air of tranquility. The maroon leather sofa encircling the interior had lost its resilience long ago, yet the quality of its hide and springs still defied comparison to the warped furnishings of Japanese cafés. Most patrons were elderly, their coffee's dissolving sugar audible to the ear. But regardless of protestations, this place now knew only decline.

“There’s a theory that civilization moves ever westward, but perhaps it has already crossed the Atlantic.” “Or perhaps by now it’s already passed through America and is wandering around the middle of the Pacific.” “The ghosts are now in the sea.” Remembering the French government’s panicked expression at the rapid outflow of funds to foreign banks since the strikes had continued, Kuji had made these remarks. Chizuko, too, had just watched at the Champs-Élysées a satirical play titled *Ghosts Go West*, in which Europe’s spirit became phantoms crossing the Atlantic alongside material civilization.

“So, is it because the ghosts have become hollow and vanished that the strikes have started? I wonder.” “Apparently even sugar won’t be available from tomorrow onward, you know.” “Because the military is guarding the waterworks and power plants—those at least seem secure for now, they say.”

When the waiter brought hot chocolate to their side and Kuji inquired whether sugar could still be purchased, he answered that his household had stockpiled some and would be fine for the time being. Kuji thought that his foremost task here was to scrutinize—like licking acid dripping into a flask—how leftist ideologies acting upon this city of perfect traditional beauty would produce effects and consequences differing from those in Japan. Then even the waiter’s expressionless slowness began to appear to him as a face declaring that they too would soon be putting out the fires here. Since France had well-developed labor unions, all workers belonged to one union or another. This was a strike in which all layers of the unions had gradually coordinated and moved into action, beginning to press their demands by raising three issues: wage increases, more holidays, and shorter working hours. The outcome of this comprehensive production sector activity—excluding farmers—had manifested as a citywide shutdown; thus many companies barely scraping by through managing meager interest payments were collapsing one after another. The workers belonging to those companies were losing their jobs. As products were becoming increasingly scarce, prices continued to rise without cease. Even when workers received wage increases, prices rose beyond that; moreover the foreign tourists who spent vast amounts of money all fled. As domestic capitalists perceiving danger shifted their deposits to foreign banks, the price of the franc lost its equilibrium and continued to decline.

However, Kuji thought, all such adverse consequences had been known from the very beginning. That which compelled them to act on what was already known—what exactly was its true nature? In this real-world shogi where a single miscalculation of one’s actions’ consequences could trigger an unbroken chain of disasters, Kuji now sensed an inclination akin to willpower—France’s civilizational pieces upon the board, fully aware of these catastrophic outcomes, were nevertheless hastening toward self-annihilation, taking the very board itself with them.

But what was it all for anyway?

After parting with Chizuko, Kuji went to his usual café. Yashiro and Makiko were supposed to have come there, but the two had not yet appeared. The familiar foreigners all informed Kuji about the outbreak of the Japan-China War and asked with concern, “It seems Japan is losing a bit—is everything all right?” “No, that’s all lies.”

Kuji answered. Yet when he considered how profoundly this day's news had resonated even with foreigners ignorant of Japan-China relations, he felt the falseness of that moment - beyond factual accuracy, where resonance itself became fact, as if some next act were beginning to sway people's hearts. And this, he realized, was precisely how history advanced - flooding over society's surface like rising waters.

——

Among the foreigners who regularly frequented the terrace, the Chinese painter Li Chengyong loomed particularly large in Kuji's field of vision that day, occupying more perceptual space than anyone else. Each time their eyes met, Li would grimace as if encountering visual interference, turn away with visible annoyance, and resume conversing with the German youth who'd been reading Yanagita Kunio's *Collection of Japanese Legends* the previous evening. Though neither man bore actual malice, this mere exchange of glances had sparked between them an unchallenged phenomenon - a subtle resistance akin to ill will germinating in their minds. Then two open-top cars came roaring in formation down the street, strike committee members likely, their heated faces thrusting clenched fists skyward as they shouted "Front Populaire!" past the café terrace. Even these daily recurring events now collided within Kuji's chest like intersecting whirlwinds, awakening a vertiginous vortex where routine transformed into revelation.

“Tonight I’ll go into the Chinese restaurant. Let me see what state of mind they’re in.” As Kuji thought this, he found himself wanting to speak even with Li and hear their opinions if possible. But even so, what an era we’ve entered—one with far too much to think about. Despite all this, I still know nothing. Even this single city of Paris lay layered with immeasurable depths of tradition across every surface that met the eye—the folds of human brains that had struggled desperately, stratified like shale built up from laws wherever one looked. If knowing the past meant knowing the present, then fundamentally I didn’t even know the present. Then how could one ever come to know the future here?—

However, as he began retreating step by step into self-effacement, Kuji came to fully comprehend each instance of Yashiro's fervent opposition to Europe. As this continued, he found himself gripped by the anxiety that his own thoughts were flowing downstream—exactly as Higashino had instructed him—toward the conclusion that ultimately, this was no soil where Japanese roots could take hold.

The problem was the soil. Not rural issues nor political problems either. It lay in the deepest core of all— And so Kuji, belated yet solitary in his freedom, found his mind returning to his homeland's soil, racing ceaselessly across Japan's expanse. When he looked, every foreigner's face on the terrace bore shared loneliness. Each visage now seemed to float remembrances of their own homelands. "But why," he wondered, "don't I wish to return to Japan yet? Why does this place appear so utterly fascinating?"

Though I had entered a mountain of treasures to research, studying my homeland's soil now seemed meaningless. No—more than that—I couldn't even claim to truly understand the very quality of Japanese soil. What manner of existence was this heart that knew neither West nor East? That's it. This meant I must pursue to the end the world's common treasure. This was precisely about seeking that one thing which wouldn't go mad in any nation. When Kuji thought this way, he regained vigor; yet even that, as Higashino had said, upon consideration left him uncertain whether such commonality existed at all. That he believed it might exist could indeed stem from having been taught—as Higashino observed—that others existed.

"Damn it!" As his mind kept scattering into fragments, Higashino’s mind had already raced ahead and stood waiting at each successive point. I won’t sleep tonight.

Even when Yashiro and Makiko came to the terrace side by side, Kuji remained silent and didn’t greet them.

“Higashino’s old man. Wonder if he’ll show up. I’d take him down, but...” “What’s that supposed to be—your greeting?” With that, Makiko sat down beside Kuji. “I’m just so angry and irritated.”

"Why are you so angry?" When Kuji suddenly looked at Makiko, her unaffected familiarity—perhaps from having stayed mostly in Vienna—evoked a nostalgic quality reminiscent of intellectual wives back in Japan. A dangerously melting warmth of emotion—something never felt even when observing Chizuko—clung about this divorced woman, casting an unusual brilliance across the terrace through the composed naturalness unique to her single-lidded eyes.

“It’s been a while.” As Kuji muttered something incomprehensible to anyone else, he felt for the first time since arriving in Paris a sensation like his eyelids closing naturally of their own accord. When their ordered coffee arrived, he pinched sugar between his fingers and dropped two lumps into Makiko’s cup. “Your husband’s a real bastard.”

Makiko stared at Kuji—who had spoken so abruptly—with a slightly apprehensive expression, then stirred her coffee. “Mr. Kuji, you’re acting strange. What’s wrong with you today?” “What kind of man abandons his wife alone in a foreign country like this? Even if he’s got another woman, wouldn’t it be decent to at least come get you?” “But there’s nothing to be done. My being there would only cause trouble.” “It’s not just him having a hard time.”

Even if Kuji didn’t harbor any particular special affection for Makiko, it seemed she had sensed his expression of unbearable pity. After just touching her lips to the coffee she had started to drink and immediately setting it down again, she suddenly bowed her head and did not raise her face for some time.

“It’s alright.” Kuji gave Makiko’s shoulder—on the verge of tears—a firm pat. Makiko raised her face and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, but immediately burst into a cheerful laugh. “Vienna is just that sort of place, you know.” “Because I had a husband back home, when I was in Japan, I often read Shunitsura’s works.” “I thought that place only had the Jewish Question and romance, but when I went there, I realized that being there would immerse one completely in romance.” “The loneliness of a country without a sea has seeped into everything there.”

“Now that you mention it, I just remembered—there was this Czech youth who saw the sea for the first time in Marseille. He tilted his head and muttered, ‘Is the sea really this vast?’ with such a profoundly moved look he could barely contain himself.”

Yashiro scanned the faces of the foreigners around them as if trying to identify those from landlocked countries, "All these foreigners here come to Paris to gather mummies, and in gathering mummies, they all become mummies themselves before returning to their home countries." "How pitiable."

As Kuji remained silent, a flush quickly spread across his face. A venomously sarcastic smile momentarily trembled on his lips before fading away as he maintained his silence. He contemplated this lingering anger he still felt toward Yashiro within himself. Certainly I had become unwittingly entangled with Parisian mummies—but what of Yashiro? Hadn't he transformed into a mummy of Japan?—Kuji felt something like invisible smoke rising from beneath his feet. All the knowledge he had believed sustained him until now remained formless hues of anxiety, while an unsettling lightness in his lower back only continued to intensify.

Then, the German youth who had been talking with Li stood up and came over there, handing a slip of paper to Yashiro.

“How do you read this in Japanese?” he asked. It appeared to be something Li had written—the author’s last name seemed illegible, with fragments like “Tang-dynasty person” or “Sparrow”—and a beautiful poem that would appeal to a painter was written there. 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 returned to Japanese pronunciation, when Kuji too casually peered over, within the gate where even the scent of people had vanished, a nihilistic scene of peach blossoms alone smiling faintly floated up. In the midst of the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War, Kuji wondered whether Li had been contemplating such things, and now compared how far removed his own thoughts were from such considerations.

“When Chinese people look at Paris, all they notice is the emptiness left in the wake of human demise.” “They’re probably just thinking, ‘Who knows what kind of riffraff will come wandering in next.’”

After the German youth returned to Li’s side, Kuji said to Yashiro. “They probably don’t think that way. They’re likely just amusing themselves with such thoughts. If places stripped of humanity alone appear beautiful to you, try imagining Japan from here. Doesn’t it look utterly devoid of people? What truly perplexes me is that whenever I envision Japan from this distance, it always appears completely depopulated—only Ise Grand Shrine remains vividly visible. What could this signify?”

Yashiro seemed to think Japan lay in the direction of Brueghel. Gazing at the sloping road, he remained silent for a while before speaking again. "Lately, if I'm being honest, I can't escape the feeling that there are people in Japan's intellectual class who wouldn't care one whit even if the world burned to ashes." "I just can't shake that sense somehow." "But however twisted the world becomes, there's one heart I couldn't bear to lose." "That alone would suffice—don't you agree? It must exist, mustn't it?" "A spirit like some peaceful treasure—existing yet forgotten." "Every nation's people hold at least one such beautiful thing within them, yet let it slip from memory—that's the spirit I mean." "Our country possesses it too, only it's devilishly hard to unearth." "But I've found it." "Though if pressed to show it... how to explain... it's an impossibly humble, pure form of love that defies description."

“What on earth does that mean?” Kuji said irritably at Yashiro’s vague statement. “There exists such a song in Japan’s Showa era: ‘By the hearth where parents converse through long nights, the cattle feed wheat simmers well.’ This kind of simple beauty—or perhaps a sense of harmony—in any case, a peaceful affection lies hidden among the people without complaint, silently existing. There’s quite a difference between being content if only the peach blossoms smile for you and having a heart that finds joy even in the simmering of cattle feed wheat. However, the intellectual classes of Japan and China have all ceased to know this heart lying at the core of both nations. It’s both you and me. Especially you—you’re far too extreme. If we keep going like this, we’ll become what you might call Eastern beggars or Western beggars—well, you’re more of the Western type.”

“Even if you call me a beggar now, do you think that’ll snuff me out in three days?” Whenever sarcasm arose between them, their custom of sparring—piercing each other to the marrow until mutual collapse—would flare up again. But Kuji no longer felt the sting of such thrusts; the afternoon’s oppressive boredom now pressed down upon him. It sat heavy at the pit of his chest like the city’s stone weight—a mass that wouldn’t budge no matter how he prodded or blew at it. Rust streaming from iron spikes embedded in the stone wall of his former rented house seeped into his eyes like blood. Each time he lifted his face, those stains stubbornly blocked his view, trapping him until he turned his entire chair toward Makiko. The crimson muffler peeking from her black collar felt soft as salvation.

“Let’s go to the Seine River now. If you have business to attend to, why don’t we set dinner for eight and meet at the Saint-Michel Chinese restaurant? Surely they wouldn’t stoop to poisoning the food.”

After parting with Yashiro under these arrangements, Kuji boarded a bus heading toward the Seine River with Makiko.

At eight o'clock, Kuji went with Yashiro to their agreed-upon Chinese restaurant, his body weary. The second floor was divided into two rooms by a large glass partition that allowed clear visibility between both spaces. The smaller eight-tatami room held mostly Japanese patrons, while the larger twenty-tatami space teemed with Chinese customers. On this day when headlines blared news of the Sino-Japanese War's outbreak, the Chinese diners' eyes glinted with pale hostility, furrows between their brows rippling through the hall like water tremors. Being Chinese themselves, the waiters showed marked deference to the larger room—even when Japanese patrons rapped their tables and called, none hurried to serve them. The enemy's arrival on this day of national conflict must have evoked the same visceral disgust as barbarians breaching castle walls. From somewhere distant came what sounded like angry shouts.

“Is everything all right?” Makiko asked Kuji in a small, fearful voice.

“It’s fine.” “There’s no chance of being killed.” “If we get killed over something like this, then China’s no longer human.” “They’d be animals.” “But I don’t know about that.” “However, since it’s a country capable of creating such delicious Chinese cuisine, there must certainly be some truly excellent people among them.” “Don’t think the quarrel will be settled in any way anyone can comprehend.”

None of the Japanese tables had received their food yet, but everyone waited in silence.

Just then, Mr. Oki—the elderly man who had been a fellow passenger on the ship—suddenly appeared with Mishima. Mr. Oki had resigned as president of the shipping company to travel and should no longer have been in Paris; similarly, Mishima had only gone to Berlin for a machinery inspection. Thus this second meeting felt more like a chance encounter, as nostalgic as reuniting with classmates. “It’s been a while. I heard you’d gone to Italy,” Kuji greeted the silver-haired Mr. Oki and Mishima as he stood up.

Kuji stood up and greeted Oki, whose white hair was visible, and Mishima. "I returned from Italy last evening. I'll be returning to Japan via America on tomorrow's ship!" Oki had coincidentally ended up at the same hotel as Mishima, who had returned from Berlin, and it turned out they would both be taking the same ship tomorrow—the Normandie. To all appearances, Mishima had grown even more melancholy than before in the intervening period. In contrast, Oki—despite being an elderly man—seemed to have had his long-dormant fighting spirit ignited, with a youth-like impatience glistening across his forehead.

“Ah, in Italy I was cheated left and right! Because they say you can’t die without seeing Naples, I climbed all the way up Vesuvius, but can you believe they charged me two hundred fifty yen for just two and a half hours by car? And Naples is such a filthy place. Who could die content after seeing that? When I get back to Japan, I’ll start my company up again. What can you do?” No sooner had Mr. Oki said this than—seemingly unable to control his volume—he boomed, “What’s with the West, eh? They mock a man walking alone. I’ve suffered enough humiliations. Next time I’ll parade around with a stunning beauty on my arm—that’ll settle my fury for good!”

All the Japanese in the room began to chuckle softly. Mr. Oki surveyed the group, thrust out his belly as if delivering a speech, and let out an ingratiating laugh—"Ha ha"—as he spoke. "I hadn't spoken a single word of Japanese until yesterday, but seeing all of you today makes me unable to stop talking." Were his thoughts bursting forth uncontrollably like a deaf man suddenly regaining hearing? What Oki said had completely lost any coherence.

“Mr. Mishima, did you bring back any souvenirs?” Kuji asked Mishima, who had been sitting silently withdrawn.

"No, there's nothing." "I'm just thinking I'll likely be scolded when I return." Kuji thought that the plight of this mechanical engineer—who had been dispatched on an inspection with substantial funding, without making a single new discovery and was now preparing to return home the next day—must weigh more heavily than he had imagined.

“You say there are none at all—so had Japan advanced that much already?” “Well...” said Mishima, maintaining a serious expression that showed no smile as he weighed whether this indicated Japan’s progress or merely his own obtuseness, “Once in a certain country, something like this happened. “When I was inspecting a factory and found a machine with an interesting shape, as I stood examining it curiously, someone from their side said, ‘If you want to take photographs, go ahead.’ “Since inspections are permitted anywhere but photography remains strictly prohibited, I was moved by this unexpected kindness. After thanking them repeatedly and being allowed to take several shots, when I returned to my lodgings and developed the film, not a single image had been captured.”

“What happened? Was that your fault?” Kuji pressed further. “No, before entering the factory, I was kept waiting in the garden for two or three minutes. I think they must have exposed the film to light from somewhere during that time.” The faces of those listening paled abruptly into silence. Kuji himself was momentarily gripped by an eerie chill. Yet upon reflection, he recognized this was only natural—nothing particularly suspicious. It wasn’t just photographic plates that had been stealthily exposed to invisible rays. The mental plates within every Oriental gathered here had likewise been irradiated by some uniform light, their minds irrevocably altered. Though their surface faces remained unchanged, a single uttered word would instantly reveal these wounded minds. Moreover, their transformations followed either the Kuji pattern or Yashiro pattern—those most drastically changed now possessed minds that were carbon copies of Westerners’, no different from the Chinese in the neighboring room.

The gathering of Chinese in the adjacent room exhibited this transformation to an especially extreme degree. The filthiness of the place made one want to cover their face, yet in the hall, whenever a Chinese woman approached a table of seated men, they would all rise abruptly in unison and stand motionless, waiting until she had taken her seat. The woman, with her bare arms draped over the back of the chair in an impudent display of poor manners, continued puffing on her cigarette and chattering away nonstop all by herself, while the men maintained solemn expressions and listened attentively to her words. 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 Orientals, maintaining a calm composure whose stillness resembled that of mummies.

Kuji thought it only natural that these mummy-like imitators' united power—stirring up storms across their respective Oriental homelands through sheer mimicry—would make rising anti-Japanese consciousness inevitably lead to war. This would likely not cease until it had run its course. In this shared spiritual linkage between Japan and China, must they both rely solely on imitation of the West? Was there not some distinct thread resembling a spiritual union unique to the East?

As Kuji gazed toward the large room where the Chinese were gathered, he discovered himself unwittingly slipping into Yashiro’s usual patterns of thought and tried to insist inwardly: No—mine was different from Yashiro’s; it was about discovering a common line.

Not long 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 intense joy, as if beholding his hometown.

“Ah! This is—what a relief to find you all safe and sound.” “As I was just saying earlier—an old man like me has no business coming to the West.” “Made a fool of—made a complete fool of.” “When I get back, I’ll really show them what’s what.” “What’s this rubbish?” “Even when I try to buy a souvenir—carelessly think something’s exotic and grab it—it turns out Japanese-made!” “Good heavens—this simply won’t do!”

Yet again, Oki declared loudly without restraint. The other customers, angered by food that never arrived no matter how long they waited, called for the waiter—but he brought only a single bottle of beer, carrying it furtively under a cloth to avoid notice from the adjacent room. Some Japanese customers left in anger. When the waiter finally began bringing plates out piecemeal, someone from the Chinese group next door bellowed: "In this world nowadays, women goad men everywhere. Hahaha!"

Until now, Mr. Oki had appeared to pay little attention to the adjacent room, but seemingly provoked, he laughed after saying this, then suddenly glared at the waiter and, in his customary executive bluster, called out to the retreating waiter: “Hey, waiter! Come here!” However, the waiter did not so much as turn his head. “Waiter.” “Waiter.” “You there!” Oki roared. At this, the Chinese patrons in the opposite room turned as one and showered him with fierce curses. Oki sprang to his feet and hurled his napkin aside. Then, in that impeccable English he often used when addressing foreigners at shipboard tea parties, he declaimed toward the neighboring room.

“Eating at restaurants forms the bedrock of goodwill between nations. “That all peace stems from meals—this I believe aligns with the teachings of China’s great philosophers. “Must you gentlemen, even on foreign soil, oppose our hunger? “This is France! “Does what you’ve learned daily in these revered foreign lands dictate withholding your own nation’s food from the hungry? “This brings profound regret to us as Orientals. “In our Orient, there were eras when heroes—even in battle—sent salt to their enemies before engaging, upholding courtesy and benevolence as their motto.”

Oki, his severely nearsighted face perpetually grinning, maintained that smile even while delivering these remarks—a demeanor that softened his otherwise sharp speech. Unfortunately, since this wasn't in English as during the shipboard addresses, it failed to resonate with the listeners as effectively. The adjacent room only grew rowdier, two or three obstinate faces thrusting through the window toward Oki, teeth bared as if ready to strike. "There's no use saying anything about this," he declared. "Victory goes to whoever refuses to serve us. Let's get out of here—this is absurd."

Having said this in a suddenly displeased tone, Oki stood up and put on his hat. Not only Kuji and Yashiro but everyone else followed Oki down the stairs; though the jeers behind them grew even more intense, the waiter did not offer a single word of greeting.

The thoroughfare they emerged onto was the Saint-Michel slope descending from the direction of the Panthéon. Amid the bustling pedestrian traffic on the slope, a left-wing newspaper vendor passed through, shouting. Following that harsh voice, the right-wing newspaper vendor shouted in a voice that seemed to drown it out as he pressed forward. After them came yet more left-wing and right-wing vendors passing through in an unending stream—a hectic night in the Latin Quarter. As this was a student district where the royalist faction represented the prevailing student ideal, neither left-wing nor right-wing newspapers sold particularly well there. Their sole aim appeared to lie in finding a way for both left and right to infiltrate the royalist faction.

“If you’ll be returning on tomorrow’s ship, let’s enjoy ourselves tonight.” “I too shall go back through Russia once I’ve seen the Paris Festival.”

Under Yashiro’s guidance, the four of them descended the slope to eat nearby Alsatian cuisine. This area near the Seine River was somewhere Kuji had already come twice today. On the terrace beside the rose hedge from which the spire of Notre-Dame could be seen, after ordering lamb and trout, the five of them satisfied their hunger and reminisced about the dining tables aboard ships in the Indian Ocean and Red Sea from the time before they had seen the West, their conversation remaining pleasantly endless.

"But what is this? "It was as if we'd been caught in an ill-fated tempest here, but just when we thought we could finally catch our breath after being tossed about so mercilessly—wouldn't you know it—back in Japan another storm seems to be raging that makes this look like nothing." "We may not have witnessed the February 26 Incident ourselves, but from what we've heard of its circumstances, that was no ordinary squall." "Even foreigners are all astonished." "They say Japan's a place where dragons pull the strings of politics—now folks are claiming one's leapt right out this time."

In response to Oki’s remarks, Mishima said he had heard about it in Germany and recounted stories of Tokyo being filled with an atmosphere like a battlefield. Whether it was lies or truth proved difficult for the group to discern, but even taking the accounts at half their worth and hearing stories of the citizens’ panic, the cold front now battering Japan seemed to Kuji no mere European storm. “Perhaps it’s because we’re still young that we don’t understand, but what do you think, Mr. Oki—has there ever been an era before now where young people have had to think so much?”

"No, this is the first time since Meiji." "There have been many major events before now, but because our thinking remained narrow in scope, we could act with fervor." "But these days—I can't comprehend any of it anymore." "I haven't the slightest notion what ought to be done." "We've been galloping headlong since Meiji began—until our hearts burst clean out." At Oki's turn of phrase they all roared with laughter; yet as though throttled by invisible hands at their collars, each fell abruptly silent and bent over their lamb carving.

"So then, those of us abroad have truly become like castaway boats now, I suppose."

And Kuji once again recalled what Higashino had told him the night before.

“No, every nation’s way of thinking has already been laid bare to the world,” Yashiro said. “Even when they try to conceal their intentions, they can’t hide them anymore—they’ve become completely transparent from without. Since leftists have emerged from every country to expose their nations’ secrets, they’ve all gone rampaging about with an ‘Alright then!’ attitude, staking everything on reckless gambles.” “Exactly so,” Oki agreed. “Every nation’s hidden hearts have burst out with no way to push them back in. When that happens, there’s nothing for it but to push through with sheer cardiac fortitude. If they’d just kept things quietly hidden, that would’ve been fine—but since they’ve gone and dragged everything into the open, there’s no more need for discreet concealment. Now they can operate all the more brazenly. As a capitalist myself now, I understand that point perfectly well. I may be a bad sort, but once you recognize me thoroughly as this old rogue, it actually makes things more carefree.”

Even aboard the ship when coming here, Oki had frequently explained with humility, “I’m a bad sort,” Though repelled by this calculated plan to weaponize roguishness, Kuji found Oki’s unabashed attitude preferable to hidden pretenses—the meal’s flavor remained unaffected. The fellow passengers who had shared their voyage now appeared as brothers regardless of moral standing, all equally gripped by traveler’s melancholy where homeland critiques held no currency. No—rather, people had begun cultivating within their hearts some misguided element that magnified villains into figures of grandeur.

Kuji still felt such changes within himself, but he could no longer regard it as someone else’s affair—if he were to pass sixty like Oki and come to such a place, he too might come to behave so nonchalantly and without shame—and he increasingly felt the precariousness of Makiko’s physical condition beside him. “Bad sorts are contagious, huh.” Kuji looked at Yashiro’s face as though making an unexpected discovery. And he wondered by what method Yashiro controlled himself, momentarily thinking of those Tyrolean nights Yashiro and Chizuko had spent together, even beginning to suspect that this Yashiro might be lying.

"Mr. Oki, Yashiro here—this fellow just won't turn delinquent." "Please give him your opinion." "This bastard's a liar." Kuji said, pointing the knife at Yashiro's chest. "You, even after coming abroad, haven't turned delinquent?" "That guy's also rather unclean."

Mr. Oki wiped his mouth with a napkin while gazing curiously at Yashiro and laughed. Yashiro, true to his habitual response when confronted with matters concerning men and women, offered no reply and simply sat silent with flushed cheeks.

“But what is it? Coming here has turned out less interesting than I’d imagined. It’s dreary and utterly dull. Oh yes—I met an intriguing young man last evening. When I told him to take me dancing, he dragged me to one of those ticket-based dance halls. While we were dancing, he suddenly cried ‘Oh my!’ and rushed back to our seat, saying: ‘That dancer I was just with—she’s a woman I lived with two years ago.’ Yet he’d danced with her three times that very night without recognizing his former lover! The second time she smiled sweetly, he thought her laugh peculiar—only on the third dance did she ask, ‘Have you forgotten me?’ Everyone’s gone peculiar in the head these days. Talk of delinquency all you like—being delinquent’s still the better lot! This lad’s twenty-five or twenty-six but carries experiences fit for a Japanese man of fifty or sixty. If folk keep aging like that—why, it’ll be terrifying by fifty or sixty!”

As Oki spoke，his words gleaming through thick-lensed glasses，the listeners laughed and fell silent by turns until gradually sinking their heads into a world where they could not move，saying nothing for some time． “So then，we have the advantage．We’re still young．”

Kuji bellowed as if kicking through the depths of his thoughts. “Yes, yes—you’re still young,” Mr. Oki responded. “I’ve grown more envious of that than anything.” When Kuji considered how the conclusion of Oki’s nostalgic tales—stories of his youth that had nightly tormented young listeners mid-Indian Ocean—now met such a lonely end here in Paris, he felt with fatherly reassurance the vibrant youth resonating within himself, as though stroking Oki’s arm in proxy. “Well then, Mr. Oki,” he said. “Return to Normandy tomorrow without hesitation. We young people will handle what remains.”

“If you’ll become our second generation, then let’s toast—to your health.”

When he raised his glass, everyone laughed cheerfully at Oki. However, from around this time onward, Mishima’s face—which had been expressionless until now—somehow came alive, and his laughing voice grew even louder. Mishima, who had been as quiet as a cat aboard the ship—more reserved and humble than anyone—would transform into the most spirited and courageous passenger the moment alcohol touched his lips, going about tapping the shoulders of every foreign woman in sight and even delighting them by making them remove their shoes.

“Those who spent their youth in Paris became men who reached paradise. “I arrived in Paris too late. “Damn it all.”

To such an Oki, Mishima—a single man who had lost his wife, leaving behind a child—

“Yes, yes,” Mishima chimed in agreement, fidgeting restlessly all the while. “Just think how much Japanese youths may long for Paris, I tell you.” “You’ve all come this far—what are you fretting about?” “When I look at you all, it’s like I’m looking at monks.” “If I were you all, I’d spend every last bit of money I had here.” “The man who’s stingy here—that man’s the biggest fool there is.”

Like adding a stone to a splitting pomegranate, Oki’s words dropped a weighty fruit with a thud into Kuji’s heart. Then, suddenly, Yashiro cut in as if interrupting,

“That’s just Mr. Oki’s sentimentality.” “This place is utterly a prison.” “We’re all Shunkan here, getting money sent from home.” “If we lose ourselves in a place like this, that’ll be the end of us.”

said Yashiro. “You were like a monk even on the ship, ’cause. Well, a monk’s a monk no matter where in the world he goes.”

Oki nodded to himself.

“No need for concern,” said Yashiro defiantly through his napkin-covered lips. “I’ll become Paris’s resident monk.”

Yashiro leaned back and pressed the napkin to his lips. Mishima kept tapping Yashiro’s shoulder while, “Don’t go becoming something like a monk.” “Huh?” “What’s so fun about being a monk?”

When they saw Mishima—his friendly wrinkles at the corners of his eyes creasing with a grin as he spoke—everyone seemed to recall his shipboard habits that they had completely forgotten until now. In the midst of them all falling silent at once with startled faces, "You’ve regained your spirits, Mr. Mishima. You’re not going to order me to take off my shoes again, are you?" Makiko alone leaned back as if recoiling from him and teased. “Ha ha ha ha! Shoes, huh? Take off your shoes! I’m so embarrassed that fellow still remembers,” Mishima said, craning his body toward her shoes and staring intently.

Mr. Oki, who had been rousing the youths to dispel their gloom, now began to grow somewhat sullen with an air of thinking, “This won’t end peacefully tonight.” After exiting the Alsatian restaurant, the group walked along the Seine River on the slightly downhill Quai d’Orsay street, saying they would catch the river breeze. Here, there were no passersby, and only the gas lamps shone through the dense trees. Makiko, constantly worried about Mishima trying to leap onto the parapet from between the closed green boxes of the old bookstores lining the embankment, said, “That’s dangerous. Do calm down,” she said, grabbing his arm as if tugging a sleeve and walking on. Mishima, acting like someone chasing birds, shouted “Whoa, whoa!” up at the row of plane trees stretching black against the night sky—then tried to slip free from Makiko’s grasp only to be pulled back again. Nevertheless, Mishima strode ahead alone, raising one leg high as he went, so that before anyone realized, Makiko too had broken away from the group and moved ahead. The three of them had sobered up somewhat and were watching Mishima and the others walk away when,

“Whoa, whoa!” Mishima shouted again, turning back toward the three from afar. When he opened the door of the parked car and disappeared inside, Makiko too followed from behind, beckoning everyone to get in. At that very moment, without waiting, the car simply slid out effortlessly and crossed over the bridge.

“Ah, this won’t do!” As soon as Kuji said this, he panickedly jumped into another parked car. Then, without waiting for the others, they all set off in pursuit of Mishima’s car—but Mishima’s vehicle was already gliding through the mirror-like expanse of Place de la Concorde, bathed in the blue gas lamps’ light. Even though he thought there was nothing particularly alarming about it, Kuji still felt uneasy. Assuming Yashiro and Mr. Oki would naturally follow after them, he kept watching only the car ahead—but while he did so, the vehicle vanished from view toward the Grand Opéra. If those two were left alone like that, something was bound to happen tonight—this thought made Kuji’s unease grow steadily stronger. However, even if something were to happen, they were now two single people. If that were the case, he thought, then perhaps the event might even become a source of some happiness for them. He suddenly had the car’s speed reduced. There he sat blankly facing backward and waiting, but there was no sign at all of Yashiro and the others coming in pursuit. In the radiant blue square they had somehow entered, only the ancient goddess statue stood bathed in the surrounding fountain’s spray.

Kuji turned the car around the goddess statue and headed back the way he had come. With eyes heavy from a fatigue that felt like liberation, he gazed at her face until the beauty of its slightly sunken profile stirred an inexplicable turbulence in his chest. Then suddenly he thought: That’s Mother’s worried face. Recalling how she would wear that same anxious look whenever he threw tantrums as a child, he returned to Quai d'Orsay. But Yashiro and the others were gone as well. After searching the area once more, Kuji drove straight toward Montparnasse and got out in front of his usual cabaret. In the bar separate from the dance hall, chairs sat sparsely occupied. Instinctively seeking a face resembling his mother’s among the dancers chattering like sparrows around the counter, Kuji approached their circle.

“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 slipped an arm around Kuji’s shoulder and looked at the dice she had thrown. “Oh, it’ll rain tomorrow.” Having said this, she sang in a forlorn whisper. All the while, Kuji kept shaking the dice, mentally calculating when Makiko would return. Lulu—who seemed to have already sniffed out that this customer loved another woman—kept her hand on Kuji’s shoulder while watching the face of a new customer entering.

Driving rain lashed down, causing the road to splash back water as it hazed white about a foot above the ground. The car plowed through the water and raced onward. Thinking that the sudden evening shower would likely subside soon, Yashiro waited at the café entrance. For the past two or three days, even when he repeatedly tried calling Kuji—whose whereabouts were unknown—it proved futile, and when he asked Makiko, she answered that she had parted ways with Kuji at Quai d'Orsay and that was all. Of course, Chizuko didn’t know either—nor did anyone else. Over the past two or three days, Yashiro watched the splashing raindrops and regretted having clashed so intensely with Kuji. Yashiro considered how Kuji's good-natured brightness, which clashed when they were together yet caused worry when apart, might gradually grow damp for his own sake, and found himself wanting to draw back near that unpredictable drifting presence which could never be fully measured.

In a sparsely occupied room where foreigners sat quietly reading newspapers from their own countries, only the two Japanese men were vigorously debating Berlin versus Paris. One appeared to belong to the Berlin faction, arguing that Germany’s cohesive unity and synthesizing power would far surpass Paris’s freedom and analytical prowess in advancing the next era, while the Paris faction countered with—

“This freedom of Paris! This human love for peace among Parisians!”

Yashiro thought this spectacle of them countering with such impassioned words was a scene seldom witnessed in Japan. Yet when he considered how these two ideological factions had perpetually wrestled and clashed in Japan down to the present day, the sight of two youths now at that very table where he had always debated with Kuji—their vehemence spewing froth—appeared as manifestations of their respective torments and joys, flaring toward some unseen summit with inexhaustible fervor.

“We’re doing it!” As Yashiro listened with a smile, he took out the matches he kept deep in his pocket—almost wanting to ignite their debate. “What on earth does each of them want to ignite? Actually, I want to ignite a fire.” When this thought struck him and he looked up, he saw an old stone building drenched like a rat, streaming sweat-like raindrops from its entire surface. For an instant, it felt as if Paris’s stony heart were cheering and leaping at this sudden weather change. There had been times when Yashiro felt compelled to unleash an earthquake upending Paris from its roots, yet even now, the leftist tidal wave assaulting this city seemed like that very violence—assailing what had transformed into a sedimented, solidified mental order it couldn’t help but attack. Still sensing this merely streamed over stone like evening rain—leaving no resistance against an ancient immovable order lurking beneath—he immediately pocketed his matches and found himself wanting to analyze the foundational elements upholding that formidable structure.

However, what a multitude of mental fragments I have collected into my bag. From now on, after returning to Japan, I will slowly examine each one by one.— When he thought this, Yashiro too placed his hand against the bottom of the bag within his chest and gently tested its weight. There was a time when I felt myself inverted, headfirst into a swirling vortex—yet after crossing glacial fissures in Tyrol’s mountains, though I should have cast away that bag filled with fragments gathered across Europe, upon returning to Paris, it began refilling once more with something ghostly.

Then, at that moment, through the rain that raised white spray like a smoke screen across the ground, Chizuko walked toward him, shoulders hunched against the downpour. “Here! Here!”

Yashiro raised his hand and called to Chizuko. Chizuko gave a breathy laugh in the sideways-blowing rain and trotted over to stand before Yashiro. "Oh, this dreadful rain! "Um... there's a small favor I wanted to ask. "Let's go further inside." At a table by the rain-fogged window glass, Chizuko shook water from her raincoat and peeled off her gloves.

"But maybe I shouldn’t say it." With eyelids still wet from the rain, Chizuko smiled lightly; Yashiro smoked his cigarette while gazing at her seemingly bashful eyes. Even regarding this love he felt exclusively for Chizuko—rather than finding it strange how her vitality showed no mental changes since leaving Japan—Yashiro found himself wanting to gently preserve her exactly as she was; this determination to protect at least this fundamental essence from the recent poison of being swayed by hollow ideological frameworks had been his unchanging endeavor since their Marseille landing.

“Please go ahead and say it.” “What is it?” Yashiro asked. “I’d be in trouble if I get scolded.” “Have I ever scolded you?” “That’s why it’s hard to say.” Chizuko gazed at the steam rising powerfully from the kitchen—where thick coffee was being poured into a boiling aluminum pot—as it emitted a strong aroma. "You know, I did mention that to you once before, didn’t I? It’s about that secretary Pierre who kissed my hand at the Minister of Finance’s night reception here." “That gentleman has kindly invited me to the opera tonight.” "I don’t particularly want to go, but Mr. Shiono and everyone—well, Mr. Pierre has worked so hard to help Japan export salmon here—so they insist I simply must attend." “So I thought, well, and agreed to go—but Mr. Yashiro, you should come to the opera tonight too. Okay?”

“That’s a problem,” Yashiro said, placing his hand on the back of his head. Though his affection for Chizuko remained unchanged, he had never explicitly confessed it, and being neither her lover nor having any claim to monitor her freedom, no such compulsion had yet stirred within him. “But we won’t make it unless we get tickets now.” “La Traviata.” “If you’re coming, I’ll go straight to the opera from here.”

Chizuko took out her watch and checked it, "We still have a couple of hours - let's go. Okay?" "But I can't just tag along. If your plan is to show me you're enjoying yourself, I understand." "That's right - I want to show you." Chizuko chuckled softly, hunching her shoulders as she brushed rainwater from her cheek. "Alright, if you insist that much, I suppose I'll go see it after all."

As Yashiro laughed while stroking his chin, he found himself growing somewhat pleased and cheerful. They were a pair who harbored excessive affection for each other as friends yet remained far too uncommitted should they become lovers. Though Chizuko’s idea had been conceived out of sheer boredom, her boldly proposed plan gave Yashiro an unfamiliar thrill akin to crossing a glacial crevasse. He thought this would make for an impeccable performance if it stirred jealousy, but with Chizuko, trust took precedence, and Yashiro had yet to receive from her that overwhelming fluidity of adaptability. Once he thought of wanting to experience that, he found himself also wanting to take the opportunity to dress up tonight.

"If you're going with someone named Pierre, then I might bring someone along too. Well, the only one who'd accompany me would be Ms. Makiko... Ah, right—I'll ask Ms. Makiko," Yashiro said, slapping his knee. Chizuko stopped laughing for a moment and looked at Yashiro, but soon resumed her former serene beauty. "Please do; that way you won't be bored."

As she laughed, she suddenly turned with a startled look toward the Japanese across the way who had begun raising their voices in heated debate. “What on earth are they talking about? What’s that?” “It’s a debate—quite interesting, don’t you think?” Yashiro leaned his head back and watched Chizuko’s startled expression—she who disliked arguments—with evident amusement, all while pondering the tricky method of persuading Makiko, who wasn’t particularly close with Chizuko. The stains on the floor spread from droplets dripping off entering customers’ raincoats. Beaded droplets covering the entire windowpane, unable to bear their own weight, trickled down like snakes. The Paris faction and Berlin faction showed no signs of fatigue, their debate ultimately extending to comparisons between the beauty of Parisian horse chestnut trees and Berlin’s linden trees; then shifting restlessly to discussions about wine drunk beneath horse chestnuts versus beer enjoyed under lindens—the arguments meandered endlessly without resolution. Both sides were now utterly consumed by their fervent passions, their eyes blazing with such intensity that the entire spectacle appeared to Yashiro as a perfect abstraction of Japan’s intellectual class. He thought it reasonable that nationalists would grow furious under such circumstances, yet even so, the national essence residing in the common people—their patient endurance and innate sense of duty—now began to appear to Yashiro not as mere patriotism, but as something transcending it: the extraordinary beauty of spiritual discipline. Moreover, this silent spirit alone compelled the intellectual class to argue with their self-indulgent fervor, then floated before them as a gentle, motherly figure—smiling proudly as it listened to their debates.

Before they knew it, the rain had lightened, and the sky had brightened and cleared. Then, from between the vividly green street trees, Higashino came walking over alone. He entered the back without seeming to notice Chizuko and the others, then sat down beside the two Japanese men who were arguing, “Well now,” he said. However, the heated debate between the Berlin and Paris factions continued without even acknowledging Higashino. Eventually noticing Yashiro and the others, Higashino came over and sat down beside Chizuko,

“Last night was quite something.”

With that, he continued watching the two men arguing from where he sat. “What do you mean by ‘interesting’?” “You see, that debate has been going on since last evening. I came thinking they’d quit by now, but they’re still at it.”

The three of them laughed together. According to Higashino, one member of the Paris faction was a painter attending biology studies at the Sorbonne, while the other man was a Berlin-based correspondent about to return to Japan. Higashino, the painter, and the correspondent had gone last night to visit a dance hall with nude dancers, but when those two suddenly started arguing at the entrance, they continued debating without so much as glancing at the waves of naked women dancing around them—persisting until dawn broke—before going home to sleep and meeting again this morning by prior arrangement to pick up where they left off.

“Debating in the middle of a bunch of naked people—now that’s a sight to behold.” Yashiro laughed even more heartily, finding it all the more amusing.

“It was quite an extraordinary spectacle.” “I’d never witnessed that sort of debate before.” “Surrounding them were rose-hued waves of rhythm—not a thread worn.” “Amidst it all, those two in suits sat rigid as stone islands.” “And their talk? Nothing but political theories and ideological quibbles.” “Then even at daybreak—they showed no weariness?” “Weariness? Far from it. “The thought that history had never seen such a debate kept me enraptured till dawn. “Thank heavens one leaves tomorrow—another week of this would’ve killed them both.”

“That’s the Japanese spirit for you.” When the three of them looked at the two while laughing, the Paris faction member was pounding the table with the edge of his clenched right fist as he elaborately explained that France’s underground gold reserves had been immeasurable since ancient times. For both sides, rather than any concern for logical validity itself, it was purely their refusal to lose that drove their arguments. Thus their debate had ceased to be a debate—it had become nothing but yearning emotion. Yashiro realized his usual head-butting clashes with Kuji were of this same nature; reproaching himself with I’m still not good enough—he shifted his gaze to a horse chestnut tree spreading its leaves under clear skies.

“By the way, Mr. Higashino—Kuji’s been missing for a few days and it’s causing some trouble. He hasn’t shown up at your place, has he? He mentioned something about your father possibly coming and that he’d take him down, so I thought maybe...” “No, he hasn’t. Where could he have gone?” Higashino appeared deep in thought but showed no sign of worry; smirking as he propped his chin, he said: “If he’s angry at me, that makes him quite an admirable man.”

“It seems he occasionally recalls that recent debate somehow.” “He’ll probably pop up again soon enough—when he shows his face, why don’t we thrash it out with him once more?” “That might actually make him interesting.” “There’s no point him staying here indefinitely if he remains like this.” “You’d still do that? That seems rather cruel.” Yashiro steeled himself inwardly—at this rate he too might get pummeled—and let slip a thin smile while watching Higashino’s unsettling expression, unpredictable as a boulder poised to roll.

“In that case, it seems I still can’t graduate from Higashino University either.”

“You’re still not there yet. You’re always dwelling on humanity’s past. That won’t do.” “No—I’m thinking about the future too.”

Yashiro, caught off guard by the unexpectedly earnest jab, let his surprise show as he pushed back. "That future of yours isn't a future." "But that future you speak of—how could you possibly understand the one I'm envisioning?" "Of course I do. Everything you ever say just relies on trusting the beauty of humanity's past when considering matters. That's tedious. No matter how beautiful or splendid the past may have been, what does it amount to? Even that debate between those two over there—they're just stubbornly touting only the good points of France and Germany. Because they're fixated on nothing but the past, they'll remain in that disgraceful state forever. Even if you doused them with water from the side, they'd still be arguing in it. Ha ha ha ha."

Higashino had no sooner stood up laughing than he drifted outside as airily as he had come. Yashiro felt as though he had been struck for no apparent reason and had no intention of giving chase, yet even so found himself wanting to carefully consider others' criticisms once more and felt compelled to wrap himself anew in the armor of preparedness. I don't get it. What does he mean—that I don't think about the future? Another seed of conflict has fallen away.

“But even Mr. Higashino writes haiku sometimes, doesn’t he? Could such things too be considered part of the beauty of the future, I wonder?” “Well—let’s ask him properly next time what exactly he means by that.” Yashiro gazed at Higashino’s retreating figure as he spoke. Behind them, the two men’s debate still raged fiercely.

The Grand Opera began at 9:00 PM.

Chizuko called Makiko and, reasoning that the unrefined Yashiro would likely flounder if left unattended, requested that she take her place in guiding him to the opera. Since it concerned Verdi's La Traviata, Makiko gladly accepted Chizuko's request. As Pierre would naturally be coming to fetch Chizuko, she couldn't very well go with Yashiro and the others; thus they parted ways then and there, with Yashiro setting out alone to purchase tickets.

After skimming through the copy of *La Traviata* he had bought at the bookstore, Yashiro tried on a tuxedo for the first time after dinner. When he changed into white gloves and patent leather shoes and stood before the mirror, a wry smile welled up at the sight of his own slightly embarrassed appearance, resembling that of a movie theater usher. The fact that tonight he had to compete with the real Armand—Pierre—made it no ordinary task; merely taking a few steps gave him the weighty apprehension of treading upon a stage he’d never once rehearsed for.

Just then, Makiko came down from upstairs. Makiko, wearing a white crepe evening dress scattered with hydrangea motifs where leaves parted the fabric, was transformed into a vision of supple beauty. "You're all ready! Oh!" With this remark and a knowing smile, Makiko looked Yashiro up and down—his tall frame somehow carrying a bitter edge beneath the formalwear. "How do I look as Armand?" Yashiro asked, his face flushing. "You look positively dashing. I'd never have recognized you! Oh my—how rude of me."

"If I walk around like this I'll look like a monkey. Tonight I'll just stand still and bluff my way through." "I'll have to rely on gut acting." Makiko suddenly stifled a laugh, then stood beside Yashiro before the mirror. "I forgot to buy proper perfume." "Nothing compares to Chanel."

As she spoke, she drew closer to Yashiro and tentatively rested one arm on his. “We’ll be walking around like this all night long, you know.” “Please don’t be so reluctant.” “Ah, how amusing—it’s been ages since I’ve felt this good.” “You there—just a moment.” Makiko doubled over as if she could no longer contain her amusement, laughing so hard she nearly collapsed, then sat down in the chair and looked at herself in the mirror once more.

“So I’m really an actor now.” “What a terrible ordeal I’ve been put through.” “This is such a pain.”

Yashiro sat on the edge of the bed gazing at Makiko’s evening dress and thought that in life one does occasionally encounter situations that so closely resemble theater; he wondered what play this might possibly correspond to. However, he realized his own entrance was still to come with no program in hand—moreover, those watching an opera like *La Traviata* would surely all imagine themselves as Armand in some sense, or Marguerite too, meaning tonight’s performance could hardly be considered his solo act after all.

“The real Camille lived in 1842—that would be around Tenpō 13 in Japan. Since it all began here at the Opéra-Comique’s box seats where Armand first laid eyes on Camille and was ridiculed, tonight amounts to a sort of field survey.” “I did read it once before, but I’ve completely forgotten.”

Makiko said, glancing at her wristwatch, and then— "But Ms. Chizuko has such peculiar tastes, doesn’t she? Why on earth would she insist on showing you where she’s accompanied by others? I wonder. Does she want to experience Camille’s feelings, I wonder?" "That’s not it. At first she tried to refuse, but I think propriety made it difficult to do so. And since he’s French, there’s no telling what sort of seduction he might attempt—she wanted someone she knows to keep watch and put her mind at ease."

“I wonder if that’s really the case.” “But that’s strange, isn’t it.”

With a faint smile surfacing on her lips, Makiko picked up the copy of *La Traviata* from the desk and began flipping through its pages. "So that person does love you after all, Mr. Yashiro." "Yes, that's right."

she said in a low voice and fixed her gaze on a particular spot on a 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 a certain passage he had looked up before her arrival. This was the scene where Marguerite—having coughed up blood—descended alone to her bedroom in a fit of coughing, only for Armand to follow from the adjacent room and confess his love for the first time; it contained Marguerite’s gentle words to temper Armand’s ardent demeanor.

“You shouldn’t say such things.” “If you say such things, 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 come to resent me. And if I were to yield to what you say, you would end up with a troublesome, wretched lover.”

Such were her words.

Yashiro realized he had always silently repeated Marguerite’s words to Chizuko in his heart. Had this been Tokyo rather than Paris, he might have confessed his true feelings to her. But here in this foreign land far from Japan, he thought, love was no different from a patient’s condition. Since he considered himself more rational than Chizuko, he always resolved never to rely on their travel-weary judgment—a frailty that afflicted them both. This had held true even during that night they spent in the hayloft in Tyrol. After all, Marguerite—the consumptive who accepted Armand’s love—had met her end torn from his household, dying in lonely desolation. Don’t both patients require rest to heal? With this thought, Yashiro gripped his white gloves, stood up, and began pacing before Makiko.

Makiko climbed the front staircase of the opera house—resembling a royal palace—with her arm supported by Yashiro. As they ascended between vine-like brass railings whose elegant curves spread across both wings, they traversed several corridors before being guided to a second-floor box. The deep chamber seemed made for candlelight, its walls entirely lined with crimson velvet to create an intimate boudoir-like atmosphere. When they took their seats and looked toward the already begun performance, the staging made life itself appear to exist nowhere but on that platform—all other elements beyond vanished into darkness. Though Yashiro wanted to search for Chizuko among the attendees rather than watch the play’s progression, he found himself unable to scan the audience’s faces unless he leaned perilously far past the window frame’s thick balustrade. If every private box followed this design—as he now realized they must—then Pierre’s whispered words and gestures toward Chizuko tonight would inevitably mirror whatever might unfold between Makiko and himself within this velvet-lined sanctuary.

“What a beautiful actress. Her voice is lovely too.”

Makiko said in a low voice. It was only when told this that Yashiro realized he had been looking at the stage. On stage was a soirée being held in the opulent parlor of Violetta—the opera’s namesake Marguerite. “Ah, how delightful! For a courtesan like me, to die in pursuit of pleasure is my true wish…” Not long after it began, centered around Marguerite in her black velvet gown, nineteenth-century Parisian gentlemen and ladies continued their chorus of resplendent melody.

Yashiro thought that in the original Camille—said to be a novelization of real events—the scene where Armand first spoke to Marguerite of the camellias depicted her at the opera yet never watching the stage, just as he was now searching for Chizuko, constantly darting her eyes from box to box. Moreover, when he considered that Camille had lived in the Rue d’Antin—not so far from here—and that she too had often come to this opera house from there, reflecting on his own presence here now, he felt a whirling turmoil in his chest as though he might let out a stifled cry in that instant.

But immediately after appeared the tailcoated figure staring at Marguerite with Armand's passionate eyes—sincere to the point of rustic awkwardness. When Yashiro glimpsed this figure, he thought such a hawk-like predatory gaze was utterly unattainable for him as a Japanese man, while imagining Pierre—being foreign—might achieve it effortlessly; as time progressed, he grew increasingly troubled by the precariousness surrounding Chizuko's circumstances. And there was this beautiful crystalline melody too. Pierre wouldn't remain idle either. Yashiro even began regretting how this encroaching gloom had unexpectedly turned theatrical.

On stage, the scene continued—centered around Armand—with the artful libertine Count and Baron displaying their clever tricks and drinking prowess. At that moment, Marguerite suddenly collapsed. People came rushing over. With a handkerchief in one hand, Armand shooed them away and came to Marguerite’s side—now alone and in distress—where he began to confess the heartfelt feelings he had long harbored. Yashiro suddenly thought then that perhaps Chizuko had summoned him here tonight precisely because she wanted him to see this place. With that single thought, the scene abruptly began to appear bright again, as though it had taken his side. Yet he couldn’t help thinking—if Pierre were to adopt Armand’s current demeanor, it wasn’t impossible that he might have already taken such an attitude by now.

“Cast away this love, ah, forsake it…” Marguerite sang plaintively.

Yashiro thought that Makiko beside him must be sensing his own emptiness—the fact that nothing caught his eye even as he watched the stage. And as he felt this unexpected struggle tonight would only intensify further, he came to realize that the sole means of avoidance lay in him coming out here like this, and that Chizuko too must have found no way to evade Pierre’s temptations other than showing him this play.

“Verdi’s music really is the best, isn’t it?” “I once saw Nazimova’s *La Traviata* long ago, and that was excellent too.”

When the curtain fell, Makiko said this and left the box with Yashiro. The scent of Makiko, who had just freshened up, lingered strongly in the light of the columned corridor. Yashiro stood by the balcony railing and looked down at the swaying crowd in the vast hall below. Wiping the thin sweat beading around his neck, he looked around for Chizuko but could not find her. “Camille still isn’t visible, is she?” Makiko said as well, looking downward. Yashiro was grateful for Makiko’s willingness to back him up, and even as he laughed, he straightened his back, thinking that if things kept up this way, he too might truly become Armand by now.

“I’ve never really taken to that sort of opera, but this suits me better.”

"But it’s fine." "If only Mr. Kuji had come too. I wonder what he’s up to." Nodding at Makiko’s sudden melancholy, Yashiro realized—perhaps she too had been one of those Marguerites watching the stage while thinking of Kuji.

“Next time, let’s come with Kuji again.” “Kuji is quite modern, so he’d enjoy this sort of thing.” “What could he be doing—”

Perhaps because his sweat had cooled, the chill of the colonnade’s marble flowed in from both sides with a sudden sharpness. From the promenade down to the hall, groups in tailcoats and evening wear gradually gathering continued their slow, meandering rotations, whispering to one another under the umbrella-shaped lamps. While taking in the resplendent spectacle before him, the undulating effervescent white fans and earrings suddenly struck Yashiro with a recollection of Higashino’s words from earlier that day—words that had assailed him and then vanished. “You dwell too much on the past.”

However, standing rigidly on the crimson-carpeted balcony, Yashiro felt himself alone in protest against Higashino. No, it was universal flux. If flux constituted history's primordial form, then what lay below was its concrete manifestation—becoming the past with each passing moment. How could one see the future without looking at the past? Amidst a vague, damp jealousy, he looked around the area, struck by how absurd it was to find himself contemplating such matters like some peculiar Lord Armand. 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! There!” “That’s her.”

Yashiro nearly spoke out, but now it was enough just to confirm her presence. When he thought that even if he were to leave now, he had at least fulfilled his obligation, he remained silent and tried to fix his gaze even more intently on Chizuko. In a pale blue soirée dress and silver shoes, Chizuko pressed her arm against Pierre and descended through the light arabesques of the swirling balustrade, smiling quietly as she went. Yashiro remained silent and unhurried with Makiko, taking her arm and turning toward the staircase opposite the one Chizuko was descending. An indescribably opulent moment seemed to begin breathing with rich vitality, and with each step descending, the sparkling jewel-like lights beneath their shoes sent up sprays that struck their faces like fiery sparks.

“This hall seems more spacious than the audience seating area.” “I wonder when this was built.” When Makiko descended the stairs, she looked around and asked. “The seventeenth century,” Yashiro answered, then walked through the circulating crowd toward Chizuko with tense determination. Chizuko still did not seem to have noticed him, but even as she occasionally conversed with Pierre, she would glance toward the second-floor corridor. Pierre, with his broad forehead, showed little smile in his well-tailored tuxedo and walked slowly forward with keenly gleaming eyes. With his broad-shouldered, stocky build of average height and the way he pulled in his chin to look at people, he bore an uncanny resemblance to photographs of Napoleon in his youth. Yashiro felt a slight antipathy toward this theater with its rotating patterns of combined forms and also began to feel somewhat embarrassed, but now both had reached their fullest expression; thinking that this was the moment, he found courage welling up within him.

“She’s here. Wait.” “Wait.” Makiko pulled Yashiro’s arm. At that moment, Chizuko too seemed to notice Yashiro and the others, offering a faint smile as she silently bowed.

Yashiro felt melancholy. All the while, the flow of people intermittently severed the narrowing space between their gazes, yet each time Chizuko’s face reappeared, her smile changed. As they passed each other, “This has all been like some sort of ceremony. Please remain silent and wait a little while.”

And in this manner, while Chizuko's gaze spoke volumes through her eyes, she bowed slightly only to Makiko and moved past. Pierre's eyes suddenly gleamed as he stared intently at the two of them, but then, nodding at something Chizuko had whispered, he turned toward the promenade outside the hall and walked away.

“Shall we follow them from behind?”

Makiko suddenly pressed her chest tightly against Yashiro and asked. "No, let's not." "That's strange."

“Why?” From the moment Yashiro saw Chizuko, he felt reassured; slowing his pace, he wordlessly guided Makiko—who had begun to turn away—by the hand and walked on. The song from Act I—“Ah, is that he who alone was at the banquet?”—also took on a peculiar allure, its currents spreading through Yashiro’s heart. As people passed each other by, fragrances drifted and mingled through the crowd; with the emergence of earrings, trailing silver fox furs, dangling pearls, and soirée attire in white, yellow, and pale blue hues, Yashiro thought that a resplendent moment without equal was now swirling into existence around him. This flow of time seemed utterly mismatched with his being, yet there could be no doubt that he stood here now within the Grand Opera itself.

"Was this what had tempted generations of Japanese youth, never to be extinguished? Was this one of those forces that stir life's waters?" As this thought struck Yashiro, he realized that had there been even the faintest sign of crisis in Chizuko's gaze when they met earlier, this resplendent opera would surely have become a source of torment for him. They turned back upon reaching the silver-grey marble wall. During intermission, the promenade stretched so vast one would need to sprint to reach Chizuko again. Though Yashiro had once restrained Makiko from chasing after Chizuko, he now felt revulsion toward his own heart that treated Makiko like an outcast even as he pursued this same course beside her. When they arrived beneath the beautiful statue poised as if to immerse itself in water, Yashiro again halted his pursuit of Chizuko and spoke considerately to Makiko:

“Verdi came from Italy to Paris, and after seeing a performance of *La Dame aux Camélias* here, he promptly composed this *Traviata*, they say. I don’t really understand opera, but they say when they first tried performing it in Venice, it was a complete failure.” “In Venice, you know. I went there, you know. I thought it was just my husband and I who went there, but no—that Hungarian woman had actually come along too, and not just in Venice either. Wherever we went, she’d come either on the train before ours or the one after, like some sort of guard. Even I would get angry, wouldn’t I?”

The flow of people began moving toward their respective boxes. The two of them climbed the stairs again. Yashiro had to support Makiko as if lifting her up, and from the sensation of their torsos brushing against each other, he suddenly felt an implicit crisis awaken. If Chizuko too was being assailed moment by moment by this same crisis, then it was only natural that Pierre’s sharp eyes would transform into raw desire—these thoughts kept assailing him with persistent intensity. Moreover, as their ignition points rubbed against each other, they entered once more into the box that resembled a secret chamber. In these box seats, requesting assistance wasn’t limited to having an elderly attendant lock them; even heavy curtains had been prepared at the windows.

When they entered the box seats, the crimson hues and mirrors of the room—still bearing their eerie tones—began to caress Yashiro’s skin. Though he kept his gaze averted from Makiko, the silence between them in this confined chamber only intensified its oppressive tension. The long sofa in the room—which seemed to proclaim how unnatural it would be for nothing to happen now—shared that same vermilion hue. Makiko remained silent as she gazed at the stage curtain through the window, their shared breaths sensing the passage of an ominous moment bearing between them an instant as perilous as a plant that might sever one’s neck at the slightest touch—a weight growing ever heavier. It was that terrifying instant when fate’s momentum tips human destiny with sudden finality. At that moment, the curtain ascended, unfurling the beautiful scenery of Bougival on Paris’s outskirts.

Yashiro felt a carefree mood—as if he had sat up with a sigh of relief—and gazed at the stage. “That is Bougival, you know. I went there. It’s about an hour’s drive from here.” “Oh, really? I want 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 the suburbs of Paris. When I went there, the entire area was covered in nothing but apple blossoms.”

Armand, in hunting clothes—apparently having returned from the forest—entered alone. In his life of perfect love with Marguerite, he seemed happy, his body light as he sang a song of joy. At that moment, the maid appeared, dealt the first blow to shatter Armand’s joy, and as he exited in agitation, Marguerite made her entrance after him. Even as the two, burning flawlessly, supported their beautiful love with all their might, the past ruthlessly overturned their present happiness and advanced. When Armand’s aged father appeared and urged them to part, and his urging turned to entreaty, the future of the two finally shifted irrevocably toward tragedy.

To the old father who pleaded for their separation, Marguerite too at first spoke words of strong refusal: "Because I love him, I can't." However, if they had truly loved each other, why hadn't they pushed through with "Because I love you, I can't" and forged a future together? Yashiro imagined Chizuko's figure—who must still be watching this scene from some box's depths. "Because I love him, I can't." The beautiful heart of Camille, which had struck down the world's countless vices, must surely live on in everyone's hearts now. If you're still watching with a tainted heart, then go ahead and taint it completely—Yashiro grew angry at himself for having been tormented by jealousy until now, and even considered leaving without looking back.

“Alright then.”

When the curtain fell, Makiko stood up, checked her face in the mirror, and hurried out of the box alone. Yashiro followed her out, but Makiko stood at the terrace's edge gazing downward, maintaining a resentful silence as if his presence were an obstruction. Yashiro glimpsed the faintly throbbing veins at her slightly pallid temples and thought containing this emotional turbulence erupting unexpectedly from Makiko's core would prove no simple task. Yet since inviting her tonight had been ill-advised from the start, this displeasure had been inevitable. Judging silence safer than clumsy consolation, Yashiro kept wordlessly still.

“I’ve gotten a bit tired.” In truth, Yashiro had indeed felt weary when he spoke, but Makiko merely replied in a low voice, “I suppose so.” He leaned one hand against a thick, polished pale-red marble pillar while searching for any sign of Chizuko’s appearance, yet now the hall’s beauty felt tainted by Makiko’s displeasure beside him.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Kō over there.”

Suddenly at that moment, Makiko peered toward the left side of the lower promenade and spoke. At the entrance leading to the bar stood Li Chengyong—a painter they often met at cafés—and Kō Yūmei, with whom Makiko had frequently danced on deck during shipboard dance events; the two men were standing there. Kō was the son of a prominent Shanghai-based Chinese bank president, an elegant young man who had graduated from Tokyo Imperial University's economics department with fluent Japanese—yet for some reason had traveled second-class rather than first during the voyage. "I'll just step away for a moment."

Makiko left Yashiro alone on the terrace and descended the stairs. Li and Kō—likely lacking female companions—remained standing before the entrance wall rather than entering the hall. When Makiko tapped Kō’s shoulder from the side, his startled glasses instantly transformed into a smile as he shook hands with her warmly. From the terrace above, Yashiro observed Kō’s refined mannerism—the way his face flushed and eyes sparkled wide when laughing—while feeling a dawning terror at Makiko’s bold transformation. After some time, Kō—evidently informed by Makiko—looked up toward Yashiro on the terrace and raised his hand slightly in acknowledgment. Yashiro returned the smile—their first greeting since parting—then glanced sideways. Chizuko’s face abruptly materialized beyond the pillar’s surface, its center clouded by sweat from where his hand had been pressing.

“Are you alone?” “No, Makiko-san is over there, but she’s rather cross. It’s troublesome.” “Oh. I’ve intruded.” Chizuko looked down at Makiko before turning back to fix Yashiro with an uncharacteristically intense stare, her smile absent. Yashiro produced a handkerchief and wiped his brow amid this sudden turbulence of shifting social currents,

“Will you stay until the end?” he asked. Chizuko tilted her head, seeming at a loss for an immediate reply.

“When you return to the hotel, won’t you please call right away? It would be better if I went first, though.” “Then you must call me too.”

“Then you must call me too,” Yashiro said. Chizuko looked back behind her, “Well, I’ll try asking Mr. Pierre about when to return. I’ll come by your box seat next time. Would that be acceptable?” “Please do.” “Which one would that be?”

“There it is.”

Yashiro pointed to the box seat immediately behind. Chizuko looked closely at the door of the box seat Yashiro had pointed to, “There it is. Well, then…” With that, she bowed, but remained standing there for a moment with a hesitant air before bowing once more and disappearing behind the pillar. It seemed the time for the curtain to rise was approaching, and people each made their way back to their box seats. When Yashiro thought of Chizuko’s unusually pale, large eyes and her flustered demeanor, his heartbeat quickened without reason, and he found himself unwilling to return directly to the box seats.

Inside the hall, there was a sense that the curtain had risen, but Makiko still had not returned. Since it had been some time since she last met Kō, 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 large, tense eyes lingered in his mind like a portent of momentous events, refusing to fade. "I too have been completely overturned." — As Yashiro walked along the hushed crimson carpet of the now-deserted colonnade, his expression grew melancholic, as though trying to immerse himself in some deepening resolve. An old woman in black clothes emerged quietly from a pillar’s shadow, holding a box seat key. Approaching him, she produced the key.

“This. Do you need it?” she asked. “No,” Yashiro said, but suddenly wondered if the old woman had gone to lock Chizuko and Pierre’s box seats. As he walked through the corridor regretting his utter carelessness in having forgotten to ask for their box number, he stopped upon estimating it must be around this area. However, of course, even if he had determined it was there, he couldn’t possibly intrude inside. Yashiro turned back once more.

Through the hushed marble expanse of the hall, the golden handrails frolicked with seductive grace, twisting their forms like dancers in solitary play. He suddenly recalled Chizuko's wild beauty when she had turned back from the glacier's fang in Tyrol. After some time, Yashiro entered his box seat to find Makiko still absent. Leaning against the sofa while glaring at the stage, he found himself utterly disinterested. The stark whiteness of his tuxedo front swelled unnervingly vivid in the spacious room; wishing the finale would end already in one decisive stroke, he released a yawn that immediately birthed another.

The stage grew somewhat more engaging when Armand, jilted in love, appeared and began placing bets. The expectation that he would soon fling his winnings at Marguerite served to soothe Yashiro's restlessness. Just then Marguerite made her entrance. She rigidly contained her visible shock at encountering her former lover, standing beside the Baron while stealing glances at Armand's reckless figure. Suddenly Yashiro felt an unexpectedly warm contact against his occiput. When he casually glanced upward, Chizuko stood mute behind the sofa.

“Ms. Makiko still hasn’t returned?” Chizuko, who had circled around to the front, lightly touched Soare’s knee and sat down beside Yashiro. The scent of perfume different from Makiko’s poured a vivid stream into Yashiro’s head.

“Is it all right to leave Mr. Pierre?” “Yes, he said it was fine.” “He said he has friends there.” Chizuko let out a sigh as she gazed around the room, “What’s become of Ms. Makiko?” she asked again. “You know Mr. Kō—the Chinese man who was on the ship.” “The one skilled at dancing—” “She met him downstairs and still hasn’t come back.” “I see.” “Are you angry with me?” “No—at me.”

“I thought I might be scolded too, but, you know…” “Well, I made a slight mistake.” Yashiro said this and pulled Chizuko’s arm—something he had rarely managed to do—into his own as if they were walking together. Chizuko turned toward the rear door before leaning her face against his shoulder, but then she sat up straight again, rearranged her legs, and leaned back even more heavily, causing the blue stones of her necklace to faintly chime. They remained like that for a while, watching the stage. As the troubled Marguerite’s dress undulated, countless jewels across her body kept shifting their sparkle and shimmer.

Yashiro, cradling the permed strands of Chizuko’s hair against his neck, felt a pleasure resonating and swaying from depths unknown even to himself. Yashiro understood the progression of the play on stage, yet their own progression—the pleasures yet to come—remained utterly uncertain. As he felt an increasing responsibility not to retreat, he continued supporting Chizuko’s weight. The music persistently continued carrying on Armand’s lament over his lost “precious love.”

“Oh dear, there’s powder here.” Chizuko suddenly raised her head and brushed off the face powder clinging to Yashiro’s shoulder. Then, laughing, “Forgive me.” Having said this, she placed Yashiro’s hand on her knee and stroked it with both hands as if kneading. Yashiro felt something like a deepening intoxication whenever Chizuko shifted position. Partly this came from the music swelling with tragic lamentation that seeped between them like jealousy—but even so, he thought that if anyone were to tear apart this affection now, he would surely become as distraught and grief-stricken as Armand. Even the cold press of Chizuko’s earring against her neck as he supported her carried a chill of piercing sorrow.

“I have to go now.” “The curtain’s about to fall.”

Chizuko stood up, stepped over to the mirror to fix her makeup, and said to Yashiro, “When you return to the hotel, please call me.”

Then, coming to sit beside Yashiro once more, she placed his hand on her knee again, "Is it all right if I step out for a moment?" she asked. "Well, it's a bother, but I suppose there's no help for it."

Yashiro suddenly wondered which hand Pierre had kissed on Chizuko's hand and sharply struck the back of his own hand once.

“Well then, goodbye.”

Just as Chizuko stood up to leave, Yashiro suddenly called out to stop her. “Please don’t turn this into a tragedy. Are you all right?” Chizuko twisted her body halfway through the doorway and nodded silently with a smile.

After Chizuko had left, Yashiro also stood up and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Indeed noticing his shoulders had slightly slumped, he adjusted his crooked tie and straightened his white shirtfront, all while finally thinking that he too had fallen prey to the traveler's melancholy he had always scorned. In truth, it was undoubtedly Chizuko who had come to press her affections upon him, but it was equally certain that both Chizuko and he himself had been besieged by Paris in its entirety. If this were to peel off layer by layer each time they drew closer to Japan, then in reality, he thought, the two of them were now no different from those seeing a dream. If one were to consider it, the outcome would be utterly dreadful. But there was no use thinking about that now. Things had come to pass on their own, and he couldn’t even tell who had brought them about. Resigned to simply savoring this joy for what it was, he settled back onto the sofa with renewed vigor in his straightened tuxedo and continued watching the stage’s tragedy alone.

By the intermission before the final act, the hall's audience had become utterly excited. Pairs of men and women walking along the promenade pressed their bodies tightly together, no longer noticing passersby at all, moving about with gazes so achingly tender they seemed to pledge their love to one another. As Yashiro looked down at this scene from the balcony, he found himself wanting to walk through the crowd's excitement and descended the stairs. The mingled scent of resplendent gentlemen and ladies from the soirée felt like his own. Whenever traces of white powder scattered across men's shoulders and chests caught his eye, Yashiro's hand would instinctively move to his own shoulder.

However, Yashiro thought that among all the people filling this hall, there was likely no one who had obtained as much joy as he. As he thought this, the swirling euphoria of the entire crowd came raining down brightly overhead like celebratory fireworks launched in unison. The fiery sparkle of jewels from every fold of the soirée—if he thought of all this as a celebration for himself, then indeed it was so.

"What splendor this is—a once-in-a-lifetime moment." Yashiro walked silently and steadily alone, yet his arms brimmed with a fluttering sensation akin to being filled with flowers, so intensely that he would periodically halt mid-stride and sink into deep contemplation.

But anyway, what on earth had become of Makiko? — Yashiro walked, looking around. Chizuko's smile—which seemed to have been watching him all along—looked faintly his way from beside a distant statue, revealing her teeth. In a momentary flash of light that swept across his vision, Pierre was supporting Chizuko's arm in his stead. Yashiro now found himself wanting to thank Pierre too. Had he not been there, he thought, this night's pleasure would have remained no different from any other ordinary evening.

Some time after Yashiro had returned to the box seats, Makiko came back just as the curtain seemed about to rise.

“Forgive me. “I left you all by yourself.” “I heard so many interesting stories from Mr. Kō.” Makiko, in a markedly better mood than before, sat down in her chair with a smile—and the moment she did, a sudden shift in the air seemed to make her turn her head. “There’s a scent of Walt here. “Ms. Chizuko was here, wasn’t she?” she asked. “She came,” Yashiro said. “I see. “That’s good.” Makiko fell silent for a moment, looking properly toward the stage, then suddenly turned back to face Yashiro.

“You know, do I really have to stay until the end?” “But it should be fine now, don’t you think?” “I’ve fulfilled my duty, you see.” “Shall we leave then?” “I’m ready to leave anytime.” “You can go ahead. “I’ve made plans to go dancing with Mr. Kō tonight, you know.” “And the timing’s just perfect too, you know.” Yashiro thought he had no right to stop Makiko’s actions, but even so, it felt unpleasant to part ways and return separately since they had come together. The risk of sending off Makiko—a willful adopted daughter divorced from her husband—to dance halls with Mr. Kō was not on the same level as that involving Chizuko and Pierre. Nine out of ten times, one must first recognize the danger of falling into the Chinese man’s clever scheme.

“You can’t go.” “Why can’t I?” “Why? I just feel you shouldn’t.” “But I’ve already made the promise.” “Then I’ll go too,” Yashiro said, glancing at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Just then, the curtain rose to reveal Marguerite—suffering from gastric pains—sleeping in her pale dawn-lit bedroom. Makiko had been quietly watching the performance, but “I know how this ends already. So I’m going now.”

With that, Makiko stood up. To push Makiko into the hedonism he knew full well was dangerous—and for his own sake at that—was something Yashiro couldn't endure.

He grasped Makiko’s wrist and pulled her down into the chair, “Stop that,” he said again with force. “Are you really that worried about me? I’m free to do as I please.”

“That may be your freedom, but it’s not a woman’s freedom.” “Then what about Ms. Chizuko? Is her character different?” Makiko flared her nostrils like an actress delivering a throwaway line, stood up again, and violently shook off Yashiro’s hand. “Then I’ll accompany you too.” When Yashiro tried to follow Makiko out and had almost reached the door, she suddenly turned around. “No, not you,” she said, shoving his shoulder.

The entrance sloped slightly toward the boxes, so Yashiro staggered backward, but he stubbornly pressed on into the hallway. While chasing after her, he could fully sense—even if Makiko were in danger—from Kō and Li’s radiant countenances that they possessed admirable aspects of character. Rather, it seemed certain that it was Makiko who had initiated the invitation to dance, and if that were the case, then perhaps his own concerns were merely hindering her enjoyment—Yashiro even began to regret. Gripping the balcony railing as he watched Makiko descend the stairs with brisk urgency, he still never ceased to hope that she too might spend this night as pleasantly and safely as himself.

When Makiko’s figure had disappeared from view, Yashiro returned to the box seats. In the deserted private box, Walt alone came wafting from the tuxedo’s shoulder like a living creature. The Traviata on stage had now reached its climax. However, even the beauty of the orchestral music was now lulled by the joy welling up from Yashiro’s chest. Especially since even the memory of the scent at his shoulder—a precious joy achieved through Makiko’s solitary sacrifice—made him want to devise every possible means to prolong this joy, leaving him as elated as a child.

Finally, on stage, Violetta declared, “Look, my pulse is beating so strongly now. I’ll come back to life once more from this moment!” she exclaimed, and with that rejoicing, she died joyfully.

And then, amidst the sorrowful orchestral music of those who remained, the beautifully lingering 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 poured out of Opéra Garnier's exit and surged in a steady stream toward Café de la Paix on the right corner to have supper. Each person, still possessed by the raw emotion of Violetta’s life, sank coquettishly within their finery like petals heavy with nectar, then lined up by the white tablecloths in decadent postures as they transitioned into their respective nocturnal dramas.

Yashiro thought Pierre would soon arrive here with Chizuko too, but remembering the promised phone call, he promptly returned to his hotel. As if vowing to make his own drama—now beginning—shine more beautifully than anyone else's, he sat in the waiting car, straightened his tuxedo's front, and adjusted the crooked bow tie.

The streets lay quieted by sleep, devoid of streetlamps, as Yashiro made his way back with a sensation akin to traversing the bottom of rocky crevices. Light spilled onto the pavement from a lone café. Bathed in its muted glow, prostitutes huddled in a circle on the terrace, slurping late-night soup. Though hungry himself, Yashiro turned the corner back toward his hotel to await Chizuko's call. The hotel too had fallen silent in slumber, save for intermittent shower sounds echoing through its halls. He removed his still-worn tuxedo and changed into a dressing gown. Yet no matter how long he waited, the telephone remained silent. As the absence of her call persisted alongside the opera's lingering afterglow within him, his anxiety grew—could Pierre have whisked Chizuko away somewhere? Though fully convinced such indiscretion lay beyond her character, even his own conduct when facing Makiko in the opera box could scarcely be deemed blameless. When a point of severance arises abruptly in one's body like a leaf detaching from its stem, there occurs in the heart a cleaved instant where will stands powerless.

Then the telephone rang. “You’re there.” “I’ll bring a souvenir over now, so don’t go to sleep yet.” “Understood?” The call came unexpectedly from Kuji, who had been concerned about someone’s disappearance. To Kuji, who seemed somewhat intoxicated, “Where are you?” “If you’re coming, I’ll order sandwiches.” But before Yashiro finished speaking, the line went dead. Realizing Kuji’s arrival would prevent him from speaking with Chizuko tonight, Yashiro filled the bathtub with water. Though it was Kuji—whom he hadn’t seen in ages—Yashiro felt strangely intruded upon. Had he himself changed so much? Stirring the bathwater, he kept anxiously awaiting Chizuko’s call. Soaking in the tub with legs stretched and eyes closed, a resignation-like feeling welled up within him. He’d never imagined his rational mind could weaken enough to resent a friend’s visit—yet here lay tonight’s transformation. If this was love, it couldn’t possibly endure. Yashiro splashed about noisily, cooled his head under the shower spray, and methodically steeled himself to await what must come.

Before long, Kuji entered with a package tucked under his arm. His eyes beneath thick eyebrows grew sharp as if in anger, transforming his face into one that appeared slightly haggard. He entered the room and immediately plopped down onto the bed on his back, spreading both arms wide.

“After all, this is the best place.” “I can relax here.” “Where had you been?” Even when Yashiro pressed him, Kuji refused to answer and continued staring at the ceiling, his eyes glinting. To this man who seemed utterly exhausted, Yashiro—

“Why don’t you take a bath?” he suggested. “Hmm, what a hassle.” “Get in.”

Yashiro briefly washed out the bath and refilled it with fresh water, then returned to Kuji’s side and loosened his belt. Kuji seemed pleased to have Yashiro attend to him, “Oi! Shoes!” Having said that, he thrust his foot toward Yashiro as well. “This guy’s acting all high and mighty.” “So you don’t need the souvenir anymore?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

Laughing uproariously, Kuji suddenly sat up with renewed energy, flung off his jacket, and kicked his trousers down to strip naked. Just then, the telephone rang. Still naked, Kuji impulsively seized the nearby receiver. Yashiro tried to intervene, but Kuji had already answered, “Yes, that’s correct. This is Yashiro.”

“Who is it from?” Even when Yashiro pressed him, Kuji kept silently responding to Chizuko while stubbornly maintaining, “I’m Yashiro,” refusing to release the receiver. As Yashiro watched the delicate beads of sweat tracing the curve of Kuji’s twisted spine, the news of Chizuko’s safe return to the hotel made Kuji’s mischief seem almost tender, and he let him keep the receiver a while longer. “Your sweetheart keeps rattling off excuses, you know. Come now—your turn.”

Yashiro took Kuji’s place. “I’m Yashiro.” “Earlier—well, you see, I was treated to supper by Pierre, so I ended up being late.” “Mr. Kuji is being unfair!” “He was in such a hurry that I thought it was you.”

“Kuji has just come back now. He still hasn’t confessed where he’s been, but I’m about to grill him properly.” “What about Ms. Makiko?” “She finally went off dancing with Mr. Kō. I came back alone.” “So she’s still not back?” “Not yet. She’ll surely be late.”

“I’m worried. I think I must go to express my thanks, but I’m not sure what’s the proper way.” “No, I don’t think you need to concern yourself with that.” “What’s there to be concerned about?” Kuji called out to Yashiro from the bath. Even while speaking on the phone, Yashiro had now regained enough composure to remain mindful of Kuji behind him. “Since Kuji’s making such a commotion, you should rest properly tonight.”

“Well then—sleep tight. See you tomorrow then.” “Goodbye.”

Even after the call had ended, Yashiro somehow felt that Chizuko was still there as she had been, so—

"Alright? I'm hanging up now," he tried to say, but the line had already gone dead. Yashiro leaned back in his chair with a sense of anticlimax while Kuji made splashing noises in the bathwater. The chair was positioned so that his upper body from the waist up was reflected in the mirror, making his face clearly visible even when he didn’t move. He considered telling Kuji about that night’s events at the opera, but then recalled he had always been someone constitutionally incapable of valuing romantic matters so highly. He also thought it better for now to refrain from shamelessly reporting the consequences of having steeped himself in such emotions.

Yashiro gazed at his own face reflected in the mirror, yet could not comprehend where any value lay in that countenance which seemed so utterly self-satisfied and smugly content. Yet despite everything, the triumphant visage of this effeminate face that had yielded to matters reason could scarcely praise—a countenance that even retained in its cheeks the beauty of some valiant beast—made him feel, as he himself grew calmer without further regret over having splendidly fallen in battle, a simultaneous loathing emanating from his own features.

Even so—how had things come to this? As for this supposed incident—wasn’t it merely that I had held Chizuko’s arm in mine for just a brief moment? Yashiro suddenly began doubting what all the science, history, and philosophy he had studied until now had even amounted to. Truly—merely because some physiological change absent until yesterday had arisen in his mind—that all intellectual pursuits now seemed utterly powerless could not be ordinary. If this had turned into heartbreak, it would have been all the more unbearable. Moreover, contemplating how this human world ceaselessly carries such precarious hearts—realizing a terrifying volcanic crater spewed fire here—Yashiro stared unwaveringly at his mirrored face as though beholding encroaching plumes of smoke. He wanted to spend the night pondering slowly. But Kuji would soon emerge from his bath. Then there would be another debate. Human past, present, future— Even if he felt he’d had enough, others would keep agitating matters.

After emerging from the bath, Kuji opened Yashiro's wardrobe, casually threw on some sleepwear, sat down on the bed, and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker, sandwiches, and a large amount of bread from a souvenir package.

“You can drink as much whiskey as you like, but don’t go eating too much of the bread. Starting tomorrow, all the restaurants in Paris are going on strike together, so I stocked up.”

Kuji first drank a glass of whiskey himself, then poured one for Yashiro. Sitting facing each other on the bed—using blotting paper as a makeshift tea tray—they couldn’t release their cups from their hands because each movement made the glasses tremble. Still, the two found joy in this long-missed face-to-face seating arrangement.

“So starting tomorrow, we won’t even be able to get a decent meal, will we? The City of Flowers becomes the City of Starving Urchins at last.” As he spoke these words, Yashiro thought he was sinking ever deeper into love’s world—whether hell or heaven remained unclear. This too had become unavoidable; were Chizuko to tell him without reason to kill Kuji, he realized with intoxicated recklessness that he might even slay this dear friend.

“Today I saw something interesting. At Clignancourt, an old newspaper vendor was selling right-wing papers. Then three or four left-wing committee members came running over. Outraged that a worker was selling right-wing newspapers, they snatched them all away and tore them to pieces. But 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 this?’ he wailed, trembling uncontrollably and crying. The Left Wing committee members were really at a loss. ‘Oh right—that was bad of us,’ they said. So they told him, ‘Sell these instead,’ bought up a great many new left-wing papers, and handed them to him. Since he didn’t care a whit what he sold as long as he had goods, he went back out into the streets beaming again. But as I watched them buy back the very newspapers they’d torn up with their own money—that’s when I thought, ‘This is France,’ and was truly impressed. Even beneath ideologies, there are genuinely decent human beings, you know.”

In response to Kuji's words, Yashiro said, "Hmm. Hmm," and sank into thought again for a moment. He paid particular attention to Kuji's more mature interpretation that there were humans behind ideologies too, and nodded in agreement. I too have now fallen into love that kills people, just as rigid, faithless ideologies do. But if both ideologies and love are things that kill people, then what exactly is it that does not kill?

“So the scientific humanist has returned to the humanist camp after disappearing for a while,” said Kuji. “Well then—let’s drink to your safe homecoming.” While pouring whiskey for Kuji, Yashiro kept his transformation buried deep within his heart. “With four hundred factories already closed just today alone—once this spreads worldwide, it won’t stop at mere strikes,” Kuji continued. “The global intellectual class will split cleanly in two. Then it’ll be war everywhere.”

“Because we did nothing but chant ‘truth, truth’ like empty slogans, everything has finally become truth.” Kuji climbed down from the bed, pulled out a newspaper called La Flèche from his coat pocket, and unfolded it. The front page displayed a large map of France where communist-leaning prefectures and unchanged ones were demarcated in vermilion and white. In this map shaped like a leopard-pelt rug, white areas survived only as small spots near where hands would be and slightly above the tail—all else from head to torso blazed vermilion. Below this lay a parliamentary diagram showing fifty-six seats for the Popular Front against no more than forty-four combined for right-wing and centrist factions.

“With this, nearly twenty million yen per day has begun fleeing to foreign banks with just a single phone call,” said Kuji. “The profiteering nations must be grinning over their windfalls like manna from heaven. All this talk about exchange controls seems utterly futile.” Since it was Kuji—the economics expert—speaking, Yashiro didn’t question him much. Still, he thought such capital flight would wreak economic havoc worse than war. Unlike Japan’s situation, if people here could so easily transfer national wealth abroad during crises, the domestic red tide would only entrench the banks further—until those very institutions might spew flames to consume the populace. Since coming overseas, Yashiro had grown acutely sensitive to monetary flows. Yet he realized he remained more oblivious to daily financial shifts than any cigarette-peddling crone on these streets. Nor was this his failing alone—most Japanese back home showed even less concern. Reflecting on Eastern affairs, Yashiro concluded that intellectuals’ willful ignorance of Britain’s financial dominion—how it deployed surplus capital globally to manipulate nations—stemmed partly from tradition: that noble disdain for filthy lucre.

"The rumors about war with China died out completely in just two or three days, didn't they? So it was all nonsense after all?" Yashiro inquired. "Apparently they'd mistaken the fighting between Chen Jitang and Li Zongren in Guangdong for a Sino-Japanese war. But on the night those war reports came out, some Japanese fellow had a rough time at a Chinese restaurant on Saint-Michel." "Come to think of it, Mr. Oki was nearly in trouble that night we went too. The man does love holding forth with speeches." "That presidential habit of his surfaces unconsciously - he's convinced himself it's his duty to represent all Japanese whenever anything happens." "He kept up that enthusiasm aboard ship too."

Even as they spoke of these things, Yashiro thought how Kō Yūmei—the Chinese man who had gone dancing with Makiko that night—still wore the same gentle expression of trust he had always shown aboard the ship. Precisely because these were such times, he felt something mutual yet unbroken still lingered between them, and like someone spotting an unexpected light, he waited to hear news of Makiko’s return. “I forgot to mention—I went to the opera with Ms. Makiko tonight. “Then in the lower hall there was this Chinese man called Mr. Kō—you remember, the one who was good at dancing and stayed in second class on the ship? “I met him. “Ms. Makiko seemed to have rediscovered her taste for dancing—she went off with Mr. Kō and still hasn’t come back.”

Kuji, who seemed about to fly into a rage, abruptly stifled the large yawn he had begun and burst out laughing.

"Then that doesn't make sense, does it?" "What kind of logic is that?" "She hasn't gone dancing with us even once yet, has she? That's right. I forgot to go dancing with her." It had been difficult for Yashiro to discern whether Kuji held any interest in Makiko or not, but until now he had silently restrained himself from voicing what he thought Kuji would likely say upon entering the room—that is, immediately inquire about Makiko. As he watched, though Kuji wore an expression that seemed to voice bitter disappointment over Makiko having been taken out by Kō, Yashiro could not dismiss the possibility that this too was an internal scheme—Kuji playfully feigning such countenance to obscure his observations.

"I did manage to stop Ms. Makiko, but she pushed my shoulder aside and left," said Yashiro. "At the opera, she said regretfully, 'If only Mr. Kuji had been here too,' so you—vanishing for days—bear some responsibility too." "She was a master at darting out," Kuji replied with a wry smile. "Quite the handful." Though Yashiro found himself unable to press Kuji—who remained obstinately silent about his three-day absence—the sociology student soon brushed off the bedclothes and lay down. His eyelids grew heavy at once, whether from accumulated exhaustion or deliberate evasion, and he did not stir again.

In the morning, Yashiro woke up before Kuji. Without waking Kuji, who was sleeping soundly beside him, he washed his face and then, wanting to see if Makiko had returned the previous night, went to her room—but the key was still turned in the lock. It was certain that she had indeed returned. Yashiro left the hotel and walked toward nearby Luxembourg Gardens; after informing Chizuko of his whereabouts via the public telephone at the park entrance, he entered alone through the iron gate.

It must have rained around midnight, for heavy drops fell from the wet-trunked trees. On the paths within the still-empty garden, white feathers lay scattered in speckles, and water oozed damply from the sand beneath each step.

The air was crisp. Yashiro wiped away the dew that had accumulated on the iron bench frame and sat down. On the lawn where morning sunlight dappled the grass, a pigeon walked through, pushing aside blades with its chest. It was a scene he had grown accustomed to, but Yashiro loved the very ordinariness of this place. The absence of any particularly striking trees somehow made his tobacco taste better. He glanced intermittently toward the elm thicket near the east gate where Chizuko would appear.

Folded narrow iron chairs were bundled in the shadow of the thicket. From between the bundle of chairs that looked like brushwood, Chizuko approached in a black dress. Tinted by the color from the outstretched leaves of trees with their lower branches trimmed, Chizuko’s lightly made-up face was slightly pale, but with a bashful smile toward the path where a single rose bush could be seen, she turned her face away even as her steps gradually quickened. “Did you sleep well last night?” “I woke up a bit too early. Kuji is still asleep.”

Chizuko sat down beside Yashiro and watched the pigeon wobble as it walked, “Did you see Mr. Pierre properly last night?” “Doesn’t he look rather old to you?” “Not at all. “He was a beautiful, pleasant man. “He suited it quite well.” Chizuko started to reach for Yashiro’s knee but suddenly stopped her hand and turned to face him, “You suited it quite well too. “Infuriatingly well, I might add.”

For Yashiro, seeing Chizuko blush was an utterly rare occurrence. Before fleeing to Germany, he couldn't recall how many times he had spoken with Chizuko like this on these very park benches. Though he had been the one to flee—convinced he would never see her again and must not meet her anymore—the fact that he now chose this secluded morning spot made Yashiro think how drastically circumstances could shift. He felt their bodies had already melted together through mere proximity, like some shellfish expanding and contracting in unified rhythm from skin's edge to innermost organ.

“Now what you think and what I think are the same. What are we to do about this?” Without voicing this aloud, Yashiro gazed at the dappled sunlight on the lawn and blew out tobacco smoke with an air of deep satisfaction. In last night’s La Traviata, Armand had looked just as content as he did now during the second act’s Boulevard scene—only for tragedy to strike barely ten minutes later. Yashiro realized he still knew nothing about Chizuko’s family back in Japan, and it occurred to him that if tragedy were to arise, it would likely stem from there—though even should it come, that too would be something happening much later than now.

“Are you going back to the hotel again?”

“Oh, right.” Yashiro stood up and said, “I hear nowhere’s selling bread today. Whether it’s true or not—shall we go see for ourselves? I’m hungry.” “Has it really come to that?” “So they say—but looking around now, it seems surprisingly quiet.” The toes of an approaching pigeon—familiar from earlier visits—glistened with lawn dew like pale crimson spinach stems. A sparrow still damp from rain bounced like a ball at Chizuko’s shoe-tips.

The two of them stood up from the bench and walked around the garden again. When the hawthorn was in bloom, Yashiro had walked through this forest in a daze, and now, from the sand that still yielded beneath his feet, he suddenly sensed a moment when Chizuko had pulled him so forcefully it left him breathless. With a weariness-tinged recollection of how he had managed to break away from Chizuko and depart Paris alone back then, Yashiro parted through the tree trunks—their green now deeper than in those days, mottled layers overlapping—with his eyes, guiding Chizuko toward the sunlit flowerbed.

"When traveling, even as you go with the flow, a nest naturally forms in your heart—but for me, these Luxembourg Gardens have unwittingly become that nest. It’s as if I’ve lived my whole life here." While circling the hollyhocks, Yashiro thought he had ultimately gained nothing at all, and felt certain that even after returning to Japan, his traveler’s heart would continue unabated. "I’ve learned so many things from you here," she said. "But we’ll have to say goodbye soon, won’t we?"

With a demeanor suggesting she assumed Yashiro too must naturally sense their impending separation, Chizuko rested her hand on a hollyhock's upright stem and spoke. Yes - he truly had to part with Chizuko after all. Yashiro fell silent, shuddering as if a blade had been plunged into his chest. Had tragedy come for him too? He felt his mind slacken beneath morning sunlight bleaching everything white. Head bowed, he walked as though devouring the violent chest pains that kept assailing him from behind. Yashiro thought Chizuko must be refusing marriage for reasons unknown to him, even considering what might happen if he boldly raised the subject himself. Yet he felt utterly wretched at breaking this endurance now - this endurance through which until yesterday he'd managed never to mention marriage.

“Has there been any word from your brother in London?” Yashiro finally sensed something dawning on him and asked. Chizuko answered “Yes” quietly, then after remaining heavily silent for some time, spoke again in faltering tones. "My brother is already returning to Japan, you know." "When I came here, he was supposed to have returned already, you know." "But since he wrote that it had been slightly delayed, I hurried and came here." “Haven’t I told you about this yet?”

“I had only heard about his being in London,” Yashiro began with studied casualness, “but if he returns now—Chizuko—I suppose you’ll be marrying someone soon?” He posed this most crucial question as if discussing the weather. “That...is part of it.” Her voice caught like petals brushing stone. “It’s difficult. Truly.” Where hollyhocks yielded to roses, Chizuko’s bowed head traced patterns in crumpled blooms—her slender eyebrows etching quiet lines of surrender against floral light. Yashiro shuddered as each conjecture struck true, yet found her resignation intolerable; beneath his ribs swelled something raw and clawing, nearer to fury than despair.

“Do you absolutely have to marry that person?”

Yashiro suddenly felt compelled to press her like this, but upon saying so, he realized that the two of them had already reached the climax of their end. He held back the rising impulse and walked silently through the flowerbed for some time, but then reasserted that he could not doubt his own love—this could not possibly be called a lie.

“Well then, let’s go eat.”

Yashiro guided Chizuko toward the East Gate and left the park, walking toward Lila while discarding his earlier tumultuous emotions. However, as they walked, a thin cold resolve that they must now part ways flooded his entire field of vision, and Yashiro sank into thinking that even these rows of horse-chestnut trees with their black trunks would become another memory clawing at his heart. When they reached Lila, its doors were closed with all chairs cleared away. They went to check their regular restaurant, but its entrance too was shut tight, terrace chairs upturned on tables with legs in the air. At first Yashiro thought it simply hadn't opened yet, but through the glass he saw the head waiter who usually served his table confronting the manager beyond the entrance, speaking with agitated gestures as if lodging some protest. Though sealed glass muffled their words, against the darkened interior where lights were off, the manager and three waiters' faces—illuminated by streetlight—appeared imposingly like sharks in an aquarium. Behind the waiter whose expression shifted between calm and argumentative, the clothes of three others pressing close resembled motionless kelp on the seabed. The balding manager who often approached Yashiro to gently inquire "How does this dish taste?" now spread and retracted his hands repeatedly, wholly focused on placating the waiters.

“Given how things look, holding out just today won’t work.” Yashiro stood on the street saying this and surveyed the restaurants and cafés lining both sides, but every single one had its glass doors shut tight, not a single customer was inside. Each time they wandered about searching for meals only to be rejected everywhere, the travelers merely drifted through the streets. When those newly arrived for meals came to understand the situation, they remained huddled on the street, none attempting to slip away with furtive smirks. Just then, government committee members promoting the strike would come racing through the streets in patrol cars to verify compliance with the strike orders, and with vigor,

“Front Populaire (People’s Front)!” they shouted, raising clenched fists high before the crowd. The voices seemed meant to cheer on strikers behind glass doors, but many food-seekers joined in raising fists too, if only to relieve boredom. As Yashiro walked with Chizuko through streets where not just restaurants but all sizable shops had shut their doors, strike committee members stood guard at every entrance to block employees from entering.

“The waves are finally crashing down on us,” Yashiro said, looking at Chizuko and laughing. Because the shops along the street had shut their mesh-patterned iron lattice gates, the city appeared like a prisoner thrown into a cell, and even the handbags and cosmetics in the darkened show windows resembled women shackled and bowing their heads. Yashiro, thinking that things which must change inevitably do change, peered through the iron fence’s lattice from outside when—

“What will become of us?” she said, looking up at him with a timid gaze that seemed to seek counsel. “Anyway, if we can’t even get a cup of coffee, we’ll have to think of something.” Already considerably drained in spirit from having to part with Chizuko soon, Yashiro also had to give some thought to the shifting state of this metropolis where even having money first was insufficient to satisfy hunger.

“What will happen if this goes on for much longer? Will every single place end up like this?” To Chizuko’s question, Yashiro simply said, “Well…” and fell silent. And he thought that both he and you were now being assaulted by a similar unfathomable loneliness. Even if we could meet again upon returning to Japan, once we do return—just as everyone would scatter and drift apart—both of us would surely lose any desire to meet.——

Yashiro, wanting at least to sit down somewhere and rest, walked straight ahead along the street as far as he could, but every last café had its shutters closed. Whenever he thought they could no longer even drink coffee like this, he wanted to search until he found an establishment that served it; and whenever he thought this would mean parting from Chizuko forever, never to meet her again, he resolved he must steel himself accordingly—yet even so, given how things were progressing, he had no idea what he might do next. While clinging to this one resolve, he fought to bite through his own bridle like a horse thrashing onward.

Beyond the Seine River lay the remains of the Tuileries Palace. Yashiro climbed up onto the castle walls with plane trees arranged below and, standing side by side with Chizuko, looked down at the river. When they gazed at both banks of the Seine directly below from this observation deck, the river's stone embankments themselves formed a magnificent architectural structure. It was a majestic spectacle that appeared as if white warships—the pinnacle of scientific achievement—had descended and arrayed themselves across the vista. "What do you think of this view? Empress Josephine resided in this palace with Napoleon, yet now the river looks precisely like a fully armed garrison standing guard. They say Napoleon would come here by carriage from the Palace of Saint-Cloud near Versailles whenever state affairs wearied him."

Even a hero’s love affairs must be no different from those of ordinary people, Yashiro thought. He had said as much, but though tinged with sorrow, he suddenly realized he now stood at the very precipice of ascending toward a pinnacle of pleasure no less intense than theirs. “But Saint-Cloud is quite far from here, isn’t it? Why did he live apart from his wife?” “Well now,” Yashiro replied, “I suppose when both live separately, their meetings become a form of respite.”

Even if it had nothing to do with Napoleon—if he and Chizuko were soon to part—then stifling his feelings and separating as they were now might perhaps become the beauty of a life that preserved this shared joy. With this thought, Yashiro reconsidered once more, finding himself able to look back on their fleeting journey. “This was Paris’s most beautiful spot,” he said, “but now neither Napoleon nor Josephine remains. Since it’s just us two here now—well—this feels like some strange sort of fact.”

Having said this, Yashiro cast a smile at the rippling play of light across Chizuko’s face, then shifted his gaze to the fountain’s glimmering ring amid the green trees—regardless of how serene the view of the passing scenery around them might be. “Madame Josephine—I wonder if she gazed out from here every day like this.” “But I’m sure it was like this even back then.” “That part of the river where its midsection stretches long and elongated—it looks like a river made of ivory.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Chizuko gazed at Notre Dame visible nearby to her left, then looked down at the river's dense volume of undulating water—its solid, bright surface stretching downstream. Immediately below the observation deck was the Place de la Concorde. When Yashiro realized he had until now forgotten that square he so loved, it struck him how much more his mind had been preoccupied with Chizuko than usual—a state of absentmindedness he now recognized. "You saw Marie Antoinette's bedroom at the Palace of Versailles, didn't you? After being dragged from that room all the way to this square where Antoinette was placed on the guillotine, even Empress Josephine immediately after her couldn't have viewed this river with such a carefree mood. And on a day like today when we can't even get coffee—if this were the old days, there'd already be a guillotine here by now with people jostling in a bustling crowd."

In the grand square where sunlight was being reflected, dozens of fountains held a purity akin to soda water’s drifting effervescence. Yashiro descended from the observation deck and entered the lower painting hall to rest. It was an oval-shaped room approximately a hundred tatami mats in size, known as the Monee Hall. The surrounding walls were entirely filled with circular paintings of water lilies floating on a marsh, leaving no part uncovered. In the center of that serenely quiet room, devoid of even a single person, sat a single small brown leather-upholstered bench. When the two of them sat down side by side there, they saw themselves exactly like two frogs perched on a submerged log in a marsh, and whichever way they turned their eyes, it was a marsh of water lilies stretching endlessly without a single human figure in sight.

“This place is good when you’re tired,” she said. “How did you know about such a place?” Chizuko kept gazing at the surrounding marsh and its bluish-green tranquility while drawing closer to Yashiro as if nestling against him, then asked her question. “When I tire from walking through the city, I come here and lie down alone on this bench,” he replied. “There’s never been anyone here before.” His finger traced the air toward the walls. “These paintings were done by Monet during Paris’s golden age—truly realistic and meticulous works.” A faint smile surfaced. “They make you feel like you’re actually in the pond itself, you see.”

“Right.” “I somehow feel like I’m in the mountains of Japan.” “Aren’t there places just like this in Nara?” “That’s right.” “This place is Nara.” Yashiro turned his upper body sideways and leaned on his elbow. Even when he thought the seamless marsh before his eyes was entirely paintings, he always marveled here at how these works—through perspective adjusted to the ceiling’s balanced lighting—could approach nature’s reality so closely. “So even Parisians long for a place like this, don’t they?”

“Well, they must want it desperately.” “And how skillfully this bench is placed.” “Sitting here like this, I cease to feel human at all.” “Oh my—frogs! How amusing.” “We truly are frogs.”

Chizuko turned the backless bench to face away from Yashiro and crossed her legs. The ultramarine arrangement of floating leaves—drifting eddies densely clustered among water lily blossoms—formed a marsh of rigorous realism where no two shapes repeated themselves no matter how closely one looked. "When Easterners grow weary of nature and desperately crave science," he said, "people here have already grown weary of science and desperately crave nature instead. This painting shows that even when the human spirit becomes utterly exhausted by science, it still trusts scientific precision over anything else." "What will become of humanity? This is a vision of hell." "Right—I should have brought Kuji here."

Having said this, Yashiro stood up—and his head instinctively yearned to tilt upward toward the sky. “Then what would become of humans?”

As Chizuko turned sharply toward Yashiro to ask her question, his face was so close that she instinctively drew back—but confronted with the largeness of her eyes, he suddenly forgot what she had asked. Last night in the opera box when he had wrapped his arm around hers, they had been sitting on a sofa facing the same direction—a circumstance that made such a bold gesture feel natural—but now they sat on a single bench with their backs turned to each other. Feeling his body twist along with his heart—as if bending at the torso in a contortion of both—Yashiro gazed at the utterly still point within Chizuko’s motionless eyes, finding it more beautiful than anything.

“When you face that way, the conversation keeps breaking off—it’s no fun. Since we’ve become frogs, let’s take down one of those humans who won’t even give us bread today.” “What nonsense.”

Yashiro said and gazed at the water lily paintings once more.

“I could really go for some coffee.” “Shall we go?” “If we go to Ronpan, there will surely be some.” Chizuko stood up, so Yashiro also rose and went outside. They were already quite hungry, but decided to walk to Ronpan beneath the Champs-Élysées, passing by the square’s fountain along the way. Even when they reached Ronpan, that too was closed today. With these Champs-Élysées restaurants—like some right-wing stronghold—all shut, they grew truly perplexed about where to go next. Reluctantly, they sat down on a bench at the intersection to rest. The sculpted figures on the Arc de Triomphe atop the hill appeared faintly white against their square torsos. Within that arch lay the Tomb of Unknown Soldiers from the Great War—in Tokyo terms, this gentle slope corresponded to Kudan below Yasukuni Shrine. Yet whenever trouble arose in the city, conflicts customarily erupted around this very tomb.

“It’s almost Bastille Day, but clashes between the Left Wing and Right Wing over control of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier there are already breaking out now.” “When that day comes, people say it will erupt here, you know.” “Since there’s no king here, their fighting would never end.”

“If they already know about it now, why can’t they prevent it?”

Chizuko still sounded skeptical. “That’s because here, the unknown war dead serve as something akin to a king.” “So the Right Wing exploits the tomb’s silence—declaring it ‘the resting place of our traditional heroes’—to claim it as their own.” “The Left Wing counters this—‘No! This is exactly the tomb of the people’s champions.’” “They assert, ‘This belongs precisely to us.’” “But this time, with a Leftist government in power, they can’t follow their usual playbook—they must defend their own.” “When that happens, Right-Wing traditionalists don’t just rally harder than ever—they start demanding ‘Die for tradition!’ That desperate resistance makes the coming explosion all the more massive.”

“If both sides’ arguments seem so convincing, no wonder everyone’s confused. If they’re so bewildered about such crucial matters, what could the people of this country possibly intend to do?” “That’s precisely where we can’t intervene. After all, when the origin of the living mind is a tomb, that becomes a dead, immovable point. In other words—complete nothingness. Yet in nations that have kings, that origin is a single point of living existence—life itself. When life’s foundation is nothingness versus existence, human minds developing around that center become entirely different beings. Even if they appear identical at first glance, what exists and what does not remain fundamentally distinct.”

“So, Japan and here are entirely different, I wonder.”

Chizuko's eyes remained fixed on the Arc de Triomphe, never releasing their gaze. "There are similarities as well. But if one makes a tomb—this nothingness—the center, it becomes like practicing geometry within the void of one’s own mind after convincing oneself that all humans are tombs. In other words, that’s science—within such science, things would indeed be identical. However, since we are undeniably alive, life’s meaning manifests in various forms: whether it lies in viewing people as tombs and practicing geometry, or in striving to purify that ceaselessly surging love which must exist because we live—that’s how I see these issues appearing through different guises. Because this remains unclear, both Left and Right Wings exploit people’s confusion, using plausible-sounding logic to wage their tug-of-war over society’s living minds. Even Japan’s intellectual class has been taught by the West to see themselves as dead tombs, gradually conditioned to trust only things perfectly splendid in a humanless world. That is, they trust nothing but science. And separately from that, their refusal to accept anything less than forcibly applying dead-world beauty to the living one creates this formidable momentum."

“That’s about Mr. Kuji, isn’t it?” Chizuko cut in with a laugh and asked. “Exactly—Kuji’s part of that too. That’s why I’m constantly fighting with that man. If you force people to spout nothing but those grand-sounding words of Kuji’s—phrases that look splendid to anyone who hears them—they’ll all get worked up and die in glorious fashion. ‘If you want to kill, then kill!’ Though lately it’s become such a nuisance that I don’t bother much anymore. Still, I can’t just let it lie—the battle continues.”

Chizuko nodded at the parts she understood while raising her gaze once more 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 voice, seemingly embarrassed. “That is the tomb of life here.” “Nothingness.” “From that tomb of nothingness, the boulevards radiate out in eight directions, don’t they?” “We are here on one of them, but here we are living and talking like this.” “However, to be alive yet not even be allowed a single cup of coffee since morning—this is absurd.”

Chizuko, who had been listening earnestly, inadvertently let out a stifled "Heh" at Yashiro's sarcasm, but upon seeing his unexpectedly solemn expression, she naturally fell silent and continued listening.

“Since this street emerges from the nothingness of the tomb, we might manage without tea—but Japan’s streets emerge from a single point where the tomb’s nothingness and existence overlap, so no matter what happens, we’ll never go without food.” “It’s undoubtedly better to be able to eat than not, but those who mock this truth are increasing by the day.” “In that case, they’re being drawn toward the tomb.” “Moreover, since even a man shouting ‘Hurry up!’ has appeared, blood will be shed during tomb visits.”

“Wait, are you talking about the tomb here, or Japan’s?” “Which one are you talking about?” “This is the tomb here.”

Yashiro said and laughed.

"In Japan, no one has ever shed blood over tomb visits. People visit tombs precisely to avoid bloodshed, but here, these tomb visitations seem designed for spilling blood."

Yashiro suddenly blurted out so roughly, then abruptly,

"Why do I feel this overwhelming urge to extol my homeland whenever I come here? I should probably show a bit more restraint."

He gazed at the beautiful forest of street trees around him with a bitter smile. A massive fountain surged upward from its thick glass cylinder, scattering mist-like spray across the entire square as droplets slid down from between the horse chestnut leaves onto their faces. A cluster of balloons swayed between the tree trunks while a baby carriage approached from beyond them. Chizuko watched cars gliding through the round rose garden blooming in full splendor and said: “All these were horse-drawn carriages before, weren’t they.” “I’ve always wanted to visit during that time.” “How wonderful it must have been back then.”

“Oh, that’s right. It was around here on a bench that Armand waited for Camille, you know. Since it was written as the bench in front of the large Rompan tree, it must certainly be around here. Or perhaps it might be this bench!” Yashiro said in a joking manner while gazing up at the leaves of a massive horse chestnut tree overhead—its trunk so thick it would take two arm spans to encircle. “This would be interesting, don’t you think? But since this is an iron bench, it hasn’t changed since those days.”

Chizuko, too, with a smile brimming with curiosity, stroked the back of the bench and gazed up at the thick foliage of horse chestnut trees whose branches intertwined like clusters of broad leaves. "Camille would go by carriage toward the Bois de Boulogne through here every day." "That was her daily routine." "Armand heard about it and lay in wait here with a friend." "They say she wore an Italian straw hat and a black dress trimmed with lace, carrying a handbag filled with dried grapes."

The fountain mist swaying with the wind's direction slowly drifted around their faces as they envisioned Camille's slender, elegant figure. Between the perfectly aligned tree trunks, within stripes of fallen sunlight, a rainbow secretly stood. "What a beautiful place this is. Even in such beauty Parisians no longer feel its splendor—that's how terrifying shifts in human sensibility can be." The moment Yashiro spoke these words he suddenly realized he'd planted a different terror in Chizuko's mind, finding himself wanting to curse back his own escaped words. He thought it utterly unconscionable that something should now force them to foresee their numbing senses' future course—this pair who'd ostensibly attained happiness. Yet he believed they should desire nothing more between them—though he even harbored some conceit that if desired it might now be attainable—for surely at such moments all must harbor that ultimate desire between man and woman; still he wished at least to spare Chizuko alone from witnessing his heart's pounding shame. Not that he deemed such matters base—but however clever the rationale might be this undeniably demanded plunging his lady into peril; until necessity compelled it he couldn't shake his reluctance to acknowledge this act within his heart.

“Become naked, naked.” Even back in Tokyo, his friends had often pressed him like this—scolding, admonishing, even ridiculing in the end—and now Yashiro could still hear their voices ringing out, while every tree in the square seemed to leer at him with mocking grins. But if you were to truly become naked— There’s no way such a thing could be possible, Yashiro thought. “Because everyone’s lying, I’m just showing them by becoming naked.” In that snickering, eagerly committed disgraceful act—where was the nakedness? “If they perform disgraceful acts to blind people’s eyes, well, I could do that too—”

And again he thought.

The fountain that had veered away from their faces shattered over the opposite forest, sending up a mist. The car wheels swept through that mist as they fled. Yashiro followed the disappearing car with his eyes through the trees, "In any case, this man called me still loves himself most while hating himself." "How I envy Armand sitting here like this, not even aware of a single ounce of his own foolishness—" Yashiro thought, “Shall we go to the Bois?” “There should be something decent to eat there.”

Yashiro stood up from the bench and walked toward the Bois de Boulogne forest beyond the Arc de Triomphe. That forest held shared memories for them both. Though it had been spring then when their feelings first aligned in that nocturnal woods—a time when Yashiro had still felt constrained by Kuji's presence when speaking to Chizuko—their bond truly began when they lost their way on a pitch-dark forest path. Clutching each other's hands through impenetrable darkness, they had eventually emerged by the lakeside boats. This visit wasn't meant as sentimental pilgrimage, but rather a practical one driven by food shortages.

In the forest, only Papillon Royal remained unchanged from its usual state. Beach parasols striped in yellow and vermilion stood aligned between the tree trunks, and what had been flower beds of pale crimson hydrangeas atop planter stands were now transformed entirely into large-blossomed roses. Yashiro and the others, having finally managed to obtain a meal in such brightness, were able to satisfy their hunger, so they could enjoy their after-dinner coffee more than usual. While gazing at the swans glistening on the lake amidst the roses on the planter stands, Yashiro—

“There’s truly nothing like eating bread earned by the sweat of one’s brow,” he said with a beaming smile. “It’s far more delicious than usual.” “But it’s quite a hassle coming all the way here every time.” On the back of a bamboo-green chair—slightly paler than the leaves’ hue—a silver fox shawl lay coiled. In the pale, shadow-dappled light filtering through the trees, some guests could be seen dozing off. While his eyes smarted from the glint of compacts flashing between distant trees, Yashiro gazed at the island in the lake and spoke.

"That night when I got lost on that island—I was quite at a loss." "Yes, but you startled me back then, so I got scared." "You did say this place was called something like the Forest of Demons, didn’t you?" "Do you remember?" "Did I really say that?" "But in these nighttime woods around here, no matter what someone does to you, the guilt lies entirely with them." "They say cars come swarming into this forest from all directions at night under the pretext that any guilt rests entirely with us—well, I suppose it’s like giving people who’ve lost touch with nature a forest stretching miles around them, just to see how they’ll behave when freed from all constraints." "If this forest didn’t actually exist, Parisians might suffocate."

“What a terrifying place. It’s just as well Japan doesn’t have such spots.” The plate carried by the waiter glinted again, stinging their eyes. The orchestra began playing beneath the trees. Each time ripples formed and shimmered across the lake surface, the grassy area catching the reflection would quiver with delicate shadows. “Back when the horse chestnuts were blooming, even as we sat here drinking coffee like this, flowers kept falling from above—we had to keep brushing them away. But now it’s time to say goodbye.” “How quickly time passes.”

Yashiro thought that being able to speak of even their most painful feelings as if mixing them into jokes and laughter might partly owe to the beauty of this place’s scenery. "But when we return to Japan, let's meet again." "You know, I’m already looking forward to seeing you after we go back." "All this hardship we endured just to drink coffee here will surely make for an amusing story." "Since you’ll be returning earlier than me, I’ll have more anticipation waiting than you will." "Oh, how wonderful!" Chizuko rejoiced.

Though he himself had resolved not to meet her again, what carelessness Chizuko showed! As he watched her joyful gesture of raising hands to her chest, Yashiro suddenly felt bitter. However, he immediately drove that thought away. Even if promises made abroad were mere fleeting pleasures, now was precisely when such ephemeral dreams should be accepted as tokens of satisfaction—that was the very essence of travel. Yashiro wanted to call Kuji to tell him there was no better dining option than here if he intended to come, but when he tried phoning, Kuji wasn't at the hotel. Chizuko and he laughed together, saying Kuji must be walking around with Makiko right now, searching for coffee just like this.

Upon exiting Royal, the two immediately entered the forest behind it. The calls of bush warblers and small birds gradually grew more numerous. Leaving the path to push through dense chestnut and oak trees, bending branches aside and stepping over creeping vines as they went, they walked as far as possible toward where no human voices could be heard. Since the forest's leaves were as fine and soft as baby hair, the woods remained bright no matter how deep they ventured. The undergrowth consisted mostly of overgrown lawn grass, every blade trampled smooth by countless footsteps.

“Honestly, this place is artificial right down to its forests—we can’t even tell how thoroughly we’re being deceived anymore. If it comes to this, after returning to Japan, I’ll be in trouble—the place will look so dreary by comparison.” As Yashiro walked along muttering to himself, bird droppings fell before him. Yet Chizuko showed not the slightest concern for whether the forest was artificial or natural. Even when couples occasionally lay in the grass, she would cheerfully detour around them as she walked. Automobile roads crisscrossed through the forest. Whenever Chizuko caught even a glimpse of the road through the trees, she immediately headed deeper into areas where no engine sounds could be heard.

“It’s so amusing getting lost on the paths in broad daylight like this,” “Let’s go further in.” “The paths are too bothersome.” Following behind Chizuko as she said this, Yashiro thought with a wry smile that he might as well be the one being guided. Before long, they found themselves entering a field where bracken grew so densely across the entire area that it rose above their heads. Through there, Chizuko pushed forward without hesitation, parting the leaves with both hands as she attempted to forge ahead. “Wait a moment,” “This is all bracken—magnificent bracken, I must say.”

“This is bracken? Isn’t this a fern?” “No, when bracken grows tall, it becomes like this. For weaving baskets—you did mention something about urajiro ferns before, didn’t you?” “Oh, that one.”

When Chizuko realized the field resembling ferns was actually a bracken thicket, she pressed onward with renewed vigor. This area appeared untouched by humans, yet even its primeval forest grandeur carried an inescapable artificiality. As Yashiro helped her part the urajiro ferns, he thought their desperate energy sprang from having exhausted their capacity to endure the tedium of their prolonged outing.

“This is just like rice harvesting.” Yashiro said and laughed. Chizuko laughed too as she kept repeating the same motions beside him, but when she grew slightly tired and loosened her grip, the resilient shrimp-hued stems crowding around them rebounded at once, pushing the two together. The stems they had trampled underfoot rustled as they sprang back into place behind them. “If we can’t go back now, we won’t be able to move forward either.” “We can’t even see what’s ahead.” “We’ve really gone and done something reckless now.”

“But I don’t care!” “You’re being reckless.” “Do you honestly think we can get through here?” Even as they spoke, the resilient stems pressed tighter around them until no gaps remained. They found themselves immobilized—not only unable to move freely, but struggling even to extract their feet from the rebounding stalks between their legs. “Let’s keep going a bit more.” “We’ve made it this far.” “We’ll definitely break through.”

Chizuko started moving again. Yashiro began to sweat but, having no choice, violently stomped on the entangled urajiro fern stems and said. “This is far more grueling than crossing a glacier.” “But there’s no danger of dying here.” “But this is futile.”

Even when they were arguing like a married couple, he had to grab Chizuko by the hand and pull her up whenever she seemed about to stumble and fall. Some part of their clothes kept catching on the serrated edges of the stems, flapping noisily. They would occasionally stop to look up at the sky, hoping to glimpse the forest canopy, but no matter how far they pressed onward, there were only jagged fern-like heads stretching endlessly ahead, and even Chizuko seemed to be growing uneasy. “What a blunder—I’m sorry for bringing you to such a place.”

“Even if you apologize now, it’s pointless.” “But I never imagined it would be this deep. What should we do?” Blood began oozing from the thorn-gouged wound on his wrist. Yashiro kept licking it like an animal grooming its fur as he spoke...

“If it’s come to this, we’ll keep going even after dark. Come on, let’s go.” This time Yashiro took the lead, parting a cluster of urajiro ferns by tracing circles with one foot while simultaneously pushing aside the next set of fronds with a vigorous sweep of his hand, repeating this alternating motion to advance. As he did so, he thought how primitive humans must have forged paths in just this repetitive manner day after day, bringing their wives and children along behind them. It was only here at this single spot in Paris’s very heart that this wellspring of human drive had been preserved. As they pressed onward, the urajiro fern thicket grew darker and sodden with dampness, while the smell transformed into the sharp alkaline stench of decaying leaves.

“This is no joke．It’s completely hopeless，” Yashiro said，throwing Chizuko a dismissive look．

"I wonder if it's hopeless—if only we could see the forest." "Even if we could see it, our clothes would be stained black by bracken sap."

Yashiro tried inserting one hand into the stems and scowled. "It's stifling with no wind passing through—this heat is sweltering." Chizuko also started to insert her hand, but—

“Oh, it really is warm,” she said, wiping her sticky fingertips with a leaf. The entire bracken thicket had fermented through their shared body heat into iodine tincture. Yashiro was already too exhausted to turn back, so as he strained his ears toward the forest where human voices sounded, a faint tennis ball noise reached him from somewhere.

“That’s the sound of tennis, isn’t it? Which way do you suppose?” “I can’t tell which way. You—could you take a quick look and see which direction would get us out fastest? At this rate, we’ll need someone to scout ahead.”

As Yashiro said this and moved to lift Chizuko’s legs, she immediately gripped his shoulders without hesitation. “Ready? There!” Yashiro bent his knees at a right angle, hoisted Chizuko upward, and grunted. “You’re heavy.” Chizuko had initially clung timidly to the back of his head with one arm, but now straightened sharply, pressing a hand to her forehead as she gazed around the bracken fields with bright curiosity. “My goodness—it’s endless!”

“Which way?” As Yashiro asked, his arms trembling violently from the weight, a bone creaked within his body. “That way. “If you go straight to the right, that’s the closest way. “Oh, what a splendid view!” As Chizuko tried to stretch up even further, her shoe dug sharply into Yashiro’s side. “I’ll throw you down!” “That hurts!” “Just a little longer.” “It’s unimaginably vast!”

Chizuko continued gazing leisurely about while stroking Yashiro's head from above in a teasing manner. Though it had been an act of last resort born of desperation, Yashiro found the Chizuko perched on his shoulders without the slightest hesitation both charming and continued supporting her. When they dismounted, Chizuko straightened her hem and flushed as she said "Ah, that was fun," then abruptly fell silent and this time took the lead herself in pushing through the bracken thicket to the right.

Indeed, this bracken field proved a far vaster expanse than its initial glimpse had suggested. While continuing their painstaking advance—skirting sodden patches—until both were drenched in sweat and utterly spent, when they finally emerged onto the forest lawn, Yashiro collapsed first at the base of a chestnut tree.

“I’m surprised. I never imagined there’d be a lump of iodine tincture in a place like that. No one would know about that spot.” Chizuko too stretched out on the grass beside Yashiro.

“This forest truly is a demon’s wood,” said Chizuko. “It can’t be taken lightly.” “Thanks to the strike, today’s brought nothing but absurd trials,” Yashiro replied. “At this rate, who knows what else awaits us before nightfall.” He took out a cigarette and offered one to Chizuko, his eyes following the clouds drifting above the treetops. Sunlight leaked through wind-shaken branches to strike the flattened grass. Though warblers still sang tirelessly here, not a single flower remained in sight. From somewhere deep in the grass came a muffled yawn. The place seemed utterly deserted yet somehow teeming with life—soon the low murmur of French being read aloud rose from a different patch of turf than where the yawn had originated. Yashiro, who’d been speaking loudly, suddenly hushed his voice as if entering a drawing room.

“This is no mere bracken field anymore. They’re all over the place.” “It does seem that way.” Chizuko, who had been smoking with clumsy hands, suddenly coughed painfully while keeping her face down. Startled, Yashiro looked and saw that the smoke Chizuko had exhaled pooled close to the ground before rising slowly upward, following the intricate contours of the surrounding grass. “One shouldn’t cut corners like that. Oh, this agony!” On the edge of Chizuko’s ear—still coughing with teary eyes—a round little insect with red spots was crawling. Yashiro brushed off the insect and lightly tapped Chizuko’s back. Chizuko and Yashiro fell silent. When a gentle breeze blew, the scent of the forest trees revived anew. Her chest felt chilled by the grass. Chizuko rested her cheek on her outstretched arm, plucking at grass roots as she recited in a low voice about the roofs of Paris.

Kantiru yuubuantan

Sabī eiyu maman Ruidittan jūrutandoruman Dan'nou toru rojjyuman

As Yashiro watched the rings of smoke he had exhaled circling through the bushes, the sound of a tree snapping came from somewhere. After singing a verse, Chizuko fell silent again,

“Mr. Pierre is going to Japan, you know—that man truly adores Japan.” Having said this, she thrust a blade of grass straight into the back of Yashiro’s hand. “Is he following you there?” “It’s nothing like that.” “But that seems suspicious.”

Yashiro laughed while spitefully sprinkling dirt onto Chizuko's hand.

“He says Japanese women are kind and don’t argue logically—that’s what’s good about them.” “Even though I’m not being kind or anything of the sort, you make it sound so grand.” “I can’t figure out Japanese women.” “They put on this gentle act, but some are downright terrifying.” “Oh, how horrid!” Chizuko protested while half-rising to shake Yashiro’s arm. Yashiro rolled sideways across the grass and suddenly caught the sharp scent of soil. When his tumbling stopped, he lay motionless as though his chest were being squeezed tight before speaking.

“This is the nostalgic scent.” “It’s been so long.” “Just take a whiff of this soil.”

Yashiro forcibly pulled Chizuko down, making her press her head against the soil. Chizuko was also lying face down but remained silent without saying anything.

"Ah, I want to return to Japan. I mustn't forget this scent."

Muttering this to himself, Yashiro straightened his knees and sniffed the scent once more. A scent as sharp as oxygen piercing through the core of their heads left them seized by a solemn feeling that would not release its hold for some time.

By the time Kuji left the hotel after waiting for Makiko to change, it was already nearing noon.

From a manhole gaping in the road came a stifling wave of lukewarm carbonic acid gas that struck his face. From air vents at the base of walls along their path, cold basement drafts would surge upward without warning. Having chosen back alleys for their route to the eatery, Kuji led them through passageways between tilting stone walls where scant sunlight penetrated—the clattering hooves of draft horses echoed sharply through these confines. Unsold vegetables lay wilted and collapsing atop a cart. Without either realizing it, Kuji and Makiko had shed their habit of probing into each other's nightly whereabouts. Like two people acquainted only through their mutual understanding of holding entirely separate thoughts, they moved with steps that grew increasingly restless.

From beyond the peeling wall, a sparrow black down to its feathers took flight. Behind it stood a gas lamp with its flame extinguished and a tree stripped of all branches. Kuji jumped over water flowing from a rubber hose onto the cobblestones, and when he barely kept his footing as his shoes slipped dangerously, he looked at Makiko and laughed for the first time. “It’s slippery there.” “I know.” Neither was in a bad mood. That day they shared only this: an unreasoned, nerve-deep sense that whoever spoke first would lose—yet resented even this compulsion to mind each other’s moods anew.

"I hear you met Mr. Kō last night."

Kuji turned to Makiko and asked. “Yes, I met him at the opera.” “So you went dancing?” “Yes, I went to Montmartre.” Contrary to expectations that she might try to hide it, Makiko answered briskly, and Kuji—who had been somewhat stuck—suddenly began to loosen up and regain his energy. “Why don’t we have Mr. Kō come visit? There are various things about China I’d like to ask about. You should invite him.”

“He can come anytime.” “If it’s all right to invite him, then you call.” “Then I’ll ask him.”

Kuji had already grown weary of considering what had transpired between Makiko and Kō the previous night. When they turned the corner of the house with ivy tangled around its walls, a cool wind blew in. Then, as if emerging from the wind itself, Shiono with his camera slung came walking from the opposite direction. Since the places Japanese people frequented were fixed, once they started running into each other, meeting two or three times a day was not uncommon here. “Long time no see.”

Kuji had drifted apart from the Japanese residents of the sixteenth arrondissement, who were prone to putting on gentlemanly airs, but as Shiono particularly lacked the air of the sixteenth arrondissement and was proper in his manners alone, he gladly spent time with him. “I thought I’d take some photos and have been wandering around, but no place will serve me tea. Isn’t there somewhere around here?”

“So it’s finally happened,” said Kuji. “Let’s go to Dominique. That place should be safe.” He walked toward Dominique, a nearby establishment run by White Russians. The shop—formerly operated by a count’s family from the imperial era—had become their regular haunt when funds ran low, its soup being both delicious and affordable. “Everywhere’s closed along the streets,” observed Makiko. “Completely shut down,” Kuji replied. “I’m heading to Notre Dame now—planning to spend the whole day photographing it.”

Kuji had long known that Shiono, a photography specialist, had been devoting all his energies to Notre Dame. When they reached Dominique—evidently having struggled to find an open eatery—Higashino's bored figure already sat hunched at a table. As if discovering a long-absent rival, Kuji slapped Higashino's shoulder from behind. Higashino looked up but remained silent, offering neither greeting nor protest—just a sly grin. Since Shiono's acquaintance with Higashino predated Kuji's own, when Kuji began introducing only Makiko to Higashino, he abruptly realized Shiono and Makiko were unacquainted and presented her to him instead.

The four of them lined up in a row at the long, narrow dining counter and each ordered what they wanted to eat. Looking around, the restaurant was operating no differently than usual, but the sight of it jutting into the very midst of a vast Left Wing tidal wave outside the windows was no ordinary daily life. The elderly Countess, always silent and dignified, remained seated at the counter, showing no one her smile and speaking to no one. Underneath a donation box for imperial restoration funds that hung tilted overhead, while watching the boys at work, whenever she noticed even slightly that a servant’s shirt cuff protruded too far from their sleeve, the Countess would silently point and have them adjust it. The servants who had witnessed the Russian Revolution worked faithfully, but the younger ones, now acclimated to Parisian ways, changed their colors like dye creeping up from the hem of the household.

On one occasion, a twenty-two or twenty-three-year-old waiter who had worked there—after rebelling, leaving the household, and joining another establishment—suddenly appeared at this restaurant as a customer, “Hey, give me some soup.”

he had once commanded with defiant arrogance. At first, those who had been ordered merely smirked and did not serve the soup. “Hey, serve the soup,” the young man commanded again. Though he had once been under their command, the staff reluctantly served him soup now that he was a customer, but the many servants stopped in their tracks and stared at the young man in unison. Kuji remembered that some had eyes burning with anger, while others wore expressions of envy.

Lined up in a row, Kuji and Shiono—given the nature of the establishment—did not speak of the Left Wing tempest raging outside, but none failed to notice how the gradually declining quietness of this household manifested in the servants' indescribably vacant expressions. "By the way, regarding the issue between Japan and China—what's the embassy's assessment?"

Kuji asked Shiono.

“It seems we can’t afford to let our guard down.” “Though I’m just an assistant and don’t know the details, it appears things are only deteriorating.” “In any case, it’s certain to begin before long.”

“But our side faces considerable danger too.” “Given how things appear...”

“That’s right. Since we both know which side would strike first, this might lead to unexpected restraint. But if war breaks out—as a military photographer—I’ll be loaded onto a plane and shipped to the front lines before anyone else. When that happens, I’ll be taking my leave ahead of you all.”

With these words, Shiono laughed cheerfully while imitating a salute. Kuji was momentarily taken aback by the beauty of Shiono’s resolve, but as he heaved a sigh at the thought that the situation was now encroaching upon even himself, he remained silent for a while chewing on red turnip.

“Must we transcend modernity like this household?” “Like this household here.” As Kuji spoke these words, Higashino suddenly burst into shrill laughter beside him. “How earnest of you. Mr. Kuji, isn’t there a donation box dangling over there?” “Mr. Kuji, isn’t there a donation box dangling over there?” “No, that’s empty.” “Yet it lies sideways.” When the four erupted in laughter again, within that mirth only Kuji’s expression darkened first.

“Mr. Higashino, you’ve been targeting only me lately—why do you dislike me so much?”

Kuji turned toward Mr. Higashino in an interrogative tone. "That's because you don't transcend modernity enough."

“No, this is a far more serious matter.” Though he had spoken intending to avoid conflict as much as possible, Kuji’s words came out forceful. “Don’t be ridiculous. Because our Japanese tradition means everyone has already transcended modernity once, what I’m saying must look like a joke to you.” “That’s right. The problem after transcending is precisely our problem as Japanese people.” Shiono no longer laughed and drank his soup with an air of having dispelled the doubts that had weighed on his mind.

"But in reality, we can't just transcend so recklessly." "That's precisely what suffering is, isn't it?"

Kuji, who had turned back toward Shiono, adopted an even stronger tone while waving his spoon emphatically, “Exactly. Even if Japanese tradition has transcended reality, if what came from the West hasn’t transcended it, can we just play dumb? If we can’t... We must cherish what serves as the least common divisor between both. Without cherishing this, what pride do we modern people have? What significance could there possibly be?”

“However, the unit of the least common divisor is one.” “What if the quality of one differs wherever you look?” Higashino intercepted Kuji’s pressing question directed at Shiono. Then Kuji—as though forgetting everything—leaned forward with a flushed face and turned back toward Higashino. “There’s no way the unit could differ. If the unit differs, all abstractions derived from it would become different. Then the world couldn’t hold together. The unit is the self. If we don’t trust the self, what on earth can we trust?”

“You trust one more than the self.” “If you truly trusted the self, you’d necessarily trust yourself as Japanese.” “Yet you’ve never trusted Japanese people.” “You put faith solely in common denominators and think that’s the self.” “Then what of your self?” “What’s become of the Japanese within you?”

“It is precisely because I am Japanese that I trust in one.” “A Japanese who doesn’t place trust in one isn’t Japanese at all.” “Then why does putting one and one together make two?”

Faced with Higashino's characteristic abrupt leapfrog question—a habitual maneuver—Kuji kept his gaze locked on the man's face, momentarily unable to respond before finally twisting his lips into a wry smile and—

"What's that supposed to be?" he muttered.

“It’s nothing complicated. Even a first grader could manage that. Why does putting one and one together make two? That’s what I’m asking. The thing that makes two must reside within you. That thing—the one that does it—isn’t that the self? This is neither one nor two. The only thing one should desire is children.” “Who needs that?” At the absurdity, Kuji let out a loud laugh and leaned back in his chair. Higashino, upon seeing Kuji's face laughing with his mouth wide open,

“What’s that? Don’t make a laugh like some drunkard kicking door frames after stumbling home at dawn,” Higashino said with a chuckle. “Hmph. A cat could claw at a glass case all day—it’d still get nowhere,” Kuji retorted. “Hey—the check.”

Shiono, appearing unable to endure the situation any longer, took out his wallet and stood up. Having paid only his portion, he was attempting to slip away when— “Mr. Shiono! Mr. Shiono! Wait a moment!” —Kuji’s voice stopped him. Yet Shiono—

“It’s Notre Dame.” “You can come later.”

With that, he moved away from the doorway. Kuji paid his own bill and turned to Makiko,

"Let's go to Notre Dame. That place beats the White Russians' quarter any day," he said, leaving Higashino behind as he followed Shiono out.

“Alright, I’ll go too.”

Higashino also rose to his feet and took out his wallet. The Russian boys, in the broken Japanese they had learned,

“Goodbye.” “Good afternoon.” They bade farewell to the retreating figures of the group. Just at that moment, a government strike committee member who came down the street stopped in front of the shop with two or three subordinates. Then flipping through his notebook and inspecting the windowpanes of this sole establishment defying orders, he begrudgingly acknowledged the union membership sticker affixed there before finally retreating from the shopfront with a thoroughly sullen expression.

As they made their way through Luxembourg Gardens, tree leaves scattered down incessantly. Above a flock of sparrows shaking large roses, a black kite traced circles high in the sky. A baby released from a row of yellow baby carriages toddled after the sparrows on unsteady legs. Kuji had unconsciously forgotten his argument with Higashino and was walking alongside him. On a bench with its back to a gentle curve of lawn, a young man who still retained traces of boyhood had his arm around the shoulder of a beautiful female student and was earnestly explaining something. The female student kept staring sullenly at the pigeons by her feet without replying, while the young man relentlessly repeated his efforts to captivate her heart. At a glance, Kuji perceived the young man's expression of confessing a lie as if it were truth. The young man, with an exhausted air, suddenly looked aside and took a breath before abruptly adopting an innocent expression and renewing his pleas. After a while, the girl succumbed to his words and leaned in; before they knew it, the two had clung together as one.

“Ah, another misfortune added to the tally.”

Kuji said this in Japanese as he passed by them. “That one?” Shiono turned back to look at the bench. “Why can’t she see through that lie? Or is that how it should be?” “If she realized, it’d ruin everything,” Higashino said. “That’s right. Why don’t you take a photo as a memento?” Kuji poked Shiono’s shoulder and laughed. “Doesn’t hold up if you’re that quick to judge. Japanese people are supposed to be bad at acting.”

Shiono, laughing, led the way through the thicket toward George Sand’s statue. Before Sand—her hair parted in braids and draped over her shoulders—across a small path stood a bas-relief of Stendhal’s bull-necked profile. Between the two statues, Higashino, “Now these were both early nineteenth-century stalwarts. Well then, I’ll compose a haiku.”

Having said that, he earnestly bowed his head and appeared deep in thought. Kuji, who had once received introductory haiku lessons from Higashino, found himself unexpectedly drawn in and felt compelled to compose his own verse, coming to a standstill there. “Is it a haiku?” Makiko gazed anew at George Sand’s statue with interest, then— “This lady here—she’s the one who went off somewhere with Chopin and his Farewell Waltz, isn’t she?” she asked Higashino. “That’s correct. 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 mustache that jutted out imposingly like a scientist's. Higashino showed no particular emotion even as he gazed upon the arrayed statues of early nineteenth-century French literary giants, then exited the park ahead of everyone else and disappeared into the public restroom on the left. Some time after Kuji and Shiono had exited the park, Higashino emerged from the restroom. And then,

“I’ve got one!” Higashino said to Kuji with a bright smile. “Master, do you compose them in the restroom? What’s it like?” Higashino tilted his head slightly and then murmured, “The sunlight tilts with early summer, shining far and wide.” “What the hell is that? It’s just a sutra!”

Kuji burst into loud laughter. "If you're going to Notre Dame, you should at least chant a sutra." "That's certainly true. My camera here is the sutra's very eye." Shiono raised his own Ikonta—now grimy from handling—and examined it. "So does the camera look like a sutra to you too?" Kuji casually asked Shiono. "Isn't it obvious? Do you think I'd press this shutter recklessly?"

At Kuji’s tone dismissing photography as art, Shiono adopted a combative stance, but upon catching sight of Notre Dame’s spires, he seemed to immediately forget this opposition and made his way toward the Saint-Michel slope. When they emerged onto the street, Makiko went into a stationery shop to purchase a notebook and pencil. While Shiono photographed Notre Dame, Kuji proposed holding a haiku gathering in the lower garden and bought a notebook as well. Then, as if prearranged, Basho’s haiku collection translated by Matsuo Kuninosuke stood prominently displayed at the bookstore adjacent to that very building.

“You know, if two hundred years pass, even Bashō ends up in a place like this, huh?” Higashino, appearing deeply moved by this, took the haiku collection in hand and gazed at it. “Hmm, even the cafés on Saint-Michel are all on strike. This is astonishing.” Shiono looked around at the disarray of the café where chairs were stacked upside down on tables and said. Whenever the conversation turned to strikes, things always became tense between Higashino and Kuji, so Kuji thought it was time to reluctantly bring up the topic of haiku. However, whenever the conversation turned to haiku, Kuji found himself tilting his head in fresh puzzlement at this peculiar Japanese trait—how everyone’s hearts, whether versed or unversed, would invariably soften so warmly.

Notre Dame was located on an island embraced by the Seine River, immediately to the right after descending the slope. This place, because it was where the indigenous Parisii people had dwelled, became both the origin of Paris's name and the birthplace of Paris itself.

Notre Dame, at first glance, had a monotonous appearance resembling two square clock towers combined. Near its summit, an emblem resembling chrysanthemum petals missing one or two near the crown radiated authority through its monotonous form, sweeping away the dust of the streets. As they drew nearer, the square structure underwent astonishingly complex and intricate transformations: above the three aligned portals—the Christ statue on the central door, Saint Anne’s portal to its right, and Mary’s portal to its left—emerged a row of twenty-eight sculpted statues depicting the kings of Israel and Judah, each rendered with meticulous individuality in their dignified postures. Further above, the beauty of the stained-glass rose depicted in the circular window; and higher still, the colonnade became a three-dimensional arrangement of orderly tubular structures surrounding a spinal column akin to an anatomical diagram, supporting Notre Dame's grotesques. Circling around once more to the side, there emerged an unparalleled delicate tension in the form of twin wings extending downward from the central body, their elegance—Kuji became so utterly absorbed in gazing at the majestic ridges supporting the entire structure that he felt all prototypes of kinetic forms might have converged here, their robust and daring grandeur overwhelming his senses.

How should one describe this Gothic beauty that rebelled against the Renaissance? Kuji imagined the intense, keen beauty of a fish skeleton stripped of its flesh. If one were to make a single misstep, he even found himself associating it with those exquisitely fragile bones of birds falling from the sky—so elegant in their ephemerality. "That's right. Indeed, this area—this was undoubtedly designed with the skeletal structure of a living creature as its motif." Muttering to himself in this manner, Kuji moved back, circled around, and shifted his gaze from the wings to the body, then from the body to the tower; he imagined that Shiono must have made an extraordinary resolution to undertake photographing this.

“Hey you—where do you plan to begin tackling this?” “Even if you spent a lifetime on it, the composition’s beauty wouldn’t come easily.” Kuji sat on a bench in the outer courtyard and said to Shiono. “What made me decide to photograph this place was the Christ relief on the main gate—how it appears alive when sidelit by the western sun.” “I tested it daily returning from Sorbonne lectures, but it only appears alive for about twenty minutes each day.” “I became obsessed with capturing that moment—resolved to recreate the beauty of a completely new camera angle through one shot, but...”

Shiono stood firmly before Higashino, Kuji, and Makiko sitting on the bench, making no immediate move to begin photographing but simply gazing up with a smile at the interplay of shadows in this temple he had captured countless times before. Though Higashino and Kuji sat side by side, they remained silent without facing each other, fearing that voicing any observation would instantly spark another clash of their conflicting opinions. Countless pigeons swirled in a whirlwind of beating wings, and toward that commotion Makiko turned her face while seemingly contemplating a haiku alone.

“What do you say, Higashino? Let’s compose some haiku,” Kuji said. “Now wait a moment,” Higashino replied, crossing and recrossing his legs as he gazed upward again. “The more I look at this building, the more it resembles a haiku itself. How strange, ah.” Kuji grinned. “So this is the sound of water when a frog jumps in?” he laughed.

“It’s the sound of the sky. I’ve seen many Gothic churches before, but while they all obsess over verticality, this one here shows no such spiritual prejudice. The diagonal lines forming wings each stand independent from their core structure, fulfilling our perception of lateral space. Doesn’t it somehow resemble snow crystals?” “I too have been thinking since earlier that it resembles the standing floral arrangements of Japanese ikebana.”

Makiko said to Higashino. “Exactly! The standing flower arrangements—what an apt comparison, ah. You must be quite accomplished at haiku. Have you ever competed?” “Just a little, once before.”

Makiko said in a reserved tone while simultaneously glancing furtively in his direction, as if wary that Kuji might tease her. However, Kuji found Higashino’s observations refreshingly novel, and he felt a modest desire to draw out from him as much as possible about the similarities between Gothic architecture and the spirit of haiku. "When was this temple built, I wonder? Around the fourteenth century?"

“Thirteenth century,” “Which would make it roughly Japan’s Genpei era, no?” “This represents the West’s pure form, from when modernity hadn’t yet fully taken root.” “The entire spirit is sustained by an order oriented toward the sky—you see that?” “Yet even as this rational spirit constructing the order defines its celestial object, observe closely—it grants individuality and autonomy even to the irrational necessity stretching downward from that very sky.” “Those myriad wing-like forms demonstrate this.” “By honoring what you might call the vital will within each purpose’s intent, then splendidly unifying even irrational order into coherent principle—truly magnificent, don’t you agree?”

As he listened, it began to seem to Kuji that Higashino was viewing the temple through the lens of his own mental constructs. Shiono, who apparently often debated this temple with Higashino as well, said to Kuji with a dissenting laugh:

“Mr. Higashino’s theory is a new one, so make sure you remember it well.” “During those warm spring days, Mr. Higashino and I would often lie sunbathing atop the lead-lined room at the very peak of the North Tower here.” “Those were good times, ah.” “From the chapel below, the Mass pipe organ would resonate softly—it felt like resting our heads on hymns, lulling us into blissful drowsiness, while the Seine right beneath sent tree buds bursting forth.” “Truly, this tower’s rooftop offers Paris’s supreme vista.”

"But since this is a National Treasure building, photography’s prohibited, right?" Kuji was astonished by Shiono’s boldness yet, sensing the extent of his efforts, inquired. "If it’s just the visitor-accessible areas, you can take photos by paying three francs." "But most sections are restricted zones—that’s been the real headache." "I’ve been telling that old gatekeeper how this temple practically embodies Paris’s entire history—it’s outrageous not to share this radiant cultural symbol with other nations! So now I’m buttering her up and sweet-talking her." "And it’s true." "There’s no sense hiding such magnificent things away." "To get friendly with the gatekeeper’s old woman, I’ve had to spend what little money I have—bringing fruit every visit, giving chocolates as gifts." "And since her granddaughter’s hospitalized with tuberculosis, I’ve had to send presents to that girl too." "What a nuisance—utter nuisance!"

“So you’ve already taken quite a number of photographs, then.”

Makiko asked with an impressed air, as though hearing it for the first time. "No, just about two hundred of the exterior." "The general passageways are too ordinary; they don’t make for good photographs." "Since all the good spots are in the restricted areas, today I’m actually scheming to secretly ask the old woman again to lend me the key to get in through the back gate." "Even when I went to the office, I was flatly refused." "The old woman won’t budge either." "That’s rough." "But that won't work, right?" said Kuji.

“I once managed to take three shots inside the hall by pretending to pray so they wouldn’t notice me, but between the darkness, using an aperture of twelve, and holding it steady for forty seconds, they all turned out useless. As for the back gate—that old woman’s been its keeper for fifteen years now, and she says not a soul’s ever gone through it. She claims she doubts anyone’s ever set foot there at all... But I’m still scheming to find some way through that spot—lying in wait for my chance.”

“Well, if it’s that spot, monsters will come out!” Kuji said with a laugh.

“They might come out.” “There must be at least ghosts of a hunchbacked man who lived with monsters.” “Well then, I’ll just go take a look.” When Shiono’s figure disappeared toward the gate, the three laughed once more at his enthusiasm now possessed by this impossible endeavor. “By the way, Mr. Higashino, what became of that relationship between haiku and Notre Dame you mentioned earlier?” “That’s precisely what I most want to hear.”

Kuji urged with a half-teasing tone. “Ah, that.” “That’s quite a difficult one.” “Because this Notre Dame represents Parisian tradition, and haiku represents Japanese tradition.” “That’s precisely why I want to hear your interpretation properly.” “I won’t put up any resistance.” “Today I’ll be compliant.” “I’ve already explained Notre Dame’s essence, haven’t I?” “The spirit of haiku isn’t all that different from that.” “In other words, the object of this architecture is the sky.” “However, the subject of haiku is the season.” “When I speak of seasons, I don’t simply mean spring, summer, fall, and winter.” “It refers to the natural providence that governs its movement—in other words, this should be called a unified principle where matter and mind converge, or perhaps the spiritual order that seeks God.” “Here, there must inevitably be intellectual abstraction; precisely because it possesses this, as it represents tradition, even though haiku directs its heart toward natural elements like flowers, birds, wind, and moon—concrete things—its spirit ultimately observes these concrete elements and then breaks free from them, possessing both objective analytical power and synthesizing ability.” “Therefore, it is here that the lyricism known as the beauty of exaltation, surpassing science, first comes into being.” “However, even with the emergence of lyricism alone, it cannot yet be called a complete haiku. It must further transform, requiring a leap into what might be called the flexibility of spirit that can permeate any human characteristic.” “The decisive step.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” “I don’t get that part.”

Kuji murmured and looked down. Then, after staring at Kuji’s face for a while, Higashino suddenly stomped on his foot without saying a word. “That hurts, doesn’t it?”

“It hurts.” “In other words, that’s what it means—the spirit that returns to questions like ‘Where does this pain come from?’ That’s haiku.” “You’re such a Zen monk.” With that, Kuji suddenly threw his head back and burst out laughing. Just as their laughter echoed, Shiono came running with a flushed face—one hand thrust under his coat, scattering pigeons from underfoot— “Yes! Yes!”

He came running in a voice choked back from shouting. He looked as though he’d torn off someone’s head. “The old woman finally lent it!” “I’ve fulfilled my thousand-day longing in one.” “This is it.” Shiono glanced around furtively before revealing a large key from beneath his coat. Five rust-eaten keys—each about five or six sun long—were tied with cords to a single point on a board like a kamaboko mold. Kuji felt as though he’d glimpsed the bared neck of Paris’s history peeking from Shiono’s side. An eerie chill seized him instantly, and without thinking, he scanned his surroundings and fell silent.

“This might just kill me today. Won’t you all come along?” To Shiono, whose face had grown pale from exhilaration,

“Alright, let’s go.”

With that, Kuji stood up.

"He said that around three-thirty the office staff would be gone, so we should go carefully then—it should be alright now." "Even if we're seen, it doesn't matter. You've been invited by Christ himself."

Kuji turned to Makiko, who was hesitating, "You should come along too." "Since this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, let's compose haiku inside too." "But I'm scared." "A place like that."

Kuji grabbed Makiko's arm as she shrank back in hesitation and followed Shiono toward the back gate. When the four entered through the back door, there were two cleaned rooms. Passing through there and climbing one flight of stairs to the second floor, they saw a balcony from which Shiono selected angles and took four or five photographs of the back entrance. Next to the balcony spread a grand hall. Crossing that and ascending another staircase, they reached the third floor for the first time. It was also there that the iron door holding back the group stood. When they turned the key, this door too opened easily. Continuing to walk under the impression they could exit outside, they soon found themselves before the "Corridor of the Kings."

“What’s this? This won’t make for haiku or photos.”

With that, Kuji turned back. Then they came upon yet another iron door. This one was firmly rusted shut, but when they put their strength into pushing it open, the hinges groaned with a heavy, grating sound. Beyond the door lay a passage already steeped in darkness, where the stone's chill struck their cheeks with icy sharpness. Shiono,

“This is getting ominous.” As he said this, Shiono stuck just his head inside to check before slipping quietly in. There was nothing particularly unusual about that place either, but at the passage’s end stood yet another door. Shiono found the keyhole while stroking and rubbing his hand across it. This door proved most stubborn—no matter how many times they turned the key, it refused to open easily. Reluctantly, Kuji joined him in aligning their shoulders against it. Grunting with effort as they strained, it finally began to give way somewhat. Then Shiono let out something between a scream and a shout. “It’s a prison cell—this place,” he declared, freezing where he stood.

The stone walls had grown colder still, their upper sections pierced only by three narrow windows—each two shaku wide and five sun tall—that left the room dimly lit. Through air thick with mold that threatened to cling to their skin, the four took two or three steps forward into the space. At first, the darkness revealed nothing, but when Kuji happened to look down at the softness beneath his feet, he found dark gray dust blanketing the entire floor nearly three sun deep. “Look at this,” he said. “Dust gathered through forgotten years—years no one witnessed.” Standing in that room abandoned by all—left only to accumulate the dust of desolate time—Kuji suddenly felt as though some spirit were pounding its way through his chest. Even his own voice sounded muffled in that shadowed space, its echoes carrying a coldness that seemed to coil about him like spectral fingers. With each step came an uncanny sensation of breathing in death’s stench. Though another door stood visible ahead, having entered this barren chamber sapped all desire to press onward.

"Mr. Higashino, what do you think? It seems there's still quite a way to go. Shall we proceed all the way?"

Kuji looked at Higashino’s face floating in the dim light and inquired.

“You all should go back now.” “From what I hear, using all the keys will let us reach the very 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.

The outer room was larger than the stone prison cell, with bigger windows too. Perhaps because the windows here were tightly shut, there was less dust, but the air hung heavy with a stifling moldy stench that pressed against their chests. Makiko, who had been following behind while waving her perfumed handkerchief, had barely entered the room when she suddenly clung to Kuji's shoulder. "Ah!" she cried out. When they all turned toward Makiko, a bat that had taken flight from a corner struck the wall with noisy flapping wings. Just as the bat collided with the wall, Kuji spotted a framed picture high up on it. Shrouded in darkness and dust, it wasn't clearly visible, but seemed somehow to depict a Eucharist ceremony.

“Oh, how terrifying! I thought something had come out!” Makiko, still clutching Kuji’s arm, turned pale and said.

"I want to go back already. I'm getting these creeping shivers, I tell you." "But we've already used three keys—just two more and we're done. Let's get through these last two. If you're scared, just hold on to me."

Kuji approached beneath the painting and placed his hand on the stone’s rough surface. “How about taking this painting home as a souvenir? Since this was the Archbishop’s quarters, it must be a masterpiece by some renowned artist.” “Don’t be so reckless!” While Makiko pulled Kuji’s hand back to retreat, Shiono alone—with the tenacious gaze of someone charging into virgin territory—had already inserted the key into the next iron door’s keyhole and was rattling it fiercely. But the door’s stubbornness refused to yield even after repeated kicks and shoves. Startled by the violent thud of Shiono’s shoulder slamming against it, the bat darted frantically among them before crashing its wings against the wall again. When the door still wouldn’t open, Shiono and Higashino threw themselves against it together. As it creaked ajar, the western sun suddenly stabbed their eyes from beyond. It was the outer enclosure. Solidified pigeon droppings lay piled thick across every surface.

“Ah!” “Victor Hugo must have come here.” “Just the sort of place that Hunchback would love.” Shiono was poking at the pigeon droppings with his shoe tip while,

“Damn it. Forgetting the flashlight was the worst mistake.”

While continuing to lament intensely, he once again took the lead and proceeded through the outer enclosure toward the back entrance. Before long, the path ahead became a stone spiral staircase. The thirteenth-century steps—characteristically dizzying—were so severely corroded that fragments crumbled away each time a shoe came down. Moreover, with only small air vents high up here and there, it grew darker still. They had to scramble up the stone walls using hands and feet. “Damn it! Forgetting the flashlight was such a blunder.”

Even as Shiono was still lamenting so bitterly, his voice now came from much higher up. Because it was pitch dark and he had to lead Makiko upward, Kuji occasionally stopped, overcome by breathlessness. Whether Higashino was searching for haiku material or not, he had remained silent from the start, not uttering a single word, merely wearing a displeased expression. Where faint light streamed in through the air vent, they could vaguely make out each other's faces; but as it grew darker, Makiko—

"I'm scared, I'm scared." She didn’t let go of Kuji. Groping their way up the spiraling path, they kept colliding with every turn. In the darkness saturated with the intense acidic odor emanating from ancient stones, the warmth of Makiko’s body—slightly damp with sweat and squirming—felt like the vivid crimson beauty of a living creature piercing through death. "How much higher must we climb? Still not there?" "Still not there?"

Kuji looked up and asked Shiono. Even as he kept asking, Makiko’s and Kuji’s climbing efforts went out of sync. Even as the two staggered and collided with the wall, the fragile stone surface crumbled into pieces down their necks. “This here’s just like history itself.”

Kuji muttered and laughed in the dark. "But it's scary." "Can you see me?" "I can't see a thing." Above them, Shiono—who seemed to have reached the top—was already violently ramming against the door. The sound of him turning the fifth and final key echoed simultaneously. "Hurry up and get over here!" "It's stuck—completely stuck." "Rusted to hell."

Shiono continued ramming his body against it with heavy thuds even as he spoke. When everyone finally reached the top, Shiono said in an irritated voice, “None of the keys fit... Tch.” With that, he wildly jangled the keys about, then tried inserting another one.

“No good with this one, huh?” Biting his lower lip, he paused his hands and stared resentfully up at the door for a while before charging at it like a madman once more. Then, the door long sealed against wind and rain burst open, imprinted below with a vivid new scar. Standing on the outer enclosure with the invigorating freshness of having felt living airflow for the first time, they saw that this place was precisely atop the cathedral’s roof beneath the bell tower. Grotesques were perched all along the balustrades. Horses, bears, birds, rabbits, deer, and other transformed creatures, with the mischievous demeanor of playful demons, were leisurely playing while looking down upon the streets of Paris.

“Not a single person from Paris has likely ever come here.”

Flushed with joy at his fulfilled wish, Shiono began hurriedly examining the angles of scenery abundant with photographic material. Each grotesque, like the balustrades and stone pillars alike, was a dusky hue verging on decay, with even moss growing upon them. There were areas where surfaces had peeled away and grotesques whose forms were rendered indistinct by copious pigeon droppings.

“I can’t think about this anymore.” With that, Shiono began frantically snapping the Ihagee camera’s shutter in rapid succession. He did this in a manner as if being chased from place to place, his mind so restless that he seemed unaware of the three behind him. “Well then, we’ll make our haiku too.” With that, Higashino also said and headed around toward the back entrance. Kuji had none of the artistic passion that drove Shiono and Higashino to such fervor. Rather than anything else, he found interest in absentmindedly gazing down at the city like this. Yet he envied having something that could absorb him as completely as it did those two, while also somehow thinking their fervor rather foolish. Caught between these feelings, he came to sense the loneliness of his lingering self and Makiko—left behind like grease stains clinging to the space between. Even as she gazed at the Parisian scenery nearing dusk, Makiko seemed unable to release her hold on Kuji.

"Well, just how high up are we here, I wonder?" Her eyes, which had been asking so many questions, still retained traces of the excitement from climbing the stairs, shining with a beautiful clarity. "That bell tower is said to be sixty-eight meters high. This cathedral here serves as the central marker for all roads in France, much like Tokyo's Nihonbashi, and it's said that the foundation stone below was first laid by Bishop Maurice de Sully. It’s said that just constructing the front alone took sixty years."

Kuji looked down at the Seine River enveloping his feet from both sides and the undulations of Paris flanking its banks, when he realized with a wry smile that he had unconsciously assumed the same posture as a grotesque—both hands planted on the balustrade. Indeed, observing from this grotesque’s vantage point the Left and Right Wings raging wildly through the streets below, a sense of worldly detachment seemed to possess him, and he felt his facial muscles twist unnaturally of their own accord. Hmm. I get it now. You.

Kuji felt an urge to murmur those words with intimacy, but suddenly realized that what was even more unclear than that was the tomorrow awaiting him and Makiko beside him. In any case, these two had already crossed a dangerous line. A flock of pigeons from the North Tower drew an arc and streamed into the midst of the grotesques. No sooner had they done so than they swirled again, grazing past Makiko’s neck as they took flight toward the setting sun, circled around once more, and scattered back toward the North Tower.

“Oh, Mr. Shiono, that’s dangerous! Taking photos in a place like that.” When Makiko said this, Kuji looked and saw Shiono leaning perilously out from a weathered stone balustrade near the back entrance, aiming his camera straight down at the dizzying street below. “He’s really gone mad today, hasn’t he? If we don’t grab his legs, he’ll fall.” Having said that, Kuji hurried toward Shiono. “This is it – the film’s about to run out. This is bad.”

Shiono looked at Kuji and chuckled briefly before leaping back onto the balustrade to take aim at the pigeon perched atop a grotesque's head. Kuji and Makiko halted their movements to avoid startling the pigeons. “Should I hold your legs? Since it’s weathered, it’ll go crumbling down.” “Yeah. When I think I’ll never be able to come here again, my heart races. Even these grotesques—there’s not a single photo in the world taken from behind them, so it’s just unbearably fascinating.”

Kuji grabbed Shiono's camera strap and peered at his framing angles alongside him. The aperture was set to f/12 with a shutter speed of 1/50th. Having finished photographing the grotesques, Shiono next aimed for the summit of the spire towering at the cathedral roof's center. At the spear-like tip studded with countless wart-like protrusions, the golden cross glowed in the sunset's lingering radiance. Where the cross met its base sat a small spherical object, which Shiono pointed at while speaking.

“Inside that sphere,” Shiono said, “they say there’s a fragment of the actual cross used during Christ’s crucifixion and a genuine piece of the Crown of Thorns sealed within.” “I want this to be my last shot—what a waste there’s not a single white cloud to frame that cross properly.” “What do you think?” “Wasting time thinking about clouds—just take it if you can,” Kuji replied. “Right—I’ll shoot it.” Shiono offered a silent prayer before clicking the shutter. Soon Kuji saw tears dripping from Shiono’s eyes. Suddenly moved himself, Kuji turned toward the sunset and wandered aimlessly. I need to act—can’t stay like this.—With this thought, he abruptly resolved to have Makiko introduce him to Kō Yūmei tonight without delay.

Makiko’s third-floor room had high ceilings where no surrounding noises could penetrate. The building—honeycombed with countless inner chambers like a beehive—allowed from this particular room no view of the sky, only the back windows of the surrounding block, but on this night even those windows remained shut. Knowing there was no bath in Kuji’s hotel room, Makiko had suggested he use hers; he had just emerged from bathing, his wet hair still combed back.

While refilling the bath for herself after him, Makiko sat facing Kuji at the table, occasionally pricking up her ears to the sound of cascading water. At her wrist, the downy hair—slightly more noticeable than most people's—had grown longer, its tips aligned diagonally against her lamp-lit white skin. The faint shadows beneath her single eyelids accentuated a spirited sharpness around her gaze—yet when motionless, that same gaze maintained a cool composure that kept others from discerning the currents of her mind.

Even as he leaned back in the chair and blew cigarette smoke with apparent relish, Kuji remained tormented by associations that kept welling up from his daytime verbal exchange with Higashino. "I just don't get it. Ever since I saw Notre Dame, my head's been messed up." Having suddenly uttered this, Kuji once again raised his eyes to the floral pattern on the wall.

“What don’t you understand? Haiku?” “Everything’s become incomprehensible. “I was supposed to have understood... “I had understood everything.” “You’ve lost yourself so completely. That’s troubling.” Makiko stood as if discarding her words and cracked open the bathroom door. Circling behind Kuji, she removed her jacket onto the bed. “Excuse me for a moment. “I can’t undress properly in here. “Don’t look this way for a while.”

With that, she entered the bathroom still in her chemise. Until now he had been oblivious, but when Makiko said this, Kuji's swirling thoughts grew hazy and dissolved in the scented air now drifting through the room. Though catching faint whiffs from the roses in the vase whenever he moved wasn't unusual for him, tonight especially—as if bound by some unspoken pact—Kuji felt Makiko's fragrance overwhelm him with peculiar intensity.

“Just when everything became unclear, here comes this?” With that muttered remark, Kuji chuckled. Yet at that very moment, he realized he himself felt no distress whatsoever over having lost all understanding.

"That’s right—even if I don’t understand anything at all—what on earth is this?" "There has to be something here." "Then what in the world could that thing be?" As if a stone had clattered inside his head，Kuji’s expression went blank． “You’ve lost yourself—that’s a problem，isn’t it．” Makiko’s words，tossed out as she retreated into the bathroom，suddenly took on an enigmatic quality，echoing back to Kuji．“What—” he murmured again with a smile，still tugging at his hair．

Though he felt Makiko had now struck at his lack of originality—those very flaws and sore points that Higashino and Yashiro ceaselessly attacked—from an entirely different angle, he continued to cling like a lion to some unconquerable notion while stealing a glance at Makiko’s clothes upon the bed. "What I’m thinking about isn’t women or myself. And it’s certainly not about others either. What I don’t understand is that thing. Whether that thing’s good or bad—I don’t even know. But being forced to dwell on such unnecessary things—what the hell is that about?"

Kuji leaned his head against the back of the chair and narrowed his eyes. As he pursued the inescapable thoughts clinging to him, he suddenly became aware of the sound of flowing water coming from the bathroom. Had Makiko gotten out of the bath, or was she just getting in? Kuji recalled the long downy hair on Makiko’s wrist that he had glimpsed earlier. As his thoughts deepened, there emerged—superimposed over Makiko’s figure in the bathtub—the spectacle of a spring day at Hakone: a woman of geisha-like bearing immersed beside him, her stately white skin making countless tiny bubbles rise from the tips of long downy hairs that stood erect each time she submerged into the water.

Kuji thought he could abandon himself to this deeply pleasurable happiness, unaware even of his own peril, precisely because there was nothing here to fear. But why did Makiko's body draw him in so strongly?—He realized his earlier resolve to meet Kō Yūmei had now vanished without him noticing. Yet since Makiko had made the call beforehand, he could only assume they would meet; though uncertain what might come of it, he vaguely felt that through meeting alone, something would undoubtedly happen.

"What’s intriguing is that—the only thing is that I don’t know what will happen." As Kuji sat thinking these thoughts while blowing cigarette smoke, another sudden doubt arose within him—could it be that Makiko loved Kō? If that were indeed the case, where should one place trust when turning this way and that? Yet even within the tension of having spread his entire net to lie in ambush so as not to let slip even a moment’s happiness, he sensed an oddly relaxed ease—like a casually outstretched hand. At that moment, the bathroom door opened.

“Excuse me, could you pass me that handbag on the table? I forgot.” With a sudden burst of dazzling light at her back, Makiko’s face peered through the rising steam. He approached the vapor that billowed out in slow, swirling patterns. The arm that received the handbag extended as supplely as one from the bathroom, then snapped the door shut instantly. Gazing at the bathroom door with the sensation of watching delicate shellfish undulate within their shells, Kuji suddenly recalled the feel of Makiko’s sweaty body squirming up through Notre Dame’s stone chamber earlier that day—and thought even this exhaustion had inherited something legitimate to pass onward, a single link in some pliant chain.

"Then what is the one unchanging thing within all that persists?" "What then was this very thought that neither changes nor perishes?"

Makiko stood gracefully in the deserted bathroom, likely now before the mirror applying her makeup. But when measured against imperishable things, even all of this might be nothing more than a dream—

Once more, the blank smiles of Notre Dame's gargoyles floated before Kuji's eyes. He thought how he wanted to show Yashiro those faces—their skin crumbling century after century in that lofty perch—and yes, he considered calling Yashiro. But imagining him likely caught up in some dreamlike pursuit, he found himself abandoning the idea now.

Kuji looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. If it was already ten here, then in Japan it would be around noon now. Here I was about to sleep while over there it was midday. Around this time, my mother would be preparing tea and setting out a spirit meal for me. When this thought struck him, Kuji's mind came to an abrupt halt. He realized Makiko too was someone who would one day become a mother. Kuji thought how he kept letting his mind—colliding against nothing but the most banal thoughts and wandering lost—remain unchanged through countless repetitions, and it began to seem inevitable that from such a state he would drift into marrying Makiko without reason or resistance.

However, if Makiko were to bear my child, what a cold-hearted father I would be.—

Kuji thought of his own father and considered that there might have been times when his father too had been absorbed in things other than human concerns, just as he was now. However, what a cold heart that is. Is this true? No, that too might be a lie.

Whatever.—Fine, then I'll meet Kō Yūmei. If I must marry Makiko, then I'll do that.

It was not long after that Makiko emerged from the bathroom in an evening dress—when had she changed?— “The dust from Notre Dame simply won’t come off,” she said. “Perhaps because it’s ancient.” “Seven centuries’ worth of grime,” Kuji replied. “At this point, it’s less dust than ghost.” “But when that bat struck my face earlier—truly, I was frightened.”

Fresh from the bath, Makiko stood before the wardrobe mirror fixing her hair, then settled into the chair beside Kuji. He felt time pass with heavy footsteps resembling some indefinable oppression, and when this suddenly lifted, found himself struck by a bath-induced desolation—a parched weariness of spirit. Without thinking, he rose to search for Makiko’s comb in the bathroom where she’d loosened her hair. The room still hung thick with scented air. Repelled by the warmth clinging stickily to his wrists and cheeks, he quickly retreated. Yet this very ease of trespassing into every corner of a woman’s room, he reflected, stemmed from their shipboard camaraderie. Even so, he now sensed that casual familiarity becoming an obstacle to deeper intimacy—an unnoticed rift between them widening into view.

“Whenever I come to this room, I can’t help feeling like it’s my own—it’s rather troubling. Ah, so this is why—we still haven’t shaken off our traveler’s spirit, have we?”

“I feel the same way.” “Other people’s rooms and my own look the same to me.” “But somehow, this feels so lonely.”

“Let’s go on a trip somewhere soon.” “I’d like to go to Seville or Toledo sometime.—”

Makiko raised her eyebrows.

“Seville sounds good. Let’s go there, shall we?” “I’m fine with leaving as soon as tomorrow.” “Let’s check with Cook first.” “If we go, Italy would be fine too, but in any case, it’ll have to be after the Paris Festival ends.” Having said this, Kuji stood up and, for no particular reason, 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 upon the chest of his language teacher Henriette. Since Henriette also worked as a guide specializing in Japanese clients, her professional obligations soon had her moving from one student to the next, and though she was now separated from Kuji as well, letters still occasionally arrived from her travels. Even now, Kuji thought to pluck a rose as he had done then and place it on Makiko’s chest, but he hesitated and stopped himself. Even phrases he could casually utter to foreigners—“You’re beautiful,” or “I love you”—when directed at Japanese women, only lies would suddenly leap out conspicuously. That said, Kuji wasn’t particularly struggling to express his feelings.

Makiko seemed to have already sensed Kuji’s feelings from some time ago, for even as she watched his restless movements pacing about the room, she feigned ignorance and continued filing her nails with a slightly downcast, tranquil air.

"You mentioned earlier you'd become confused about something," Makiko said. "What was that about? Hmm?" Without moving her shoulders, she turned only her face slightly toward him. For just an instant, her eyes held an intensely seductive, coquettish gaze. "I did say something," Kuji replied. "Sometimes when I get tired, that sort of thing happens. Things I'd understood perfectly suddenly come to a complete stop and become unclear. It's like the heart in my head suddenly stops beating, leaving everything inside hollow."

“A nervous breakdown—you too.” Kuji plucked a rose and absently tucked it into Makiko’s collar from behind. “I’ve graduated from nervous breakdowns.— But beyond them lies something stranger still. That’s it.” Makiko drew her chin back, examined the rose at her collar, then chuckled softly. “Then I’ll give you one too.” Makiko rose and went to the side table. Plucking another rose, she slipped it into the collar of Kuji’s discarded jacket lying on the bed—

“You should put this on—it’s not that hot anymore.” Having said this, she moved behind Kuji. As instructed, he slipped into his clothes. “Flowers are nice, aren’t they? Does anyone actually dislike flowers?” “But you don’t use many flowers in tea ceremony.” “Tea?” Kuji remembered his mother, who might have been a tea ceremony instructor herself, and as he stood facing Makiko, he thought how often she used to say such things. With the faint scent of makeup lingering between them, they stood silent and motionless until their faces gradually turned toward each other.

“Wait, Mr. Yashiro might have already returned. Shall I try calling?” “Shall I try calling?” With a composure so calm it seemed almost indifferent, Makiko looked up at Kuji and inquired. While Kuji, without answering, was turning to look toward the door, Makiko had already called Yashiro’s room. From the exchange, it seemed Yashiro had returned. Makiko placed the receiver and,

“He’s here. Here.”

Having said this, 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 truly mean it.” “Still—that’s utterly outrageous.” “That Yashiro bastard.” Kuji said with a laugh as he took out a cigarette. “Ah yes—it’s better if you alone keep the flower.”

As Makiko tried to extend her arm, Kuji pulled her shoulder back.

“No, it’s fine. If I can’t even get flowers, what did I come to Paris for?” “But this feels strange somehow. I’ll give you another one later, so please keep this one for now.” Makiko forcibly plucked the rose from Kuji’s collar, looked around for a place to discard it, then tossed it lightly beside the bed pillow. As Kuji gazed at the single crimson rose that had come to rest between the white pillow and sheets, he felt his chest tighten as if he were beholding some pure sacred bird.

“Got it!” Kuji involuntarily slapped his knee and looked up at the ceiling with delight. “About what?” Unmindful of Makiko’s puzzled gaze, Kuji declared, “I’ve attained enlightenment—thanks to Notre Dame.”

Having said this, he looked back at the rose. At that moment, there was a knock at the door, but Kuji didn't even bother to turn toward it. His heart kept leaping up excitedly, yet a refreshing current flowed unimpeded through the depths of his chest.

When Makiko stood up and opened the door, Kō was unexpectedly standing outside.

“Oh, Mr. Kō.” “You.”

Makiko turned back toward Kuji, then to Mr. Kō, "Since I was told Mr. Yashiro was coming, I assumed it must be him—well, please come in."

Kuji was not particularly surprised even when told it was Kō. When he thought it no longer mattered which country the person entering was from, he felt an unclouded, cheerful heart surging within him, and while shaking hands, exchanged greetings with Kō as they had since their time aboard the ship. Kō, tall in his striped double-breasted suit, maintained a posture as if his stomach were slightly hollowed and smiled softly behind his glasses.

“Today I went to Notre Dame. Because I went inside, I ended up covered in dust. It’s really dusty.” Kuji sat facing Kō and suddenly burst into a hearty laugh for no reason. “How have you been since then?” he asked in an oddly loud voice. “Yes, I’m quite well.” Kō appeared to recall the Japanese greetings from his time in Tokyo and, after a slight delay, said this; yet his demeanor—still somehow wary of the surroundings—lingered within his smile. When Makiko had called, Kō hadn’t been at home, so he must have come after receiving the message from the inn staff. But whether Kō had known that he himself was here when he came—Kuji couldn’t tell.

"Since Yashiro mentioned meeting you last night, I thought I should reach out when you came here—that’s why I took the liberty of calling. Do you have many friends here?" "A few." Even when offering such simple responses, Kō seemed burdened by crowding thoughts; from within his suddenly flushed face, his eyes gleamed with sharp clarity. "I worried my poor French might have garbled the message I left for you, Mr. Kō. But it worked out splendidly. Last night truly was... well, it’s been ages since I enjoyed such delightful diversions."

"Our dancing is unskilled, you see." Kuji said without any sarcastic intent. "That's right." "You still haven't taken me dancing yet, Mr. Kuji." "Mr. Kō is quite skilled at that." "I'll ask you again next time." "I'm not very good and might be a bother, though."

As Makiko was saying this, another knock sounded at the door. This time it was Yashiro and Chizuko. Since none were meeting for the first time, greetings were brief. With one chair short, Makiko brought one from the bathroom for herself and called downstairs to order coffee and whiskey. When the five had encircled the table and taken their seats, an eerily pale and oppressive silence persisted momentarily—until Kuji magnificently shattered it.

“Mr. Kō, do you remember there was an old man named Mr. Oki in our ship’s group? That person recently returned to Japan via Normandy and made an interesting remark when leaving. We may not know what we’ve been doing in Europe, but well, now that we’re here—in some sense as envoys to Europe—I suppose it can’t be entirely useless. Since even that old man had that intention, we too must truly adopt that mindset—or so we’ve been thinking—but what do you think, Mr. Kō? People from China must naturally hold such feelings as well, don’t they? That’s precisely one aspect I’d like to ask you about tonight.”

"I believe we feel that sentiment more strongly than you do."

With one hand still resting on his cheek and his abdomen sunk into the chair back, Kō answered. "That must be because you've been to Japan, Mr. Kō, and understand our circumstances well. But now I believe both our sides have reached a difficult juncture." "This will grow quite troublesome." "It's not merely a political issue, you see." "If it were only politics, it wouldn't be so hard—but modernity has let scientific theories seep into governance. Science itself is the real rogue element here."

“Exactly.”

Kō nodded as if to show he agreed with the point. In contrast, Yashiro, who had been looking bored, suddenly said, "Can't we be like Japan's ancient missions to Tang China?"

He laughed and looked at Kuji. "Even the Japanese Missions to Tang China went in their era to investigate the logical principles of Buddhism as understood then." "That too was science in its time."

“That’s precisely it. That era was one of investigating the rationality within the irrational, but modernity is an age that discards everything except rationality—so all Eastern modern people are left floundering there. Because scholarship has come to take pride in pretending not to know that rationality cannot exist once you discard the irrational.” At Yashiro’s words, things Kuji wanted to say squirmed restlessly within him. However, upon realizing that Kō, the foreigner, was present, he once again suppressed that urge.

"But modernity has advanced too far to ever return to loving past irrationality." "That absolutely won't work." "That's why politics everywhere errs." "What you're saying amounts to declaring 'what's splendid is splendid'." "People won't accept such empty pronouncements." "Consider how the Japanese Missions to Tang China painstakingly studied Eastern irrationality and implanted it among our people - didn't that forge Japanese civilization?" "Even examining the Chinese spirit - they first rooted themselves in a rational acceptance of the irrational where essence becomes divine, then developed their philosophies of 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 the divine. That's why both Tang missions and our European envoys were necessary for us."

Kō’s expression alternately broadened and tightened in response to Yashiro’s words, but upon encountering Yashiro’s sudden leap into jest, he laughed soundlessly before speaking. “But in China, modernity remains scarce.” “Because we have not yet adopted the West as your country has, that is where we are at a disadvantage.” “Your country, on the other hand, no longer has much need for that anymore, does it?” “No, that part remains unclear, you see.”

Yashiro immediately took up what Kuji had said and responded.

“However, by the end when the Japanese Missions to Tang China had nothing left to adopt, they all returned home corrupted.” “When it comes to Japan, once that point is reached, it has no choice but to firmly seal the lid and solidify everything at once.” “When Japan finds itself needing to solidify internally just as China is now being compelled to send envoys to Europe, I believe this is why turmoil between the two nations persists.” “To put it simply, here in the West there exist those who best understand such differences between our two countries and scrutinize those disparities from every angle.” “We are known.”

Just as the group fell abruptly silent again, coffee and whiskey arrived from downstairs. Makiko extended her lavender-hued arm and distributed them to everyone. The men's mood, which had begun to grow tense, slackened under the undulating scent of Makiko. As Kuji reached for the whiskey, his eyes suddenly caught the crimson rose Makiko had tossed by the pillow. Even during his earlier absorption in rational discourse, seeing that solitary scarlet bloom made him realize how divorced his words had become from material reality—the luminous superiority of his self-satisfied enlightenment, which he'd been basking in alone, now transformed into a loneliness resembling a bitter smile.

—But what's wrong with believing in rationality? This is indeed how it should be. Then he changed his mind and said calmly to Kō: "Japanese intellectuals have a custom of showing far more gratitude and reverence for the influences and benefits we've received than Mr. Kō and other Chinese people or Westerners might imagine. Therefore, even when Japan dispatched missions to Tang China long ago to introduce civilization into our country, we have not forgotten to clearly document this in history and ensure gratitude is expressed. But isn't it that Chinese intellectuals can't break the habit of forever remembering only that they were the ones who did the teaching? It seems to me Chinese historians have this persistent habit of not documenting influences received from other countries."

In response to Kuji's somewhat blunt question, Kō remained silent, smiling as if finding it difficult to answer. “Such cases may exist, but since we learned in Tokyo’s schools, Japan remains a country of fond memories for us. Those who studied in the West each feel the same way—so even when they return home, they can no longer express their thoughts as they are. Now is an even more difficult time for us in that regard; if we carelessly say something like ‘Japan is good,’ we’ll come under fierce attack.”

“Someone else was saying something like that too. That’s why they praise Japanese women as wonderful—then go on praising only women. In that case, I suppose everything’s fine then.”

At Yashiro’s words, Kuji turned to face Makiko,

“Did you hear that?”

he asked in a teasing manner. "I never forget things like that." "Wilde said one should do nothing but praise women, you know." "Right, Chizuko-san?" Kuji said, drawing forward Chizuko who had remained silent until now. "Yashiro has never praised you—you really must make him compliment you at least a little." "Since it's practically me praising you in his stead, this feels rather unreliable." "We still lack cultivation, don't we?" "We."

Chizuko responded by offering coffee. "The lack of cultivation lies with Yashiro." “You can’t exactly claim moral superiority yourself.” "The Japanese Missions to Tang China grew corrupt toward their end too." “You’d best take care.” Kuji began slipping into the delusion that Yashiro was already silently condemning him over today’s affairs with Makiko, his gaze drifting involuntarily toward the roses on the bed. “The Missions’ corruption stemmed from the Tang dynasty’s decadence as it neared collapse.” “The envoys themselves bear no blame whatsoever.”

“However, it can’t simply be dismissed as entirely that,” Chizuko countered. “For all this talk of Tang dynasty influence, one particularly egregious example was how they made Japanese garment collars adopt the Tang-style right-over-left fashion. The students dispatched to Silla appear to have studied with earnest diligence, but many of those sent to Tang ended up corrupted.” She leaned forward, her voice sharpening. “They’d father children and demand official funds from subsequent Japanese Missions, or ruin themselves becoming burdens on the Tang court—they did all sorts of disgraceful things.” A bitter smile touched her lips as she delivered the final blow: “A monk named Enzai was ostracized even among his fellow Japanese monks in Tang China—his ship sank on the return voyage, and he drowned.” Yashiro’s fingers tightened around his whiskey glass. “Even just the names recorded in history include 151 exchange students,” he interjected, his tone deceptively smooth yet edged with steel, “so there must have been three times that number in reality. Given that...” He paused deliberately, letting the implication hang like swordplay’s opening stance before striking: “Some undoubtedly returned corrupted—much like those coming to Paris today.”

“However, such things cannot be entirely dismissed as corruption.” “Each of these actually served a purpose.” “Just because historians view it as corruption and write it that way, perhaps that itself is the corruption of the historians.”

“In any case, simply by being there, they became corrupt.” “Chang’an at that time was structured to breed corruption—it wasn’t merely Tang dynasty culture present there.” “India, the Western Regions, Persia, the Arab Empire—even Iranian culture converged in Chang’an like today’s Paris.” “Yet even in Japan during Tenpyō 6 [738 CE], Jianzhen—the Chinese monk who founded Tōshōdai-ji—brought over twenty-four artisans including Nyohō from the Western Regions, along with Indians and Chinese settlers. Thus Iranian cultural elements flowed in too.” “From this perspective, *The Tale of Genji* emerging in the Heian period becomes inevitable. Consider Buddhist statues: Indians like Bodhi and Butsutetsu who came during Tenpyō 8 [736 CE] introduced through sculpture what might be called proto-European cultural elements—Iranian influences.” “Therefore, obsessing over which nation influenced whom becomes endless—once you begin, every country proves indebted to others.” “Yet what truly perplexes us is how scientific rationality builds civilizations only to destroy them for new ones.” “Syllogism will annihilate humanity in the end—mark my words.”

Yashiro, seeming to have forgotten even Kō’s presence beside him, declared in a voice that gradually swelled in intensity. Kuji felt the misalignment of their wills and leaned forward again. “So you’re saying that in the end, humans must love irrationality—is that it?” “No—the question is whether irrationality can even be stripped away from humanity. If you can take it away, then try taking it away, I say.” “Then doesn’t that mean modernity is doing nothing but making mistakes? You point out nothing but the mistakes of modernity, yet you fail to acknowledge any of its benefits or blessings. But no matter what we say about it, we are already within modernity, so we must seek out its happiness. You keep seeking out nothing but its misfortunes.”

“Do you revere rationality that much?”

Yashiro said in a sorrowful voice. "It's not a matter of whether I do or don't. It's about the mind and rationality. Not politics." "Mind and rationality." “Not politics.” Kuji answered haughtily. “Then you’re saying you support causing nothing but wars in the world, just like Europe here.” “Go on chasing rationality, rationality—humans will inevitably end up engaging in nothing but the politics of war.” “That is absolutely the case.” “For the sake of world peace, Japan will undoubtedly have to fight with tears streaming down in the near future.”

Whether due to Kō's presence or not, Yashiro's eyes—having ended his argument by invoking war—glistened under the electric light while brimming with something like tears. Disappointed, Kuji poured whiskey for Yashiro, whose fervor had only grown. "You've turned Catholic too. Caught it from Chizuko, haven't you?" he teased. "Oh!" Chizuko seemed to think herself pricked at an unexpected moment, her eyes widening, yet an irrepressible delight seeped through the faint smile on her slightly parted lips. Kuji felt a flicker of fire akin to vexing resentment toward Chizuko's pure expression in that instant. Moreover, when he considered that he must now marry Makiko regardless, Chizuko seemed all the more regrettable. Damn it—I should've married Chizuko when I had the chance. This surge of regret abruptly dredged up long-faded shipboard memories, leaving him momentarily adrift for where to fix his gaze. Yet beside Makiko, his body—now beyond pretense or restraint—began swelling and leaning nakedly toward Chizuko.

“Mr. Kō, have some more.” “You drank so much last night, didn’t you?”

Makiko poured whiskey into Mr. Kō's glass, then suddenly fixed him with a stare and tilted her own. At their prompting, Mr. Kō silently tasted the whiskey before turning to Yashiro and—

"Last night, I went to Montmartre after that, so I was late," he suddenly burst out laughing. Aided by the alcohol’s effects, Kuji felt nothing but irrepressible nostalgia for Chizuko. Why had these memories surged up so violently? The lamplight as they returned by dinghy to the main ship anchored off Pînan at night; the gunwale rocking in black waves; Chizuko’s melancholy eyes as she wiped spray from her face with a handkerchief—with each flickering vision of the South Seas nightscape that rose and vanished like illusions, Kuji tried piecing together the fragmented emotions from that journey where he and Chizuko—once so close—had parted ways so abruptly. Yet he could no longer sense any possibility of the past returning.

"Something's 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 there,” Kuji said, sitting back down as he turned to Mr. Kō,

“Mr.Kō—they say Chinese people look down on Japanese when they get drunk,” she said while refilling his glass, “but we Japanese do quite the opposite.” “We Japanese have this ingrained habit of trusting people too readily—that’s why we get drunk so quickly.” “In other words, when one feels gratitude, one cannot become ungrateful.” “You’re too much of a rationalist.”

Yashiro said and poured more whiskey into Kuji’s glass. “That’s exactly right. Drinking alcohol and not getting drunk is irrational. Mr. Kō, you came to France to learn rationalism, didn’t you? If it’s rationalism, then I’m its ally. Yashiro here’s the enemy, see. You’re misapplying patriotism.” “Don’t talk nonsense! How can there be such distinctions as rational patriotism or irrational patriotism in patriotism itself? Making such distinctions is precisely what colonial patriotism amounts to.”

“No, rational patriotism exists,” Kuji asserted, his voice cutting through the smoky air. “This is the modern patriotism newly born of our age. This very spirit should become the new lodestar for our hearts.” He heaved himself upright, spine rigid as he pressed toward Yashiro across the table. “How can patriotism have old or new distinctions?” Yashiro shot back, eyes narrowing. “It exists because it exists.” “That baseless existence proves it’s not modern!” Kuji’s fist struck the table, making glasses tremble. “Only through reshaping and refining it can we sail these global tempests. Clinging to classical patriotism in this rationalist era turns our youth into museum pieces!” His words gained momentum like a runaway train. “Turn them into relics, and science dies. The nation dies. Even something as fundamental as Sino-Japanese diplomacy would shatter to pieces!”

To Kuji's ferocious attack, Yashiro unexpectedly responded in a subdued voice. "People believe there's at least one good quality deep within every human heart." "If only they possess that, everyone in the world has a point where they wish others would share such hearts." "That's where patriotism arises—in emotions born from such places, there's no distinction between modern and ancient."

“There it is!” Kuji pounded the table. “Because hearts arising from that place each commit their own errors, seeking precisely that single point which commits no error is what makes it rational.” “Only when patriotism springs from that critical spirit can we call it sound.” “No—patriotism has no logic.” “The Chinese intellectuals’ mistake lies in using logic to push this endless ‘anti-Japanese’ rhetoric—once they start chanting that, we steel our resolve.” “Harden your resolve in one place, and war breaks out everywhere.” “At such times—whether rational patriotism spares lives or takes them—if it’s more rational than before, it’ll slaughter more; if irrational, it becomes some magnanimous model of irrationality, all neatly settled with a single signature.” “Anyway, I say this so-called rational patriotism is utterly irrational.” “Yet everyone clings to patriotism alone.”

“Patriotism only becomes more unreasonable when discussed in public—let’s stop for tonight. It’s unfair to you, Mr.Kō.” After refilling Mr.Kō’s whiskey glass, Kuji turned toward him with a polite nod meant to apologize for Yashiro’s blunder. “My apologies for disturbing you this evening.”

“It was quite interesting. Since this concerns us as well, I will give it more thought.” Having said this, Mr.Kō turned his gaze toward Yashiro, “Mr.Yashiro is quite the orator. I have thoroughly understood your theory of irrationality, but ordinary Chinese people do not consider anything unnecessary to themselves at all, which is why they lack what you call patriotism. Moreover, in China warlords have long ravaged the people’s spirit, leaving them too preoccupied with fleeing from place to place—they even perfected collective escape as an exercise in patriotism. In Japan’s case, since the feudal system was fully implemented, even when daimyo changed, the people likely had no need to flee. That is likely the reason for Japan’s strong patriotism and also why its soldiers are strong, I think. I believe China still cannot cease its anti-Japanese resistance until patriotism has fully matured.”

It wasn't a particularly profound statement, but Kuji thought that Mr. Kō's response was one that would sound safe to any listener. Moreover, upon closer consideration, there was a faint trace of irony laced within it. "Wouldn't anti-Japanese resistance only intensify further when patriotism reaches its fullness?" Yashiro inquired. "Yet China has always been more adept at ceding territory to others than extending its own reach abroad," Mr. Kō responded. "That method keeps the government secure, you understand."

The first to burst into laughter at Kō’s words was Makiko. They all turned to look at her simultaneously. Her eyes rimmed faintly pink at the edges, Makiko opened her teary eyelids as if drowsy, then laughed uproariously at whatever amused her—so violently she nearly collapsed. Kuji suddenly grew furious and glared at Makiko. Seeming to sense his gaze without directly meeting it, she averted her eyes from him. "But there's nothing more amusing than that!" "Oh how hilarious!" "China truly is an amusing country!"

As she tried to steady her dangerously tilted body against the chair's armrest, the cigarette ember pinched between her fingers grazed the table's edge and crumbled away in scattered fragments.

“What’s this? Look at you.” “Look at yourself.” Kuji stamped out the cigarette ember on the rug with his foot and said, “Why is that bad? Isn’t it fine if Mr.Kō is here?” “Even if Mr.Kō is here, isn’t it fine?” “Aren’t you being rude?” “But I was looked after last night as well.” “You know, Mr.Kō, you looked after me even more last night too, didn’t you?” Makiko, who had raised her gleaming eyes toward Mr.Kō, flared her nostrils wide, her red, wet lips curling into a sneer as she defied Kuji.

“You should go to bed already. You’re just worn out.”

When Kuji tried to slip his hand under Makiko's arm to make her stand toward the bed, her slackened body suddenly stiffened and shoved him away with force from its very core. “Go over there. I’m going to have a discussion with Mr.Kō. I can’t be bothered with your nonsense. Rationality this, irrationality that—what even is that?” Sitting up, Makiko averted her gaze from everyone’s eyes as though finding them bothersome and, with half-closed eyes, took hold of her glass.

"That's no good, you idiot!" Kuji snarled. "Cigarette."

Makiko reached her hand toward Kuji. As Kuji stared in shock and disbelief—wondering where in Makiko such wantonness had been lurking—Kō had already extended a cigarette toward her. “Thank you.”

Makiko directed a slight smile toward Mr.Kō and, after leaning into the flame of the lighter he'd lit, turned back to Kuji. "You should go home now. It's not amusing. If you mention cigarettes, just give me one. What are you observing?" Kuji felt as though he'd been kicked square in the jaw. Even as he struggled to contain his boiling rage, Makiko's beauty—gnawing ever more insistently at his senses—left him breathless, forcing him to wheel sharply toward the window.

“This is utterly irrational!” A burst of laughter erupted at Kuji’s muttered bitter smile but immediately fell completely silent. “What did you say?” “You said something just now, didn’t you?” Makiko tried to turn Kuji’s back—which was facing away—toward herself, forming a sly smile as she pulled at the base of his arm. “Turn this way.” “There’s no one here to be embarrassed about.” “Everyone here’s from the ship.” “Chizuko?” “Those days were lovely, weren’t they?” “On Hong Kong’s Romance Road—in the spring rain—we watched the sea eating mandarins.” “I’d never tasted such delicious mandarins before.” “Ah—I want mandarins.” “——Aden was nice too.” “Salt mountains where camel caravans rode through the wind.” “Remember where we met Mr. Kō’s car? You wore a helmet—blushing as you waved.”

“Heh,” Kuji alone laughed lowly, but the others’ eyes softened as though bathed in the shared scent of the tide. Kuji had grown close with Chizuko around Hong Kong. At that time, Makiko still belonged to a different circle from Kuji and Chizuko, so it was rather Yashiro—being closer to Makiko’s group—who would have known her circumstances best. Kuji thought that perhaps Makiko’s recent reminiscences of their voyage were meant to make Yashiro recall something from those days.

“You’re in quite the cheerful mood.”

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. “Such things no longer exist. All of that was just a dream.” “All of that... it was all just a dream.” Everyone seemed startled by Makiko’s drastic change, but whether this outburst stemmed from the loneliness of her separation from her husband or not, they could only watch—arms folded, gazes fixed—as Makiko’s restless movements revealed the stark whiteness of her back.

“You should go to sleep now. This person is tired tonight.” As Kuji approached to help Makiko up, Mr. Kō tactfully stood and bid farewell to everyone. “It’s all right. I’m sorry for crying like this. It’s nothing.”

Chizuko and Yashiro started to get up to leave while comforting the apologetic Makiko. Makiko tried to stop them too, but since it was already past eleven, everyone left the room. Kuji and Makiko stood in the quiet corridor that felt like the receding tide before returning to their room without looking at each other. Makiko didn’t even try to speak to Kuji anymore; she collapsed onto the bed and kept crying. Kuji had been leaning against his chair alone, sipping from his cup, but as her sobs gradually subsided, he felt the thorns that had been poised to pierce Makiko begin to fade and wither.

“That’s enough. Come here.”

Kuji said. Makiko obediently got up and sat down next to him on the chair with a naive puff of her cheeks like a young girl. Kuji placed the glass before her and let out a light sigh. “Drink a little more,” he said, looking at her face. “No.” After pouring two more glasses of whiskey into his cup and continuing relentlessly, Kuji suddenly turned toward him at an oddly disjointed speed. Yet he kept drinking. As he readjusted his elbow slipping off the table again and again, frustration swelled until he wanted to scream—still he drank. Then momentum took over; when he poured now, the bottle clattered against the cup’s rim without properly meeting it.

“You need to stop now.” “That’s enough.” “Stop drinking so much.”

Makiko too now stopped him in earnest. But the more Makiko tried to stop him, the less Kuji could restrain himself. A vague irritation intensified each time Makiko spoke, until it could no longer be controlled.

"They're all such irrational bastards," he said. "How utterly irrational this all is!"

With that, Kuji stood up, fixing his gaze on a point in the room that seemed to spin dizzily, but his legs would no longer obey him. He made his way along the backs of nearby chairs to the bedside, grabbed the rose Makiko had thrown, and tried to pin it to his chest. However, he couldn’t pin it properly. “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 can there be no rationality? That’s absurd!” “It’s right here.” “It’s right here too!” “There’s no such thing.” After pretending to pin the rose, Makiko removed Kuji’s jacket and tried to lay him down under the blanket, but Kuji abruptly sat up again. “There is!” “I can see it!” “I can see it clearly blooming!”

“Why must you say such foolish things? They’re all blooming.” “Hmph. So irrationality blooms?” With motions practiced from handling her former husband before their separation, Makiko deftly removed Kuji’s shoes, took off his trousers, swiftly undid his tie, and laid him down. Tears streamed incessantly from Kuji’s closed eyes as he lay on his back. Makiko opened the window, tidied the disarray around them, then turned off the room’s lights one by one. Beside the lone remaining lamp by 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, suppressing her voice. Mixed with her sobs came the sizzling sound of hair scorching from the cigarette’s ember.

―Kuji’s mother stood wearing a newly tailored checkered Western dress. Looking up at her navy collar ornament hanging long below the waistline, Kuji teased that it resembled a naval officer’s uniform. From beside them came Makiko’s clear-toned voice: “I’m the one who selected this design. Please don’t make such comments.” As she spoke, she briskly straightened the hem of his mother’s dress once more. This is peculiar, Kuji thought. He couldn’t discern whether he slept or woke—when he supposed himself awake, that perception too felt plausible. Then the mother who should have remained downstairs now descended from the second floor, and he sensed her calling him. As this increasingly took on dreamlike qualities,

"This is absurd." "Mother shouldn't be in Paris."

he muttered to himself.

Even so, his mother was praised by Makiko for how well the Western clothes suited her, and kept fidgeting with apparent delight.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but Kuji eventually woke up. His throat was terribly parched, so he got up, turned on the lamp by the pillow, and stood to go drink water in the bathroom. The distinct heaviness of cold water flowing down his esophagus suddenly began to clear his drowsiness. The blanket rose along the bent knees of the sleeping Makiko, her upper lip with a small mole quivering faintly red as it caught the lamplight. Even as he looked at this, he felt no desire to lie down and sleep beside her again. As he sat in the chair thinking about the dream of his mother from earlier, this time—unlike in the dream—the fact that only his eyes saw the room with abnormal clarity began to feel like a serene implication akin to chillingly cold pleasure.

Kuji put on his shoes, careful to stifle his footsteps so as not to wake Makiko, then dressed and quietly slipped out of the room.

The street outside the hotel was completely devoid of any human figures; it was truly the dead of night. Between the sculptures of the tall, narrow buildings, clouds were moving swiftly. The sound of footsteps heading back toward the hotel along the stone wall also began to sound like his own again after so long. He swung his arms vigorously, and just as he thought he might lose this precarious freedom, the stride he had maintained since fleeing Makiko felt reinvigorated; even the shadows flickering on the stone wall appeared to cast flirtatious glances at him—their master.

“There, there,” he nodded to himself. When Kuji arrived in front of the hotel, struck by the beauty of having not a single soul in sight, he did not feel like entering 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 frigidly straight street converged to a single point with their profound stillness—the magnificence of that linear perspective; the gas lamps resembling crystalline formations shone with night’s sharp radiance—the exquisite precision of their arrangement. A world where future dreams lingered at vision’s edge, breathing with bluish vitality as it unfolded like some frigid archetype of artificial extremity. Kuji’s eyes only grew keener and more alert.

“I can no longer love. This is more than love. What’s so interesting about that love anyway?” Kuji blurted out without thinking. Like clock hands piercing straight through his forehead, that dignified elegance of rational coldness—so orderly it resembled terror—could appear beautiful to humans in this way? What strangeness was this? Kuji thought that if he were to desire anything in this world, it would only be an object of love more beautiful than this. But where could such a thing exist? If it were to exist, there would be none but his mother alone. He continued gazing up at the permeating gaslight as though looking at a blade that had severed his sorrow. In the intricate details of overlapping leaves, in the passing moment when one could almost hear the quiet rise and fall of flowing water through each individual leaf—this mystery continued its flawless workings with unerring order preserved at every point. Yet even this was all wrought by human will. It was the work of human wisdom ceaselessly seeking rationality.

"But what is rationality?"

By the time it came to touching upon that point, Kuji could no longer respond. He stood up from the bench and walked toward the point where the gas lamp’s light converged beneath the horse chestnut tree.

"Virtue remains uncultivated; learning goes undiscussed; inability to reform faults—these are my worries."

Suddenly such words of Confucius came from his mouth, but to him they too seemed like filthy words. The paved road ahead ran along a long stone wall with continuing tree trunks - though perfectly flat, it looked like a sloping hill. As Kuji narrowed the light's angle, a dog emerged from beneath the building directly across. The pleasure he'd believed until now to be his solitary world of beauty was abruptly shattered; he saw the approaching dog as an unclean murk like black poison, yet when it drew near felt nostalgic. He stayed crouched and stroked the dog's lower jaw,

“Hey there. What’s your name?” he said in Japanese. As the dog silently pressed its neck against his knee and tried to lick upward, he pulled his face away and repeated the same question in French. The lean Setter with visible musculature placed its front paws on his arms, eyes gleaming beneath its sun-warmed coat as it stared at him. This solitary creature’s paw pads felt squishily cold against his hand. Under the vivid gaze of those unmistakably living eyes, Kuji tightly embraced the dog’s neck. Feeling the animal’s skeletal frame straining upward within its skin while remaining in his arms, Kuji gradually grew moved, finding himself unable to let go.

“You come here every night.” “Then I’ll come too.” As Kuji said this and continued stroking its head, he suddenly remembered Chizuko. Chizuko’s hotel stood where one turned left from the square where the paving stones of the onward path converged. He found himself wanting to go to the base of that room’s window visible from the street and began walking in that direction, though the dog followed behind for some time. “Go home already.” “Tomorrow and tomorrow.” Kuji moved away from the dog while repeatedly glancing back. Yet why did Chizuko’s purity appear so strikingly beautiful only tonight? The thought felt strange. When the window of Chizuko’s darkened fifth-floor room came into view, his chest grew restless and he gave it a slight shake.

"This feels strange. This shouldn't be happening," he muttered to himself, continuing to gaze upward from below. This must be love—how utterly ridiculous, he thought again, and was about to turn back when he spotted a conveniently sized bench in the square. He sat down there and lit a cigarette. As he gazed at the window, Kuji found himself envisioning this scene of his own envy from beside Yashiro and Chizuko—who seemed so perfectly devoted to each other—and grew lonely with a regret he could not act upon.

"Their love is truly splendid. How could I ever destroy this?" He continued staring up at the high window as though worshiping an altar, remaining motionless until his vexing emotions subsided—partly because he sensed the danger that turning back would lead him not to his own hotel but straight past it, circling back to Makiko's tiger's den of a hotel. In truth, this absurd figure sitting on a midnight bench existed half from his inescapable premonition about Makiko, while the fact that Chizuko's window had become the last straw for his sinking self—a miscalculation of this night that even he himself had never anticipated—drew a bitter smile from Kuji.

The iron bench exuded dew, its coldness pressing against his back. Kuji thought that had his mother not appeared in the dream he'd seen on Makiko's bed, he surely would have been lost at that moment. But it was futile. There would be tomorrows and tomorrows after. No mother's dream alone could fend off such dangers. Should he then return decisively to Makiko's side? Kuji pondered anew.

He stood up from the bench, went to the entrance of Chizuko’s hotel, and tried pushing the door with his shoulder. The door opened easily. Then, without even thinking of going inside, he entered the entrance hall and began climbing the stairs. He thought she must be fast asleep by now, but drawn by a certain hope—that even a single glimpse of Chizuko might somehow allow him to escape the crisis closing in on him—his feet advanced without hesitation to her door. For a while he knocked on the door, but there was no sign of Chizuko waking. Kuji, standing in the completely darkened hallway, became aware of himself engaged in this unexpected grand adventure, and wondered if he might still not be sober from the alcohol he had drunk that evening. However, as he continued knocking on the door again, he heard Chizuko stirring awake. Kuji pressed his mouth to the keyhole and called out, “It’s me, Kuji. Kuji.” Shortly after the sound of the lock turning, Chizuko opened the door with a sleepy face.

“Sorry for coming so late. Something urgent came up.” With that, Kuji entered without looking at Chizuko’s face and sat down on a chair. Chizuko, wearing a maroon gown, sat near the foot of the bed, “It’s almost dawn. How rude to wake me when I was sound asleep.”

she said while stroking both cheeks with a discontented smile.

“I won’t wake you again after tonight, so please just keep me company for a little while. I’m in real trouble here.” Kuji resorted to his usual habit of leaning his head against the chairback and, with a somewhat foolish smile, considered where to begin.

“What’s wrong?” “You’re still not sober, are you?” “Then I don’t want to.” “No, I’m sober now, so it’s fine. Since I haven’t told Yashiro that I came here, you mustn’t say anything about it either.” The moment Kuji finished saying this and thought “Damn it,” Chizuko’s expression had already changed, the sleepiness from earlier now gone.

“You don’t need to worry. What’s wrong with people knowing I came here? If something like that were wrong, would I have come here now?” Kuji pressed in on Chizuko as if overwhelming her with words, then fell silent for a moment when a sudden surge of irritation rose within him. Though he himself had arranged their matchmaking, if they feared that fact, he knew exactly how to make them fear it all the more—and for a while he too remained silent and tense. But the moment he realized this was precisely the sort of quarrel that could only occur in the dead of night, Kuji smiled bitterly, recognizing that even his earlier resolve—formed when he’d knocked on Maria’s door intending to visit her—had now warped into something entirely different.

“Tonight, something unspeakable happened between Ms. Makiko and me—that’s why I rushed out here. After you all left, I got completely drunk and ended up sleeping there until now.” “But when I woke up from dreaming of my mother, I gradually grew frightened and actually sneaked away here.” “Chizuko—what do you think?” “If I carelessly keep doing things like today tomorrow, I’d inevitably have to marry Ms. Makiko—but how would that look from a woman’s perspective if I married her? That’s what I came to ask.” “Though I don’t think that would lead to anything good.”

Chizuko, who had been staring at her feet while occasionally shivering and drawing her shoulders in, now wore a look of comprehension for the first time.

“But it’s said Ms. Makiko’s husband is still in Vienna. In that case, I still think it would be best for you to hold back.” “She says they’ve split up.” “But is that really true?”

“I don’t know about that part, but leaving his wife abandoned here alone like this—that means they’re definitely separated.” “That’s how it started—me feeling uncharacteristically sympathetic for once.” “I mean, how could anyone just watch a reckless Japanese woman wandering Paris alone?” “There’s no telling where she might tumble.” “So before I knew it—since we came on the same ship and all—I figured I’d keep an eye on her if she collapsed. But after dreaming of my mother too, I’m sure to get an earful when I go home. That’s when I started rethinking things.” “Really—try seeing it from my position.” “It’s impossible.” “To be blunt—no offense—if it were someone like you, I could proudly bring you home to my old lady. But another man’s wife? Besides, Mother wouldn’t give me another cent then.”

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 yet. “I think Ms. Makiko must be waiting for her husband to come fetch her from Vienna.” “I’m sure that’s the case.”

Chizuko, who had been blushing shyly all along, straightened her back with the effort of suddenly mustering energy for her flushed face. “Anyway, since I’ve known you longer than Yashiro, when times like this come, I end up wanting to lean on you completely.” “We’re still on our journey.” “There’s no telling what might happen.” Today, I truly came to feel that with profound clarity. I just don’t understand myself anymore. “What the hell am I?”

After suddenly muttering this, Kuji stared at the wall—but when he realized that whatever he might say would only elicit predictable answers, he felt an inexpressible boredom and looked down again. The vivid capillaries surfacing on Chizuko's translucent ankle extending from her knee evoked the chill of paw pads from a dog that had leapt at him on the pavement earlier, and Kuji found himself growing unbearably uncomfortable with how he had moved from that incident to his current state.

“Ah, I’m so sleepy. Let’s go home.”

Having said this, Kuji stood up. Then, after walking a few steps around the room, he once again sat down beside Chizuko and settled himself briefly, “Hey, wouldn’t it be nice if we just ran off somewhere starting tomorrow?” “Maybe we should go to Switzerland or somewhere for a while.”

“That’s true,” she said. “I think that would be better for me.” “But being alone would be lonely,” he murmured. “But weren’t you in love with Ms. Makiko?” Her voice dropped lower. “So deeply?” “Even you saw it that way?” Kuji sighed and stretched back. Chizuko leaned forward with one hand on the bedstead, her chin dipping into a soft double curve as she looked down at him. The more he wished to stay, the more he felt the unbridgeable restraint that had grown between them—clamping down on his urge to reach out again and again, he kept gazing up at her from below as if nothing were amiss.

“When I really think about it, it all seems utterly absurd—but you see, once tomorrow morning comes, Ms. Makiko will undoubtedly show up at my room again.” “Then I won’t be able to escape anymore.” “If we’re going to escape, it has to be now.” “So it's a close call, then.” “That's right.” “Our fate hinges on the next few hours.” Having said this, Kuji laughed, but as he glared up sharply at Chizuko’s eyes, he thought that perhaps the close call was actually on her side.

“But is something like that really so difficult? For me, it would be no trouble at all.” “Do you really think it’s that simple? It’s not like I’m in love with her, yet I have to keep pretending as if I were.” “Then that’s your fault. Why did you put on that act?” As if to say she was done feeling sorry for him, Chizuko looked away from Kuji.

“But that’s how it is. If I don’t dislike you enough, I can’t make a face like I hate you. Well, if a man feels even slight affection, he’d naturally want to show that much kindness—but I’m no valiant hero like you who can make things so clear. If Ms. Makiko comes tomorrow morning, I’ll just tell some lie and put on a kind face for another day. That’s why I came to consult you. I suddenly thought maybe seeing your face could help me escape.”

Kuji, who had inadvertently voiced what he had resolved to keep unsaid, felt his mind suddenly calm at having made such a smooth and natural confession—but when he thought that Chizuko must not have noticed, this too brought him relief, and he sat up. "It’s because of our old ties." "But in times like these, I can’t go anywhere, can I?" "Where would I go?"

“What do you mean by that? Should I tell Ms. Makiko your feelings for you? Then why don’t you try talking to her tomorrow—though who knows what Ms. Makiko might say. Since she’s that kind of person, I don’t think she’s worrying nearly as much as you are.” The shadow of Chizuko’s lowered eyelashes—seeming to deliberately feign deafness—avoided meeting Kuji’s gaze and remained quietly sunken.

“If you tell her such things, I’d be in trouble.” “Things would get blown out of proportion.” “We must resolve these delicate matters smoothly through unspoken agreement—it’d save us both the embarrassment.” “If Ms. Makiko and I were to end up marrying, and a day came when we both found happiness, who knows if what you’ve said might become an unfortunate memory.” “So please, keep tonight’s matter locked in your heart alone.” “If this gets carelessly spread about, there’d be no point in my having confided in you.”

Chizuko, for the first time, directed a bright smile at Kuji and suppressed an impending yawn with her hand. "It’s complicated, isn’t it—your situation." “It’s complicated,” he said. “But since meeting you, I’ve somehow started to calm down a bit. This should last me through tomorrow at least.” Kuji had spoken those words without particular intent, but when he looked up, Chizuko’s demeanor had abruptly changed—she drew back, hunching her shoulders as a faint shudder rippled through the folds of her gown. Though he had shifted the boat’s keel—which had leaned too far toward Makiko—to tilt toward Chizuko instead, finding himself now overcompensating in this unstable imbalance, Kuji thought how his mother’s presence might have provided a pillar standing straight at such moments; he tried to envision some substitute for her support.

“Somehow my way of putting things always comes out wrong. That’s not what I mean at all. I’m not trying to interfere with you. Even I need to keep someone as upright as you in mind during times like this—otherwise I’d be truly lost. Don’t you agree? It’s precisely now that someone like you must become my straw to grasp. All I need is for you to simply stay here with me. Yashiro doesn’t need to feel indebted or anything. If you won’t even do this much, what sort of friend does that make you? I plan to tell Yashiro myself eventually.”

Like a wife being urged to reconcile, Chizuko began to speak only to fall silent again, her hands remaining pressed against the bed.

“It’s not like my saying such things should make you suffer like this.” “It’s nothing at all.” “Why must what I say be so unreasonable?” “Then I’ll take it back. But even if I devise desperate measures in desperate times, how could that possibly be wrong?” “Let’s go back then.” “I’ll see you again.”

Kuji stood up and reached out his hand to Chizuko. Chizuko lightly touched Kuji's hand and said in a cheerful voice,

“I’ll come by around noon.” Having said that, she closed the door behind him. The Paris night was beginning to brighten. As Kuji walked toward his hotel, he felt his emotions growing calm, as if washed clean. “I’ve been spouting all sorts of things, but what’s really eating at me isn’t about women. I need something to replace my mother. That’s all there is to it. Whatever I’ve said—consider it done with.”

When Kuji thought this, both Makiko and Chizuko momentarily vanished from his mind, and only the sound of his shoes—echoing as if measuring the vibrations in his head—reached his ears.

Kuji woke up around noon. While washing his face and trying to recall last night's events, he felt no tangible fear—as if yesterday and today belonged to entirely separate days. With a toothbrush in his mouth, the sunlight shone strongly into his eyes as he looked down at the street from the window. He thought it utterly pitiable if anyone were suffering on such a fine day, and upon realizing that person had been himself just last night, he marveled at how a few hours of sleep had so transformed his life.

The Romanian girl in the next room was singing softly under her breath—she too must have had some reason for joy. "I've lost my way halfway through my thirties." Kuji sometimes found such anguished words of Dante’s rising to his lips. Yet if there were any troubles weighing on him today—he reasoned—all he needed was to tell Makiko a slight lie by twisting reality. Like a master physician perfecting his craft—the more skillfully he spun those lies—the happier they both would become. If he confessed everything truthfully to Makiko as he had done with Chizuko…the damage might prove immeasurable. Then why were lies wrong?—

While thinking this, Kuji nevertheless resolved that today he would try telling Makiko just one truth, and when he considered how they might become even more at ease with each other—to the same degree as when telling lies—this anticipation itself became his pleasure for the entire day. When he had changed clothes and gulped down his coffee, he found a note slipped under the door. When he picked it up and read it, it stated that Makiko had apparently come by when he was already asleep and wrote that she would be on the bench in front of Verlaine at Luxembourg Gardens for about an hour after noon, asking him to come.

While drinking coffee that doubled as breakfast and lunch, Chizuko arrived as promised. Her eyelids appeared more swollen than usual—an oddly refreshing sight. Having just climbed the long spiral staircase, her shoulders heaving with each labored breath as she silently approached the window railing, Chizuko still refused to look at Kuji for some reason. "My apologies for intruding like that last night. Have you eaten lunch yet?"

Chizuko said she had already eaten and was gazing at the roof of the architecture school ahead. Kuji thought how strange it was that visiting a man's room in daylight held no particular fear, yet being alone with a man at midnight could make someone so anxious—and how all of yesterday's events too must have been the night's doing—as this conclusion now somehow came to feel definitive. "Did Ms. Makiko come by?" "It seems she came by, but since you were asleep, she left a note and went back." "Because it says she's been on the bench in front of Verlaine since noon, I have to go there now."

“And what do you intend to do?”

With her back against the light-blue arabesque-patterned railing, Chizuko wore a sarcastic smile with upturned lips. “It can’t be helped. ‘To be unable to reform one’s faults—this is my true worry.’ I’m off to lecture on The Analects now.” “But you seem oddly cheerful.” “When I woke today, I noticed a slight shift in my state of mind. Last night I couldn’t bear not seeing you—I truly fell for you then. Before climbing your stairs, I’d just been sitting on that square bench staring at your window. But then this restlessness grew in my chest—before I knew it, I was climbing up despite myself. Yet this morning... somehow it’s different. Completely carefree now, as you see. This is a crisis.”

Chizuko gazed at Kuji, who was breaking off pieces of bread and speaking nonchalantly, with uneasy eyes, then,

“Then I was in crisis too, wasn’t I?”

Having said that, she spun around again, leaned her elbows on the railing, and peered down from the window. “Well, I find many things hard to understand. Having to go around explaining each and every one of these things is certainly not healthy. You came to comfort me today too, didn’t you?”

“That’s right. But I can’t understand why you’d be alone in the middle of the night. I thought I shouldn’t open the door or anything, but I figured you might have had some urgent business. You really are the surprising one. I’ve had enough of that kind of thing.” “No, in fact, there was an urgent matter. If I hadn’t gone to your place last night, I might not have been able to be this carefree today. At that time, you were truly a great help, but I suppose even that was partly the night’s doing.”

"If a person’s heart could differ so much between night and day," he thought while snapping off the bread crust pricking his lips, just as he was about to revisit his habitual ruminations, Chizuko stepped down from the railing. "What will become of someone like you?" "I’m worried about that." Without any particular look of concern but with quizzical eyes, Chizuko studied Kuji before turning to examine her face in the washbasin mirror. There she stood—unchanged as ever in her navy-blue dress that suited her so perfectly—yet as Kuji gazed at her reflected face from behind, he realized he too had now pushed this person away, and with a vague sense of glimpsing loneliness’ shadow, he gulped down his chilled coffee.

“Are you meeting Yashiro today?” “Yes, I promised.” “Why did you come here when you had that promise to keep? I never asked you to come.” “Oh but Mr. Kuji—you were the one who said such lonely things! Calling that ‘friendship’ or—” In Chizuko’s eyes—flushed cheeks turned toward him as she spoke faster—Kuji sensed the fleeting spark of her wavering heart and felt joy; yet telling himself this too might simply be the transient beauty of a passing gaze, he once again quieted his pursuing heart.

“You probably think it’s your responsibility for making me this way. "But if that’s the case, then that’s a mistake. "The attitude I’ve shown you since we parted in Marseille—so much ruder than how I was on the ship—is something I feel I must apologize for once. But when a young man like me suddenly comes out from rural Japan to Paris, his head can’t help but spin incessantly for a while. "In reality, I haven’t had time to think about Japan for a while. “Then when you appeared again like that, all that struck your face were my upside-down legs.” “It’s not that I feel any need to make excuses, but given how close we once were, for things to end up like this—it’s certainly because I’m the one who brought you to that state.” “It’s not you who made me this way.”

“You were really kind to me back then.” In an unsteady voice, Chizuko said this, then picked up the new necktie on the table and examined it, “It’s nice. This,” she said, looking at Kuji and laughing. Though the melancholy of remembering bygone days was ever-present in travel, for these two it only deepened their stifling emotions; yet Kuji was coming to realize there would be no better opportunity than now to say what needed saying.

“Please listen a little longer.” “This is turning into a courtship, isn’t it?” “I am listening.” As if struck by the surging turbulence of Kuji’s emotions—suddenly piercing her chest with the freshness of an unknown world—Chizuko stopped short and stared at him with wide eyes. In that instant, Kuji too widened his eyes. “It’s nothing so changed on my part. Of course, it’s nothing significant, but there is one reason I must tell you. Since you were once someone who captivated my heart so much, I can’t say there’s nothing left to talk about. To tell the truth, that’s exactly how it is. You’re the same way, aren’t you?”

When their usual friendly banter inadvertently stiffened into solemnity, their words faltered with the stillness that follows scattered sparks—that quiet after unexpected fireworks. Hearing the coffee cup he'd meant to set down gently clatter loudly on the silver tray, Kuji wanted to readjust it, but found himself with nothing left to say. “Since Ms. Makiko must be waiting, shall we go?”

With a composed expression that seemed to know full well Kuji could do nothing further no matter what occurred, Chizuko lightly invited him. Then Kuji, realizing that in truth nothing at all had happened between them, laughed with a barren relief tinged by loneliness. "Well then, shall we go to Ms. Makiko's?"

Kuji put on his jacket and lowered the shutters to prevent the room from warming up. When the surroundings grew dim, Chizuko's body suddenly seemed to swell anew, and they both froze in mutual embarrassment at their unnoticed proximity, each averting their gaze. As he felt a moment far more perilous than any during their previous conversation suddenly begin to swirl and settle around him—completely independent of his will—Kuji was struck anew by the realization that this was what had consumed him all last night, and his emotions welled up once more.

“Come on, hurry up and get out.” With that, Kuji spoke as if driving Chizuko out of the room, then locked the door behind her. Chizuko—who was heading to Yashiro’s hotel—parted from Kuji after saying she would go to Luxembourg Gardens later. Kuji entered the park alone. Passing through children scrambling for a ball between tree trunks, weaving through old women knitting, and circling through the thicket toward Verlaine’s statue on the left, he found Makiko sitting on a bench with her back turned, writing in her notebook.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

With a mindset somehow prepared for conflict, Kuji dropped his body down heavily next to Makiko and sat. “A haiku—what do you think of this one?” Makiko grinned without looking at Kuji; keeping her eyes fixed on the notebook, she leaned her shoulder against his and showed him the verse. As she approached him like this—not asking a single question about last night’s events—Kuji found himself faltering inexplicably while peering at the notebook. “The children long since fallen asleep—stepping on green. This is good.” “This one.”

Having said this, Kuji looked at the infant sleeping in the baby carriage beside the carousel and rotating log behind them, then gazed at the beautiful lawn spreading out before them. Here alone, the thicket’s branches intertwined upward into the sky, creating an emerald void below, and at the center of that slightly sunken lawn stood Verlaine’s statue. “Watching the rotating log cease its sway—stepping on green—”

In her notebook, besides these verses, there was another one—『If I wait for someone, the mirror clears; blue fallen leaves』—that had been erased. While Kuji looked at these verses, he secretly waited for Makiko to reproach him for having fled the previous night, yet for some reason she showed no sign of broaching yesterday’s events. Though both harbored words painstakingly prepared for this moment, Makiko’s abrupt shift to haiku without preamble struck Kuji as so cunning that he briefly suspected deliberate artifice on her part—yet sensing neither turmoil nor taint in her crafted verses, he sighed and gazed up at Verlaine’s statue, his heart lingering in the luminous poetic realm her lines conjured. Directly above three nude women writhing wildly as they craned upward from below, Verlaine’s half-emerged form hovered abruptly, his piercing gaze transfixing some unseen mark as he stood staring fixedly at the Pantheon’s distant spire.

After all, even this poet who was perpetually drunk had not been troubled by matters concerning women. Those eyes were gazing fixedly at the masculine ideal, Kuji thought, wondering how he might convey to Makiko that his own disquiet since last night mirrored that stare. "Watching the rotating log cease its sway—stepping on green—perhaps that's better."

And again Kuji murmured. "I think I prefer this version too." "That’s good—this version." "It has profound meaning, and your sentiments come through beautifully—quite exquisite." "You’re quite the Bluestocking, aren’t you." Kuji indeed felt that the rotating log within both their hearts was progressing like a quiet gathering after its swaying had ceased, and he clearly understood Makiko’s efforts—her desire to gradually tread upon today’s green grass after planting this subtle suggestion.

“If I make one or two more, couldn’t you have Mr. Higashino look at them?” “What might he say about something like this?”

Receiving the notebook, Kuji looked back at Makiko’s face as she spoke, “No good—Mr. Higashino would say this isn’t haiku but lyric poetry. Since he insists on strict haiku standards, showing him would just get us torn apart.” “That’s fine with me.” Makiko laughed. “But I don’t really get this business about haiku having strict standards. Especially since he went and stomped on my foot.” “To make matters worse, he stepped on my foot.” When Kuji said this, he recalled Higashino’s question about where this pain originated—the same inquiry Higashino had posed after stepping on his foot. Now that I think of it, perhaps simply sitting quietly like this beside Makiko meant nothing at all to either of us. When they realized they were still far from attaining the stillness that follows mutual encroachment and disorder—Ah, this won’t end here—he thought, and Verlaine’s state of mind—gazing fixedly ahead with arched eyebrows while keeping women trampled beneath—spread ever deeper through his innermost being.

That day, Makiko was not merely obedient and kind to Kuji throughout. With a refined composure utterly transformed from the previous night, she maintained meticulous care with her makeup, her upward-glancing eyes now animated by subtle attentiveness, following Kuji's lead even in trivial shopping matters. Since a couple of their regular dining spots were open, no one was as hard-pressed as yesterday, and when it came to dinner, the four of them—including Yashiro and Chizuko—were able to manage without inconvenience at the Dome.

Kuji had already steeled himself that this night would likely become their final one from which he could no longer part from Makiko, so when coffee was served after dinner, he addressed the group: “How about it—shall we all go to Tabarin tonight?” he proposed. Tabarin was a revue theater in Paris that stood head and shoulders above the rest, doubling as an exceptional dance hall. Everyone immediately agreed, but it was still a bit early for that.