Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Hayashi Fumiko

1. Mitsusheru was a woman who always wanted to eat fish.

Whenever she passed by the fishmonger's, she would sniff at the lemon pieces lined up on the oyster baskets or poke at the white cut surface of a shark endlessly, yet never buy anything—all the while muttering something under her breath as she stood rooted to the spot.

Mitsusheru was born in Southern France, her hair having a dark southern hue.

“Little miss! My secret weeping.”

When Mitsusheru came to Kanoko’s apartment, putting on this crying display was her specialty.

“Not your secret weeping again—this is getting tiresome.”

Mitsusheru leaned on Kanoko’s half-painted easel and immersed herself in talk of secret weeping.

“Will you send a letter to Mr. Kawashita? Please tell him ‘Mitsuchan’s secret weeping.’”

The song of secret weeping that Mitsusheru sang must have been a memory left behind by this Kawashita. From time to time, as if suddenly remembering, Mitsusheru would speak of Kawashita and break into song.

The rain falls and falls

On Jōga Island's rocky shore,

Dull greenish rain falls.

Is the rain pearls?

Is it the mist of dawn?

Or my secret weeping?

Though her singing came in broken fragments, Mitsusheru's piercing voice would occasionally rouse Kanoko's homesickness.

"Would you stop that? You can't keep interrupting my work..."

Then Mitsusheru, having stopped singing, flipped over onto the bed in the corner of the room,

“Mr. Kawashita was such a man who loved eating fish—when he bought sea bream, he’d slice it into wave-shaped pieces to eat raw or simmer it red with Japanese sauce to serve me.”

When Mitsusheru spoke earnestly about the Eastern man she had parted from, Kanoko too softened and began to inquire.

“So this Kawashita… where in Japan is he from?”

“Mr. Kawashita runs a hotel in Kobe, I hear—he already has a proper wife.
I am terribly sad.”

Kanoko, still new to Parisian life, couldn’t fully grasp how genuine this foreign woman’s words truly were. Yet seeing how Mitsusheru would speak of Kawashita’s secret weeping each time she visited, it became clear he must have been a man who left deep marks on her heart.

2. The days when she left the window open grew more frequent.

Kanoko loved Paris’s prolonged twilight that lingered until around nine o’clock at night and often walked the narrow paths between Montparnasse’s cemeteries.

Along the crushed stone footpath following the cemetery wall, grasses resembling dragon’s beard grew thickly.
The marronnier flowers scattered like white ants as an intensely feminine twilight persisted.

And then—when the tree-lined path finally ended and she emerged onto the tram street—Kanoko found herself recalling Mitsusheru’s Shimogashima song while jangling the keys in her pocket.

"I wonder if I should go visit Mitsusheru or something…"

Having come to Paris with no particular friends, Kanoko walked through the prolonged twilight, finding herself at a loss while enjoying the click-clack of her own footsteps.

There was a gray girls' school; from within the stone wall, young leaves overflowed into the twilight-hued thoroughfare, rustling as they brushed against each other.
A group of Apache gang members with red handkerchiefs around their necks cast capricious glances at Kanoko as they called out "Good evening, miss" and passed by.

For Kanoko, who lived as if subsisting on nothing but paint dregs, the auditory landscape of Parisian twilight that reached her ears was an irresistibly refreshing and pleasant thing.

Could the Nanga-style Lablade have captured this sound of Parisian twilight within his canvas? Do the waists of Modigliani's women not intimately know Paris's dusk?—How delightfully refreshing it would feel to paint while consciously attuned to this prolonged twilight's auditory essence.

Somehow, these long twilights were mysterious hours perfectly suited to induce contemplation.

In a backstreet near Place Saint-Mitsusheru stood Mitsusheru’s attic room.
The neighborhood had grown thoroughly sooty, filled with buildings that seemed to shrink from view.
Mitsusheru’s apartment was among these structures an especially decrepit stone edifice, its concierge entrance barred by a large door that clattered like a fertilizer warehouse gate.
Kanoko arched her neck painfully backward to whistle at Mitsusheru’s glass window, receiving in reply a “pew-pew-pew-pew” whistle from some unseen rooftop aperture.

The cobblestones were cool and pleasant, perhaps, giving off a feline odor as some black creature squirmed along the stone path.

“Good evening!”
“Are you well?”
“Yeah, I’m just great!”

Mitsusheru, like a Spaniol doll, wore black lace over her head and mandarin-orange-colored pantaloons. Her arms were bared and glistening with sweat, and whether it was because of the night, Mitsusheru’s body emitted a pungent odor.

3. In the room, a girl of about eighteen lay flipped over on the bed, humming a tune.

On the white wall hung several brittle doll heads, casting black shadows like scrub brushes.
The girl on the bed wore nothing but sky-blue pajamas with legs bare and slid down onto the floor.

“Good evening!”

In a blunt voice, the girl in pajamas gently raised her head.

A girl with a strikingly beautiful forehead—compared to Mitsusheru’s Spanish-style warmth, this one possessed a voice as hollow and cold as northern winds.

“I haven’t eaten since this morning…”

Before Kanoko had even taken off her half-coat, Mitsusheru placed a hand on her small shoulder and spoke.

“Hey, could you spare a little?”

As this was a regular occurrence, Kanoko deftly pulled a single ten-franc note from her pocket and placed it on the side table, whereupon Mitsusheru—like a child—planted a kiss on Kanoko’s cheek and waved a très gentil about.

Whether it was the air, the room smelled sweetly cloying, and through the skylight, the moon shone.

On the slanting white wall were displayed several photographs of men.

When seen from afar, they looked just like animal photographs, and Kanoko let out a childishly wry smile within her heart.

Mitsusheru, now holding ten francs, bounded down the stone steps—devoid of an elevator—like a spring-propelled puppy, her footsteps echoing like the hollow knock of a wooden fish.

When left alone with Kanoko, the bleak quiet returned like wind whistling through their bodies. Then the girl stopped humming, stretched her pale arm, and twisted the switch by the pillow to turn on the light.

Kanoko, who had been vacantly blank, must have thought—since moonlight was streaming into this small attic room—that the lamp had been lit long ago.

“Oh, the light wasn’t on—what a splendid moon it’s been.”

The flow of lamplight illuminated the girl's face like a beautiful fruit for a time.

“Oh yes… It was such a lovely moon! Because it’s been dangling in that skylight for five hours now… Mitsusheru and I had all sorts of fantasies—Mitsusheru kept talking about eggs since she hasn’t eaten any in ages—and I thought it all felt just like gold coins…”

“Mitsusheru isn’t modeling today…”

“Even if I do make the rounds… Five hours a week isn’t worth getting out of bed for… Honestly… Paris is crawling with models these days—nowadays many work both as prostitutes and models… There’s just no way to scrape by.”

The woman, appearing bored, inserted her ten long fingers into her ash-blonde hair and began coughing with rasping hacks.

She was a translucent woman with sickness festering somewhere in her body.—Kanoko stood up silently, opened the dust-covered gramophone in the corner of the room, and turned the crank with creaking sounds.

“I ate and ate my way here.”

In Mitsusheru’s hands were a halved long loaf of bread and a small package.

From inside the package emerged tomatoes pickled in vinegar, chicken meat, red-shelled eggs, and such.

“What a feast, isn’t it?—Come on, Roro, dig in.”

After placing some change on the table—the exact amount unclear—Mitsusheru and Roro, the woman on the bed, bit into their bread as eagerly as waterfowl.

“Oh, my eyes might go blind—it’s so delicious! Yesterday at the café, I only had one croissant… And then Roro went and fought with that person she likes—”

Kanoko did not find the sight of the women eating particularly beautiful.
Listening in silence to the women’s talk while a torn harmonium record—like the clamor of a silkworm market—played.

“Mitsusheru, even eating bores me.”

“Oh now, don’t talk such nonsense! You were practically fainting from hunger earlier!”

“Being hungry and eating are entirely separate matters.”

“You’re just as bad—utterly tiresome, just like Kanoko here! True enough we’re starving today, but who’s to say we won’t stumble upon some foreigner by tomorrow?”

Mitsusheru stood before the warped mirror as if suddenly remembering something and began adjusting her hairstyle.

“Ah, when will I ever have a room with carpets, a bathroom, bouquets, and proper teacups for black tea?”

“Mitsusheru keeps saying such things, but even if you had all that, life would still be dull.”

“Oh please! Life’s just like that—what do you even mean by 'life'? Your ideal life would be going off to the East to lounge around growing out your nails—”

Roro stood up laughing wordlessly, shed her blue pajamas, and threw on a man’s faded coat over her single undergarment.

“Are you leaving…”

“Yeah.”

Roro stood before the washstand applying a water brush to her hair while gazing listlessly at her own face in the mirror—a face resembling yellow plum blossoms.

“Well then, I’ll head back too—let me walk you.”

Kanoko closed the gramophone lid and glanced at her wristwatch while observing Roro’s reflection.

“Shall we three take a short walk?”

As they prepared to go outside, the room abruptly filled with liveliness. Mitsusheru began singing “Secret Weeping” as though she’d just recalled it.

Each lost in their own thoughts, the three women muttered to themselves while laughing together with an uncannily lighthearted air.

“Giggle giggle… Why, it seems I do have two loves now.”

“Liar! In my chest dwell two women.”

Roro continued making her dust-laden remarks as usual.
Laughing shrilly, Mitsusheru latched the bed’s lock.

They descended seven stone steps.

Indeed, just as Mitsusheru had called it my heaven, it felt exactly like descending a mountain path.

“Ah, if only France could hold another Revolutionary Festival.”

What had she recalled? Roro stopped and said.

5. The nature of women was more trivial than wind, more insubstantial than air.

The more they walked, the more the wind seeped into their very hearts, making them strangely loath to return home… wanting to whisper to unfamiliar men’s voices… Mitsusheru and Roro kept daubing silver lip rouge onto their lips again and again as they strode down the pavement.

“Hey Kanoko, why don’t we go to the dance hall?”

Even had Mitsusheru not voiced such things, the hearts of the three women had already grown too muddled and sweet.

“Toré, bon!”

Roro buoyantly swayed her body with rumba-like hip movements, making the two women laugh.

By the time they walked toward the back of the Panthéon, they had already encountered two patrol units.
The night must have grown quite late, for the pale moon had darkened, and the dome of the Panthéon looked eerily like the head of a mechanical doll painted by Chirico.
Abruptly, Roro too—perhaps recalling something—

“Paris is such a sensual city. When you’re in your room, your heart ferments like that, yet when you walk through it, you just want to plunge headlong into ruin.”

Mitsusheru and Kanoko were in complete agreement.

Could this provocative element be flowing through the winds that blew through Parisian streets?—each time they turned a corner, they saw several pairs kissing.

The dance hall interior had grown quite pungent.
An Italian woman bared above the navel was taking turns dancing with two or three sailors.
When only Kanoko took a seat, the remaining two women, already linking arms, vanished into the dance still wearing their coats.
Mitsusheru’s tall figure, crowned with a Cossack hat, stood out beautifully even in this dance hall, and two or three Sorbonne students kept their eyes fixed solely on her group.

When the music paused, Mitsusheru and Roro stood drinking the beer Kanoko had ordered, whispering with laughter, “My, there are quite a lot of penniless folks here, aren’t there?”

Kanoko, who had been bored, found herself dancing with Mitsusheru and Roro before long.
“Don’t you think this feeling of dancing and forgetting everything feels pure?”
“When you’re like this, I believe you could accomplish something grand.”
As she danced, Roro occasionally pressed kisses to the bouquet of violets at Kanoko’s breast.

It happened during one of her countless dances with Roro.

“Look! Mitsusheru mocks students yet got herself caught by one...”

At a table near the entrance, Mitsusheru was talking to a man, laughing with apparent interest.
The man still looked like a student, wearing an ill-fitting suit as he laughed, constantly flashing his white teeth.
He was likely a northern man without an ill-favored face, his skin pale and clear, the gray shirt suiting him remarkably well.

Before long, Mitsusheru entered into the dance linking arms with the young man and, touching Roro and Kanoko’s shoulders, quickly introduced him as she passed by.

“Wait—let me introduce my fiancé! Those women are my sisters… We’ll celebrate properly later!”

Roro, for her part, gave Kanoko’s hand a brief squeeze while chuckling to herself, “That’s positively savage.”

“As expected of Mitsusheru’s taste—he’s beautiful. Makes me a bit jealous.”

Every so often, Roro would show Mitsusheru a wink over Kanoko’s shoulder while sticking out her tongue playfully.

6. At the travel agencies, summer travel pamphlets suddenly began appearing in the storefronts.

The figures of women stood out beautifully, those in sea-blue fashions moving beneath the lush horse chestnut trees like fish through water.
On café terraces, dappled-striped beach umbrellas snapped open all at once, transforming Paris into an alpine meadow in bloom.

Kanoko had lived with still life for a full month since parting with Mitsusheru and the others, but continuing with still life for a month had made her feel its dustiness, and she had become completely worn out by these featureless, motionless, soundless materials.

“I’m getting sick of this. Maybe I should hire Mitsusheru to paint costumes, or perhaps…”

As she pondered such things, the green of the landscape suddenly reflected onto her palette, and Kanoko lost all composure within her heart.

Flusteredly flipping through the map, she checked trains heading toward countryside areas that seemed promising for scenery.

“Fontainebleau Forest wouldn’t be bad—or perhaps I should extend the route and try going to the Brittany seaside…”

Rather than using expensive models and growing impatient from constantly having to reposition them, she’d paint landscapes—Kanoko took off her shoes and was already briskly tossing pantaloons and chemises into her luggage.

“Today…”

Outside the door, someone was knocking steadily.

“Who is it?”

“Roro.”

Startled, Kanoko opened the door. “My, what an unexpected guest!” she exclaimed, grasping Roro’s hand.

“Did you feel inclined?”

“Oh, I felt too inclined...”

“My, how dreadful!”

“I came regarding that dreadful matter.”

“This dreadful matter?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm...”

“Let me drink a full glass of water.”

“There’s some lemonade.”

“Then just a little—how considerate.”

“Because there are no gentlemen here.”

“That’s why we’re substitutes... They say Oriental men and women are fashioned differently.”

“Was it Mitsusheru’s gossiping that told you?”

She had been impressed.

The sweetness of Roro that had been seen in daylight or under lamplight was not visible here at all. Though it was summer, Roro’s forehead looked as cold as snow, and the grayish hair escaping from her beret reeked terribly of life’s desolation.

“I carry the role of an anti-Joan of Arc, you see—do you understand?”

7. In the cluttered old quarter of the 14th arrondissement stood the headquarters of the Paris Communist Party.

Viewed from the outside, the structure resembled a Sunday school one might see in the Japanese countryside, and passersby would occasionally forget this shabby building as they walked past.
This headquarters, which tended to be forgotten even during the day—who came here at night—the streetlight in front of the building never had its lamp lit, so it passed by without attracting almost anyone’s attention.
And yet this Communist Party headquarters—today light streamed brilliantly from within, and two policemen cloaked like angels emerged from the dark basement gripping the arm of a hatless woman, leading her out into the thoroughfare.

The illuminated second-floor windows stood wide open; these were likely the remaining party members. In practiced Russian, they applauded and sang for this single hatless woman being led away, their madhouse commotion continuing unabated until she turned the street corner. The policeman keeping watch at the gate merely glanced up at the second floor occasionally and chuckled, until a darkness quieter than before settled over everything.

Kanoko placed the items entrusted by Roro into her bag alongside the pantaloons and directed the automobile toward Place Saint-Mitsusheru's Swallow Street.

It was as though stars were falling beautifully.

A drunken student kept stretching up, trying to hook his beret onto the top of a streetlight.
Kanoko got out of the car in front of that streetlight and was guided by the man with the red handkerchief into the Apache-guarded prison-like cabaret.

On a stage resembling a mandarin orange crate, a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl wearing carrot-like long boots danced the "Begin, Begin" dance.

The guitar and harmonium echoed against the stone ceiling, their cool sound as if from the depths of water, while both women and men grew thoroughly drunk within the haze of tobacco smoke.

A long-faced, bearded man—this was the man Kanoko had been searching for.
But immediately, in Kanoko's eyes, the man's face began to smile.
Leaning against the table under the lantern as if asleep, he drank a cocktail with a plum in it.

For a short while, they sat in silence at a single table.
But when Kanoko suddenly remembered and produced her cigarette, the bearded man—who had seemed asleep—flusteredly brought a briquet’s flame to light it for her.

That was the opportunity.

Kanoko had been assigned such an insignificant role by Roro, from whom she had parted.

“Thank you! Roro has been deported, you know.”

When he received a bundle of documents from Kanoko, the bearded man lowered his cold, beautiful eyes.

“Isn’t Roro French?”

“She’s a mixed-race child born in Estonia, you know.”

“Oh, Estonia—is that so?”

“In three or four years, she’ll come back again—do you find joy in painting…”

“Joy…”

Kanoko fell silent, as though the dust in her heart had been stirred.

The bearded man ordered another plum cocktail and got Kanoko a sweet Sanzanno.

"What is Japan's ×××× like?"
"Just what your eyes have seen will suffice."

But Kanoko, who had grown up properly as a bourgeois daughter, had not been interested in such matters.

“What it’s like—I’ve only read about it in the newspapers, you know.”

Then, the bearded man abruptly changed the subject,

“How much does the fare to Japan cost—by ship, of course…”

“Well, second class would be around seventy pounds, I wonder…”

“Second class—that’s quite costly, isn’t it? —You’re rather fortunate in your circumstances, I must say. From what Roro told me, you’re like moss soaking up water.”
“Please study various things.”
“Who do you prefer in painting?—I too adore painting and excel at its theory, but it’s rather…”

No one knew of their meeting.

Kanoko peered into a different world, and that night her heart pounded violently.

Associating green from her palette, her passion for tracing trains on maps having long since faded, Kanoko once more spent several days continuing to grope over still lifes amidst the dust.

Roro had now been deported; Mitsusheru, according to rumors among other models, had become thoroughly involved with a Sorbonne humanities student—and Kanoko, remaining alone, had at some point come to doubt the paintings she created.

What’s the point of painting all these flowers and apples—what use could they possibly have?

She wanted to snap her brushes in two over and over.

No matter how many times she wrote home saying she wanted to return, the replies that came only said that since she had gone to all the trouble of coming to Paris, she should finish what she started and then come back.
"What am I supposed to finish—"

The Japanese painters in Paris mostly envied Kanoko.

Kanoko took advantage of this atmosphere, devoting herself to painting with leisurely ease and caprice, but ever since seeing the bearded man with beautiful eyes at the prison-like cabaret, her days of absentmindedly pondering like clouds over the sea grew more frequent.

Occasionally, when the mood struck her, she would venture out to the castle district of the 14th arrondissement, but the door of the Communist Party headquarters remained perpetually closed, with no human voices audible.

She had tried visiting Mitsusheru’s apartment several times as well, but each time it was empty, and she often couldn’t meet her.
Even when they occasionally met, she always seemed restless and hurried, her entire face appearing heavily armored.

“What’s wrong—”

In this state, she came to strangely see herself as a wealthy, idle girl—Kanoko found herself utterly overwhelmed by her own emotions.

The night of dancing at the July Revolutionary Festival—when they had laughed about finding fiancés to flaunt to each other—passed, and for Kanoko, days of lukewarm idleness continued.

Possessed by still lifes as if by a malignant disease—once she resigned herself to this realization, Kanoko, for a change of direction, began going out every day with her portfolio to sketch on the cobblestones along the Seine.

“Since coming to Paris, this pile-up of feelings is giving me neurasthenia.”

When she thought this and looked out at the city, the impression of Paris she had glimpsed at Lyon Station blurred and faded, transforming into the most businesslike of scenes.

Kanoko puffed out her chest and took a deep breath.

She planted both feet like a boy and lifted her portfolio.

When she narrowed her eyes, the Pont Saint-Michel bridge along with the trees and buildings stood vividly beautiful. Let me just capture Paris as conveyed through the auditory essence of black conte—that should be enough for my work. If they want to make me a revolutionary, they should've had me born into a less fortunate household. I came from wealth that couldn't be drained in a year or two—why must I force myself to find meaninglessness in beautiful things? If asked "Does it bring you joy?" I'll answer clearly in a loud voice: "It brings me great joy"—.

“Hello!”

It was when she was in the process of drawing the glasses-shaped bridge. A large white palm tapped Kanoko’s back. Startled, Kanoko turned around—and there before her eyes stood that clear-eyed, beautiful bearded man. However, his beard had been neatly removed, and he now possessed a beauty closer to that of a young man.

“Well, it’s been a while…”

“I could see you clearly from up on the bridge—still enjoying yourself as always.”

“Enjoyment…”

The words she had so confidently declared—“I paint with enjoyment”—had vanished before this man like bubbles.

So when Kanoko deliberately changed the subject and asked about Roro, the man laughed and replied that in three or four short years, Roro would already be sleeping beneath Paris’s roofs.

Indolent Roro had already sunk into Paris and was sleeping somewhere in its streets.—

Raindrops pitter-pattered against the tip of her nose.

The wind impatiently spread the horse chestnut thicket like an umbrella, and already the rain clouds had split open, the rainfall's onslaught stinging against foreheads.

“Oh!”

The man draped a black raincoat over Kanoko’s head and, as if embracing her, took shelter beneath the bridge.

“I’m shocked…”

“It’s okay—it’ll pass through soon. I’ve always loved Parisian rain.”

The two of them sat on the sewer pipe beneath the bridge, watching the rain strum the cobblestones like a banjo.

A puppy, soaked through, crouched beneath their feet.

The river current suddenly turned milky and sped up.

“Cold?”

Bewildered by the sudden unexpected kindness in his words, Kanoko whirled around—only for a large beam-like palm to embrace her shoulder as the man’s lips sealed her rain-drenched ones.

For a time, they quietly felt their four lips within their hearts.
Kanoko, like a long-neglected infant, felt tears well up as a voice surged from her chest as if thrust upward.

A flood of countless, varied words surged forth, yet they were all words from the Oriental homeland.

When the two parted their lips, the rain had already mostly ceased, and the fishing boy who had taken shelter there began walking along the riverbank once more.

The two remained silent.
They remained silent—there was nothing to do but breathe this air thick with emotion.

As the rain passed through, the row of marronnier trees, like furled umbrellas, shook off the water with a snap, their green becoming even more vivid and beautiful than before.

“Where are you going now?”

The man was walking ahead.

“From here—I’m going to die.”

“You’re going to die?”

“Yeah—this is it!”

The man pulled out the muzzle of a black pistol from his pocket and showed it.

10. Kanoko was on the verge of madness.

Within Kanoko—who had been cultivated like a hothouse rose—a flaming giraffe raced through her veins.

She sat up in bed and flipped through the Paris Evening News again and again, yet his face still glared up at her.
This morning she had just sheltered from the rain with that man, and now here lay “Blue Russia Youth Prime Minister Assassination”—
Beneath the bold headline stared a photograph of the youth who had renounced red and white to declare himself blue.

“Oh, that’s him—that’s him—”

Kanoko clutched at empty air and wept.

“I’m going off to die.”

That man who had parted so casually after uttering those words—it had never crossed her mind he would draw near the French Prime Minister at the painting exhibition venue and try to fire a pistol.

Kanoko could neither sit still nor remain standing.

“That’s it! If I go to Mitsusheru’s place, I should find out where Roro is and learn what’s happening.”

Kanoko kept complaining that the car was moving too slowly, insistently tapping on the glass door and irritating the driver.

——That prolonged twilight.

Probably around nine o'clock, the curfew bell came flowing down from the temple's pagoda.

Getting out of the car, Kanoko tried whistling “Pyu-pyu, pyu-pyu” to call Mitsusheru, but there was no response.

The gatekeeper said bluntly, “She hasn’t come down since this morning,” and that was all.

“She isn’t sick or anything?”

“Poverty’s the illness here—if she’s got some young man around, I suppose that poverty don’t matter none. But I ain’t building my house on air either—I’ve had enough of this.”

As usual, Mitsusheru was also in trouble.

If that was how things stood, then why hadn't she come to borrow it? Groping her way up step by step through the dimness was heartrending for Kanoko.

In the low-ceilinged attic hallway, she finally struck a match and searched for the number.

“Mitsusheru!”

“........”

“Good evening!”

“........”

“Good evening!”

“U........”

“Mitsusheru! It’s me, Kanoko! Open up a bit!”

“........”

“I know you’re there! This isn’t some trivial visit—open up!”

“U........”

“Good evening! Mitsusheru”

Kanoko mustered her patience against the faint moaning coming from within.

The door remained firmly shut.

“I’m not the gatekeeper!”

“U........”

At last, Kanoko began pounding on the door like a madwoman.
Then, unexpectedly, the neighboring room opened, and a beautiful woman with silver hair beckoned Kanoko in a hushed voice, saying, “Mademoiselle.”
“Um... Something’s terribly wrong. There’s been an unbearable gas smell for a while now. If you’re her friend, would you kindly witness this and have the gatekeeper open it?”

When she said that, the hallway strangely reeked of gas. Continuing to speak a bit louder made her break into a sweat, leaving her unsteady and about to collapse.

“You see? It’s just as I said…”

Kanoko and the silver-haired woman pressed their noses against Mitsusheru’s door and sniffed.

“Good evening!”

“Good evening, Madame!”

“Ugh... ugh...”

It was the voice of someone groaning.
It was Mitsusheru’s voice.

Neither Kanoko nor the silver-haired woman could comprehend how they had tumbled down from the seventh floor to the gatekeeper’s post.
As the gatekeeper ran up to the seventh floor with his key ring, Kanoko felt as though the blood vessels in her head had snapped with a sharp sound.

11. Beneath the small triangular roof, Mitsusheru lay sleeping on her bed.
Beneath the washstand lay that beautiful young man whom she had once seen at the dance hall.

“Fools… Utterly shameless!”

The gatekeeper—whose every spark of anger immediately threatened to overwhelm his sixth sense, making his whole body bristle—threw open every window there was and bellowed:
People came rushing up from downstairs in surprise.

“Mitsusheru! It’s me, Kanoko!”

But perhaps they had been a step too late—neither Mitsusheru, who had always been so cheerful, nor the young man ever drew breath again.

In the room, there remained only Roro’s old water brush and a disquieting doll’s head hanging; the only things that were beautifully clean were their two bodies and two pairs of shoes.
The photos on the wall had also been removed at some point, and how much Mitsusheru’s life had been filled with anguish over the past month—the room was far too empty.

"When will I ever have a room with a rug, bouquets, and teacups?" Mitsusheru used to say!

Kanoko went out to the street to buy the bouquet Mitsusheru had so wanted before the police arrived.

But the long twilight finally darkened, steeped in brooding.
All the shops were closed.
Inside the glass doors of the flower shop, elegant roses and orchids were arranged, but here too the screen door was down.
Kanoko felt an odd hollowness in her chest.

Taking out the bunch of roses she had bought for a still life from the room, she felt a coolness like after crying and hurried into the street.

“Everyone is lonely—Mitsusheru, Roro, that man—”

That man who fired the pistol must have been tormented about where to direct his heart until the moment he pulled the trigger.
Even if he used my lips momentarily as an outlet for that anguish, what reason could there be to condemn him?
There was no need to weep and implore.
If I simply paint for my own pleasure, wouldn’t that suffice? Kanoko raised her eyebrows faintly.
The white roses that had perfumed the room for two days scattered across the pavement like fluttering butterflies.

Is the rain pearls?
Is it the dawn mist?
Or perhaps my
secret weeping?

The Eastern man who had loved Mitsusheru and taught her the rain song might now be spreading out a No. 100-sized canvas to paint his wife’s nude.

Everything is the secret weeping of loneliness.

Kanoko had removed her white leather gloves and was hailing a blue taxi befitting a funeral of the heart.