Pathway to Japanese Literature

Beautiful Shins

I was stroking my hairy shins under the brightest window when, as was his habit and without waiting to be announced, my friend Narumi Saburō suddenly entered.

“Hey,” said Narumi in his usual perfunctory greeting, then asked, “What exactly are you doing there?”

“Yeah.”

With that, I gave a vague reply and continued the same motion as before.
My shins, now completely devoid of fat.
I was completely emaciated—the thickness of my calves wasn’t even a third of what it had been in their prime.

“You’d better quit this nonsense.”

Having said that, Narumi sat cross-legged facing me, but immediately stood up, retrieved an ashtray from the corner of the room, and returned to his previous seat.
I retracted my hairy shins and lowered my trousers—which had been rolled up—down to my ankles.

“……”

“You couldn’t possibly be thinking of selling off your precious two legs…”

“What did you say?”

“You’re not planning to sell off your precious legs to Geishunkan, are you? If that’s the case, I’ve got something to say to you.”

I felt my friend’s piercing gaze sweep over my entire body like a neutron storm.
A part of my head flared up with heat.

“Geishunkan? Oh? So you knew about Geishunkan?”

“That den of iniquity needs to be destroyed sooner rather than later. I hear they buy a full set of arms for five hundred thousand yen and a full set of legs for seven hundred thousand yen, isn’t that right?”

“Hmm hmm hmm, so even that has reached your ears?”

“To parade a noble name like Geishunkan while running such an abhorrent business is outrageous.”
“Then they take those limbs they’ve bought up, mark them up fifty or a hundredfold, and hawk them to moneyed old men...”

“But Narumi,” I said, “shouldn’t such enterprises have their place in this world? When people enter old age and their limbs cease to obey them—when bodily functions decline and survival loses all hope—to acquire youthful limbs and organs through simple yet flawless surgical procedures, achieving instant rejuvenation... Transplant surgery—is this not magnificent?”

“No,” he countered, “I don’t condemn transplant surgery itself. Its remarkable advancements are indeed commendable for humanity’s welfare. But such operations must be conducted with absolute transparency—as Professor Seo practices them.” Narumi leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Take Professor Seo’s method: when a traffic accident leaves a man with a ruptured liver near death, they immediately operate—remove and discard the damaged organ—replace it with one from their reserves.” His index finger tapped the table’s edge rhythmically. “These replacement livers come from disease-free cadavers—pre-stored specimens sold willingly by bereaved families to the Human Body Integration Parts Department for global betterment.” The tapping ceased as he concluded: “That’s true transparency—patients receiving Professor Seo’s treatments need feel no guilt whatsoever.” His palm struck the tabletop softly but decisively—“This is how it must be done!”

Narumi Saburō expounded earnestly with a grave expression.
Yet I remained utterly unmoved.
There was no need to debate whether transplants required ethical transparency.
What mattered was that recipients gained happiness through the procedures.
The true issue resided in the surgeon's technical mastery.

“Yamikawa. What do you say?”
“Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“So who exactly did you hear about Geishunkan from?”

“From a certain newspaper reporter.”
“Though according to that journalist—who supposedly heard it secondhand from colleagues at the club—Geishunkan can’t be found by searching main streets. Those who venture inside are said to be astonished by its prosperity.”
“And apparently, among our fellow novelists, there’s someone who knows all about Geishunkan—though unfortunately, I forgot to ask his name.”
“Oh? What are you laughing at?”

I started and stifled my laughter.
And my face grew stiff.

“In fact, Dr. Wakamiya Donchiki’s technical prowess as director of Geishunkan is truly remarkable.”
“He is…”

“Is this Wakamiya Donchiki fellow the chief physician?”

“Yes.”
“He’s an old man with hair, beard, and whiskers all white as flax.”
“Yet the only elderly thing about him is his hair—the rest of his body remains vigorous as youth itself.”
“Though naturally, he likely adjusted it through his signature transplant surgeries…”

“Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.”
“When on earth did you get involved with such a demon?”
“I’m not being unreasonable here.”
“Don’t go near that Dr. Wakamiya anymore.”
“If you keep frequenting that place, you’ll end up meeting a horrible fate.”

My pure-hearted and single-minded friend glared at me as he spoke.

"You should try meeting Dr. Wakamiya once."
"Then you'd surely retract those words."

“Tch! Who’d go near such a filthy guy?”

“Dr. Wakamiya scrutinized my long shins and went on to say,
‘Your shins are truly magnificent.
Not only do your 43-centimeter-long shins belong to the relatively rare category,
but the shape of your tibiae and fibulae is exceptionally beautiful.
The front of your tibia forms nothing less than a pure hyperbola,’ he said.
‘And then he stated he would purchase them for 990,000 yen
if you were willing to sell.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Let me make this perfectly clear!”
“Do you think it’s acceptable to sell a sacred body bestowed by heaven?”
“To sell something like that for material desires is downright filthy.”
“If by any chance you do such a thing, I’ll cut all ties with you!”

Narumi shouted while frantically banging his knees on the tatami mats, sending dust swirling violently into the air.

But I told him.

"If there's justification for selling being better, then selling should be acceptable, shouldn't it?"
"Moreover, whether to sell such things or not is mine alone to decide."

“That’s unforgivable.”
“You must not sell them.”
“And... and if Ms. Tamako were to find out about that, imagine how she would grieve.”
“A crack will form between you two—no, a fatal rift that’ll lead to separation…”
“How could I let such a thing happen?”

“There most certainly is!”
“Just consider—if Ms. Tamako were to…”
“If Tamako desires it, do you still have anything to say?”

“…”

Marvelous Technique

Originally, I had intended to write this account as a memoir.
However, once I began writing, my usual tendencies surfaced, and it ended up taking on a novelistic style.
I had no choice but to set down my brush and obfuscate.
Today, I want to write in memoir style.

The persistent Narumi Saburō showed no signs of learning his lesson no matter how often driven away, coming to barge in nearly every day without ever saying anything worthwhile.
He was truly a troublesome friend.

He invariably condemned my intention to sell both legs. At first, he had tried to dissuade me by bringing up Tamako, but when I refuted that argument and demonstrated that Tamako herself desired it, he stopped bringing it up. Instead, this time he blamed Tamako, denouncing any woman who would want you to sell your legs as "a Bodhisattva’s facade masking a demon’s heart." Not only that, he spouted such ominous predictions as “Ms. Tamako will surely betray you and leave in the near future,” making me intensely uncomfortable. I told him to leave immediately, but he—Narumi—was not one to get up over such a thing. And this time, changing the target of his attacks, he began listing criticisms to pick apart Dr. Wakamiya’s surgical methods.

“I don’t know what kind of surgical virtuoso this Dr. Wakamiya or whatever is, but scars would still end up hideous.”
“To put it plainly—those sutured marks would redden and pucker up, leaving behind some monstrous keloid scarring, but…”

I shook my head vehemently from side to side.

“You, as a layperson, have no business finding fault with Dr. Wakamiya’s surgical precision.”
“Surgical techniques have made tremendous advancements over the past decade.”
“And the first of these is that unsightly residual traces have completely vanished.”
“That’s why procedures like facial cosmetic surgery have come to be performed in rapid succession.”
“Moreover, Dr. Wakamiya’s surgeries have no equal in this regard in the present day.”
“In fact, I’ve seen dozens—no, hundreds—of surgery patients at Dr. Wakamiya’s clinic, but I’ve never once found anything resembling a trace.”

“Hmm, is that so?”
“Well, setting that aside—what happens when you attach thin legs in place of thick ones?”
“Even if no trace remains on the skin at the seam, wouldn’t attaching thin legs to thick ones naturally create a stepped ridge there?”
“In that case, it can’t help but be ugly after all.”

“You’re being unreasonable. In modern surgical procedures where aesthetics are a primary consideration—do you really think they’d perform such clumsy work that leaves stepped ridges? First, precise measurements are taken using a rotating photographic apparatus. Then an integrated design is calculated via Braun tube to ensure the post-transplant legs form either pure elliptic function curves or hyperbolic function curves within material tolerances. Therefore, since the cross-sectional area at the junction incision is also calculated, these numerical values are used to knead out and surgically remove any excess tissue. Therefore, the junction between the thigh and the transplanted leg fits perfectly. There can absolutely be no unsightly ridges. Understood?”

“Hmph, I grasp the theory.”
“But what about practical implementation?”
“Don’t misunderstand—this isn’t about distrusting your account.”
“Even granting modern surgery’s advancements—whatever their extent—we’re not discussing mannequin assembly here. You’re proposing to graft living limbs together. That should present formidable challenges.”
“Take vascular connections—how would those work?”
“Then neural cell linkages—how?”
“These constitute monumental difficulties!”

“It’s not a difficult problem in the slightest. When the thigh is cleanly severed at that point, the incision is immediately photographed, and after development, projected enlarged across the entire wall. Next, the incision of the leg to be attached is similarly photographed and projected enlarged. These two are of course not identical, but being of the same human species, they are similar. However, for them to be joined, mere similarity won’t suffice—they must be identical. That is to say, the arrangement states of bones, blood vessels, nerves, muscles, subcutaneous fat, and skin must be… There, the alignment is adjusted from similar to identical through design. Of course, this first aligns bone to bone, after which the alignment coordinates for blood vessels, nerves, and other components are sequentially determined. Then comes the rearrangement surgery. Using an electric scalpel, charged instruments, and various electrodes, this surgery is completed in a mere five minutes. In that case, both the thigh incision and the incision of the leg to be attached will take on identical arrangement, thickness, and shape—as precisely as a stamped seal. So all that remains is to perfectly align the two and apply an electrical current to achieve instantaneous adhesion. What remains is appropriate treatment of the skin-to-skin junction. Once this is done, the entire surgery will be completed. Well? This should satisfy even you. With the same technical precision as assembling engine components, this surgery is performed reliably and easily.”

I stopped speaking there and looked at my friend’s face.
Narumi gave a slight nod.

“Well, Narumi? So you’re convinced now.”

“Well, to some extent. Still, will the attached legs immediately function as commanded by the brain?”

He still would not abandon pursuit.

“Of course, thorough testing is conducted.”
“Especially nerve reactions are meticulously examined.”
“Blood circulation is fully verified using a cardiograph.”
“The relationship between movement and muscles was filmed with calibrated high-speed film, and muscle pressure was measured through the motion of light spots on a Braun tube; since these were filmed simultaneously, any abnormalities were immediately detected.”
“The anesthesia is only lifted once all these tests have been completed.”

“Hmm.”
“You’re rather well-informed.”
“At that rate, you could serve as Dr. Wakamiya’s assistant.”

Narumi said sarcastically.
I continued speaking without acknowledging it.

“Modern medical techniques are no longer genius-level special skills."
"They’ve become universal mechanical technologies—things anyone can handle through mechanical power alone."
"What they call Dr. Wakamiya’s special expertise amounts to nothing more than his bold conversion of grasped truths into mechanical techniques that he wields with mastery.”

“If you put it that way, the Dr. Wakamiya you worship ends up being a kind of magician.”
“Anyway, you need to cut all ties with that sort of person right this instant.”
“I earnestly advise you.”

“What are you talking about? I’ll decide my own matters.”

I finally managed to send the meddlesome Narumi home—who had been poking his nose where it didn’t belong—and then immediately went to Geishunkan to sell both my legs.
Once I did this, even Narumi wouldn’t be able to make any more annoying complaints.
Moreover, in exchange for both legs, I purchased five years of rejuvenated youth and a set of replacement legs exactly as Tamako had long desired, and had them transplanted on the spot.

Suspicion

Tamako was indeed overjoyed.
Her delight exceeded even my expectations.
She grasped both my hands, compared them, and praised that they had become glossier than before.

After that, we boarded a yacht and departed for the sightseeing islands of the Seto Inland Sea.

In blissful opulence, we lost track of days as we roamed about.
Yet even this life eventually grew wearisome.
When I counted back, exactly three months had passed.
So without either prompting it aloud, we left that island and returned to our former nest—the city.

I meant to find us new lodgings for cohabitation when Tamako objected.
She insisted cohabitation required preparations—time needed to sort her old residence—demanding roughly five more weeks.
Though five weeks struck me as excessive, being Tamako’s wish after all,I consented.
We parted left and right before the station.
From that day until now—some two weeks—I have not laid eyes on Tamako.

For my part, even if we weren't going to live together, I thought visiting her would at least be welcome, so the very next day after we parted in front of the station, I went to see her at Biran Dormitory. However, though the dormitory stood there, she was nowhere to be found. Or rather, to be precise—the building remained, but its name had changed. In other words, the dormitory had been sold off and converted into a warehouse. When I asked the warehouse keeper about Tamako's new whereabouts, he only shook his head. I couldn't help feeling disappointed, and for the first time began harboring a certain dissatisfaction toward Tamako.

But after beginning my return journey, I tried reconsidering matters.
Couldn't the change-of-address letter from Tamako addressed to me be currently in a postal worker's possession?
If I waited just one more day, mightn't that envelope reach my home?

I returned home and waited obsessively for that letter to arrive. Time crawled forward without mercy. I went out to the veranda to bask in the sun while straining to catch the postal worker’s footsteps a second sooner. Yet my hope remained unfulfilled no matter how long I waited.

My heart grew steadily more desolate. I even tried berating myself—insisting tomorrow still existed—but the emptiness persisted. My fingers began wandering across the hairy shins of my legs—no, these replacements I’d bought and attached previously that now served as my shins’ second generation—only to intensify the hollowness. These limbs bore no resemblance to my original slender, beautiful shins—their skin coarse and rough, marred by three sunken scars like pickled plum pits left by malignant boils, bones grotesquely warped. Worse still, fresh boils would sporadically erupt even now, oozing an intolerable stench. Though I’d paid a mere five thousand yen—hardly grounds for complaint now—had I known they’d cause such torment, I should’ve haggled harder over that stolen youth and bought ordinary legs instead. With money, I could replace them even today—but having squandered everything on that sightseeing trip with Tamako, truth be told, I now pondered various schemes to raise funds.

While I was changing the plaster on my troublesome shins, Narumi unexpectedly came in.

“Hey, Yamikawa.”
“So you did come back after all.”

Narumi said that and, as usual, located the ashtray, then sat cross-legged before me holding it. I panicked and scolded him away. It was because I didn’t want him to see these second-generation legs. But Narumi merely grunted “Hmm,” cast a fleeting glance at my legs, and then assumed an air of complete disinterest.

“Weren’t you with Ms. Tamako?”

“What...”

I was caught off guard and turned pale.

“Now, if you’re going to get upset, spare me that. Ah well, it’s just that I spotted Ms. Tamako from behind earlier...”

“What? Where did you see Tamako... Tell me everything in detail.”

Narumi looked startled and stared at my face for a moment,

“I didn’t mean to agitate you.”
“She was walking along H Street.”

“Alone?”
“Or was she with someone?”

“Well... This is difficult.”

“Tell me the truth.”
“I need to know the truth now.”
“Tamako was walking with another man, wasn’t she?”
“What sort of bastard was he?”

My harsh questioning ended up delaying Narumi’s response.
But in the end, he answered.

“There was nothing particularly suspicious about him.”

“But… what kind of man is that bastard…?”

“It’s someone you know.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense. Who was the man with Tamako? Hurry up and tell me!”

“There should be no harm in telling you.”
“Professor Seo.”

“What? Professor Seo. That Professor Seo? The chief professor of the university’s Seo Surgery Department?”

“That’s right. So after all, you didn’t need to get so worked up.”

I remained silent for a while.
Then I muttered.

“What business could Tamako possibly have with someone like Professor Seo?”

I couldn’t even begin to guess the reason.
However, considering Tamako had vanished from my life and cut off all communication since that incident, even if her companion were Professor Seo, the mere fact of her walking side by side with him remained a matter of grave concern to me.

“You said H Street just now.”

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going with that pale face? Wait, wait—I said wait!”

I left Narumi's flustered voice behind and dashed outside.
My destination was of course H Street.

H Street was terribly crowded. Pushing through fierce waves of people, sometimes getting shoved back, I searched again and again for those I sought. But my efforts yielded nothing of value. The two had vanished into thin air somewhere.

Oh well. Sooner or later, they'd reappear on this H Street. When they did, I vowed to myself, that's when I'd catch them for sure.

And from then on, I stationed myself on H Street nearly every day, keeping my eyes peeled.

Of course, no letters came from Tamako—not the next day, nor the day after that, nor even long after that. Moreover, my surveillance of H Street proved utterly ineffective, and I never once managed to catch sight of Tamako and the others.

Then, after a considerable time had passed, on a certain day, an anonymous letter was delivered to me. Without even properly examining it, I could perceive that this document contained the crucial news I had been seeking.

When I opened it, it was indeed a suspicious document.
The entire text was written in hiragana using a Japanese-language typewriter.
The document stated:

"I warn Yamikawa Kichindo.
Komiya and Tamako purchased your beautiful legs from Wakamiya Donchiki.
And those legs were offered to the man she had long loved.
If you let your guard down from now on, something terrible will happen.
From Hayamimi-sei"

The premonition had come true.
Tamako had purchased my legs from Dr. Wakamiya, and it said they'd been offered to her longtime lover.
"If you let your guard down now..."—so warned Hayamimi-sei—"...something unthinkable will happen."

I could not deny that Tamako had long loved another man, but during our recent sightseeing trip, she had never once betrayed any hint of such a thing. And now for her to have bought the legs I treasured and offered them to that man—what manner of outrage was this? Was it not Tamako herself who had persistently urged me to sell off my legs? To make me sell them only to later purchase them herself and present them as a gift to her longtime lover—this was truly an unforgivable atrocity.

Even so, who could this man she had loved all along be? He must have been feeling quite pleased now—having received those beautiful legs of mine through Tamako and gotten them transplanted. How thoroughly I had been made a fool of! Ah, now I saw it clearly—that time Professor Seo, that master surgeon, had been walking beside her could only mean she had enlisted him to perform that leg transplant surgery.

I reached the peak of fury. With each passing moment, my head throbbed with intensifying pain while my chest swelled near to bursting.

(I can’t let this pass.)
No matter what it takes, I must catch that man and make Tamako realize—otherwise this burning rage will never subside!

I had finally become a demon of vengeance.

Night Stalls in the Wintry Wind

Having become a demon of vengeance, I forgot all sense of time and ran through the streets day and night.
Of course, the purpose was to capture Tamako and the man who had swindled me out of my innately beautiful legs—I dare say it—that man.

But Tamako and that man simply would not enter my field of vision.
The two were not avoiding the streets—I often heard accounts of people spotting Tamako and that man.
And yet through my cursed misfortune, I ultimately failed to encounter either of them.

I became reckless and stormed audaciously into Dr. Wakamiya's office.
Like a man possessed by demons, I pinned Dr. Wakamiya down on the examination table and demanded to know why he had transferred my beautiful legs—the ones I was born with—to Tamako and her companion.
Yet Dr. Wakamiya did not rebuke my discourtesy. In a calm voice, he explained that once having purchased them from me, their disposal was his prerogative, and I held no right to protest.
I released my hands from his throat and could only prostrate myself in apology for my rudeness.
That same day, after selling both my arms to Dr. Wakamiya, I left the clinic.
The price came to 1.15 million yen—a more than fair rate.
In exchange, I invested 8,500 yen to obtain bargain-priced arms from a traffic victim's corpse and had them transplanted.
Thus my net proceeds amounted to 1,141,500 yen.
With this sum, I wouldn't face immediate hardship in maintaining my livelihood.

As is the way of those driven into such accursed circumstances, it must be acknowledged that one cannot maintain a flat, odorless existence.
In my case as well—no exception to this pattern—I pursued stimulation day and night, and my life gradually deteriorated.
My conduct during this period—though I hesitate to put it into words here—grew increasingly reckless by the day. The 1.14 million yen I had gained from selling off my arms, a fortune I carried in my pocket, was siphoned off by others within no great length of time, and I found myself once again struggling to secure funds.
And in the end, bolstered by liquid courage, I would rush to Dr. Wakamiya’s clinic—selling my heart one time, the entire skin of my back another—liquidating everything from internal organs onward, converting each piece into cash in rapid succession.
However, during such times, the one principle I always maintained was never to sell a single thing from the neck up.
If I were to sell my face, my identity would disappear; therefore, no matter what happens, this is the one thing I cannot sell.

Bearing want and anguish, gasping breathlessly, I still frantically searched through the streets. However, the god of fate refused to side with me no matter what, and I couldn’t discover Tamako and that man’s whereabouts. I would return home late every night, utterly exhausted, collapsing into my residence in a heap.

That bastard Narumi would come by as usual, meddling like a dim-witted grandmother and repeating his admonitions.

“You’re such a fool.”
“I don’t know how beautiful Ms. Tamako is, but if she were a natural beauty, it might be worth chasing after her as you do.”
“But if you think carefully, such value does not exist.”

“Born with it, no matter what…”

“That’s the crux of it.”
“Look here, Ms. Tamako has been close with Professor Seo for a long time, you know.”
“According to someone’s account, Ms. Tamako wasn’t such a beauty before—in fact, her looks were rather plain.”
“She suddenly transformed into a beauty as if reborn, and doesn’t that situation just reek of Professor Seo’s cosmetic surgery?”
“To such an artificial beauty, you fool are foolishly devoting your pure life and soul.”
“To put it another way, Ms. Tamako is like one of those printed beauty illustrations you find in magazine frontispieces.”
“You’re an utter idiot for being obsessed with such things.”

“...”

These words stung.
I remained in a foul mood all day.
That bastard Narumi had shattered to pieces the idol I’d passionately loved.
From then on, I found myself driven to be even more foul-tempered.
Now that things had come to this, my affection for Tamako had no choice but to cool—yet conversely, my resentment toward her act of gifting my legs to that detested man could not help but blaze even more fiercely.

“Alright, if it’s come to this—even if I become a skeleton—I must capture that detested man…”

Around that time, I had just heard from a certain source that Tamako and a man who seemed to be that detested one had been seen walking side by side at the night stalls on K Slope, so I devised a new investigative method and resolved to put it into action immediately.
The plan was for me to join the night stalls on K Slope and set up a palmistry shop.
And settling myself firmly in place, I prepared to keep watch for those two.

After obtaining approval from the Night Stall Committee, I began my street-side business at a dimly lit corner of Shōben Yokochō Alley on the wind-lashed slope—clad in a black fedora and an equally black trailing overcoat, holding my customary old-fashioned lantern.
The first two or three days were rather enjoyable for me, but as four or five days passed, I came to realize this business was by no means easy.
No—rather, I realized it was work that required considerable physical strength to perform.
However, I did not yield.

I caught a cold, but I didn’t rest.
Sniffling back watery snot, I kept pushing through each successive night.
Yet for all that effort, no results showed themselves; my frustration mounted daily.
Tamako and that loathsome man must have been handling everything with remarkable cunning.

But suddenly, an opportunity fell from the heavens and landed right before me.
It was Friday evening, four weeks since I had begun this street-side business, when for some reason my eye caught a gentleman approaching from up the slope—clutching a briefcase under his arm, walking with the unsteady gait of one slightly inebriated.

“Ah, Professor Seo!”

Ah—without question, Professor Seo.
At that instant, a realization flashed through my mind like lightning.

(Ah—this professor might be the one.
I’d carelessly overlooked his connection to Tamako.
Yes—this Professor Seo might be who received my legs from Tamako.
Good—I’ll verify it now.)

My heart danced.
What followed became pure frenzy.
No fear remained, no shame either.
Like a rabid dog I burst from the alleyway and seized Professor Seo's arm.
I dragged him scraping into the side street.
With my hidden knife I split his trousers upward in one tearing motion.
Exposing those long shins beneath, I flashed my work flashlight and scrutinized every hair on his legs.

“Agh! H-help me!”

The professor let out an unprofessor-like scream and called for help then. This was bad. In an instant, a wave of people came rushing toward us. Realizing this was bad, I threw down both the lantern and flashlight there, dashed headlong through the dark alley, and fled into even deeper darkness.

Even as I fled, I felt cheerful. Beneath Professor Seo’s trousers—the man I had suspected—the legs I had sold off, those unforgettable legs, were not discovered. Thus Professor Seo was not the man I had been desperately searching for.

That was all well and good—but who on earth was this detested man who still refused to show himself? What kind of face did that man have?

Endless Hell

Crawling away in this wretched state, I eventually grew fearful of pursuit; that night I knocked on Narumi's door and had him put me up.

Narumi listened to my account of events and sternly rebuked that violent act.
And he told me, “No matter what happens tonight, I’ll handle it properly, so you can rest easy and sleep.”
Thanks to that, I was able to sleep soundly and peacefully.

Morning came.
When the window grew bright, I reflexively jumped up.
I wasn't startled.
Narumi was snoring soundly beside me, and the house was his residence.
The pursuers had ultimately been unable to apprehend me.
I felt relieved.

I went to the dining room and had breakfast with Narumi.
After that, I went to his room, gathered around the electric heater, and smoked tobacco.

At that moment, Narumi suddenly brought up something strange.

“Hey, Yamikawa.”
“Tell me—is Director Wakamiya Donchiki of the Geishunkan actually a real person?”

My voice caught in my throat, and for a moment I couldn't respond.

“Why ask something like that all of a sudden?”

“But I’ve looked all over for Wakamiya and still haven’t managed to meet him.”

“It’s just that your search methods are lacking.”

“No, I don’t think that’s the case. From what I’ve investigated, many people know the name Geishunkan and have heard of Dr. Wakamiya Donchiki, but none know its exact location, nor has anyone actually met Dr. Wakamiya. Don’t you find this strange? So what explanation will you give to satisfy me?”

“Ha ha ha ha!”

I laughed out loud.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re being absurdly skeptical.”
“Would an eminent figure like Dr. Wakamiya lower himself to public appearances?”
“The sheer volume of known stories about Dr. Wakamiya and the Geishunkan alone constitutes irrefutable proof of their existence, wouldn’t you agree?”
“The doctor hasn’t time to meet anyone except those personally seeking body transaction surgeries.”
“His schedule overflows with work, not to mention his ongoing pursuit of more profound research.”

“Then take me to meet Dr. Wakamiya.”

“No good. Since you’re not hoping for such surgery, it’s still no good.”

“Anyway, I have grave doubts.”
“Fine. If that’s how it is, I’ll resolve this doubt through other means.”

From this conversation, I grew flustered and left Narumi's residence.

And I sank even deeper into a desolate life.

To sustain my lifestyle and seek stimulation, I had no choice but to increasingly sell off my own body parts.
I had resolved never to sell anything above the neck, but now even that last bastion had fallen—selling my eyeballs, all my teeth, even my keen ears, until finally I sold off the very skin of my face with hair still attached.
And so I became someone mortally terrified of mirrors.
Truly, I had reached the utmost depths of wretchedness.

While the complete alteration of my face was indeed a lonely affair, there were also certain conveniences that came with it.
That is, those who had known me before could no longer recognize me as myself now.
Even Narumi would pass right by my side in town without noticing.
I felt greatly relieved.

One day, I unexpectedly encountered a problem.
It was none other than this.
Thus, with my appearance altered, my voice changed, and even my limbs and organs utterly transformed, the question now was whether this current self could truly be called my original self.
That I had endured such hardships was ultimately because my original self had been something dear.
However, upon careful consideration, I realized that almost nothing of my original self remained.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that all that remained was the brain matter.
Everything else was borrowed.
A shoddy assemblage of other people’s parts.
Whether such a haphazard assemblage truly still possessed any worth loving was profoundly doubtful.
This problem was, surprisingly, a profoundly serious one.
I deeply regretted having broached this problem.
But having broached it, there was nothing more I could do now.
There was no solution but to solve the problem itself.

Does my current self, like my original self, possess any worth loving?

Ah, how terrifying.
I had committed a monstrous error.
While I had labored so intensely to love myself, unknowingly, I had instead utterly destroyed that very self.
Could there possibly be such a wretched turn of events?
For me, it was a great tragedy, but for people in general, it would no doubt be an uproariously funny comedy.

I had completely lost all confidence and hope.
I had suddenly become an ailing body.
My mind and body grew increasingly feeble by the day.
My thinking ability began to markedly decline.
Memory was fading away.
At this rate, even the brain matter—the last asset of my original self—had begun to decay, and would soon be reduced to absolute nothingness.
This new premonition, transformed into an oppressive terror, tormented every inch of my body.

I spent an entire day poring over medical texts, researching the section titled "The Rejuvenation Method and Eternal Life."
The conclusion I reached through this process was as follows.

“Though superficial rejuvenation may be achieved through replacement of organs and limbs, the senescence of brain cells cannot be counteracted—thus, acquisition of eternal life ultimately proves impossible.”

I couldn't help feeling disappointed, but soon I suddenly noticed that this medical text was quite outdated in its edition.
So this time, I tried searching through recent medical journals from cover to cover.
There, I discovered a favorable new theory documented within.

“...The recent remarkable developments in cerebral surgery have transitioned various problems previously deemed impossible into the realm of feasibility.”
“By grafting senescent brain cells onto young, vigorous brain cells, a groundbreaking rejuvenation is achieved.”
“In such cases, transplanting into brain cells of lower intelligence proves relatively easier surgically.”

This passage brought me new vitality.
Grateful.
The aging of my brain cells was not entirely without treatment.
I must somehow discover a means to rejuvenate myself.
How then could I best achieve this?

After exhausting all possible considerations, I finally conceived a plan.
That was an extremely outlandish solution.
However, given my current circumstances, there was no helping it.

Reader, do not be appalled.
I conceived the idea of extracting the senescent cerebral cortex—the last remaining asset of my original self that could still persist within my body—and transplanting it into the brain of a young gorilla kept confined at the zoo.
What a magnificent idea this was!
Thus, I could make the immeasurable vitality of that vigorous gorilla my own.

I pleaded with Dr. Wakamiya and requested this drastic cerebral surgery.
Fortunately, Dr. Wakamiya graciously consented with great sympathy and performed the surgery exactly as I requested.
After how many days had passed—when I came to my senses—I found myself transformed into a gorilla.
And so I came to live out my days in unprecedented peace of mind and vigorous energy, observing crowds of zoo visitors from within my cage.
Cherry blossom petals fluttered down from above my cage.
I felt rapture in this first peaceful life since being born.

I had been praying that such a joyful life would continue without end, but one day, still early in my time at the zoo, my joyous feelings were abruptly torn away. It happened when I looked up at a solitary visitor standing before my cage. At that instant, I involuntarily emitted a rasping cry and bared my fangs.

The man—the man standing before my cage, peering intently inside—his face, shoulders, build, limbs, his entire figure—wasn’t every part of him the exact likeness of my former, original self?
In that instant, I realized everything.

(So it's you... The one who started with my legs and collected both arms, organs, face—everything—
You—you've stolen everything that was mine.
If you wanted to buy them, fine—but must you gather every last piece?
To stand there flaunting it before my cage—outrageous.
...But know this—you haven't taken all from me yet.
The brain cells.
The vital brain cells remain right here with me.
Ah ha—what a pity for you)

I clutched my stomach and roared with laughter.
Then the man, seeming to comprehend my words, suddenly contorted his face into a terrifying visage and advanced toward my cage.

“Ah, dangerous!”

Someone restrained him from behind. Oh, Narumi. I found it strange that Narumi was tailing such a con man, but I had no time to dwell on it. That fraudulent bastard grabbed the cage bars, shaking them violently as he hurled incomprehensible abuse at me. A surge of irritation shot through me. I suddenly sprang up, lunged toward the cage, pinned down that detestable man's petty face with both hands, and bit down hard. Ah, what bliss.

× × ×

The above is the memoir of Patient ○○○○ in Room 34.

The same individual was scheduled to undergo cerebral surgery under my scalpel today; however, Mr. ○○○○'s deranged mental state had become self-evident through this memoir. Yet this was not a psychiatric illness but rather stemmed from compression damage sustained in the brain due to shrapnel—it was believed cerebral surgery would likely lead to recovery.

Furthermore, while this memoir constituted an extremely intriguing document that vividly demonstrated the patient's encephalopathy, when read without prior knowledge of Mr. ○○○○'s condition, it could be received as a coherent narrative. However, most events within this story had never existed in reality.

Namely, according to the account of Mr. ○○○○'s devoted close friend Mr. Narumi Saburō, the following interesting facts have come to light.

1. The woman known as Tamako does not exist in reality, arising entirely from Yamikawa Yoshito's delusions.

2. Neither Keishunkan nor Mr. Wakamiya Donchiki exist in reality.
However, there are grounds to believe that the entity known as Dr. Wakamiya was in fact Yamikawa Yoshito himself disguised in a dual role—for if one reverses the characters of "Yamikawa Yoshito," it becomes "Wakamiya Donchiki," which we consider to be a novelist-like artifice.

3. Yamikawa Yoshito was not someone who could even sell off a single leg.
Much less does the transplantation of his remaining brain cells into a zoo gorilla belong to anything but pure delusional fiction.
It is indeed factual that one day I took him out for a walk; entered the zoo beneath flurrying fallen blossoms; arrived before the gorilla cage; and when he attempted to approach the gorilla cage, I—startled—restrained him.

I never cease praying that the unfortunate Yamikawa Yoshito—through Professor Seo's meticulous surgery—might be restored to his pre-war state of soundness.