Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

After returning from his trip to Oku-Nikko, Makino Ryoichi spent four or five days leisurely organizing his correspondence and drafting study plans. Then, first thing, he went to visit Kawamura-san.

Kawamura-san was already nearing fifty years old, with neither wife nor children, living alone while employing an elderly maidservant.
He was a scholar, but it was unclear what his specialty was or what constituted his main profession.
His study was packed with various books; he wrote all sorts of pieces—poems, critiques, essays—for magazines and newspapers, and worked part-time at a private university.
He possessed both an extreme seriousness and a careless disregard.
Ryoichi both respected and liked this Kawamura-san.
He took pride in being distantly related to him.

It was a windless, overcast day, with a penetrating chill that seemed ready to turn into snow.
Ryoichi turned up the collar of his mantle and hurried to Kawamura-san’s house.

The elderly maidservant came out.
After thinking for a moment, she answered.

“He’s not here right now.”
“Try calling later.”

This old maidservant was always playing dumb, but it was strange that she told me to call later when he wasn't even home.
But Ryoichi kept walking outside for a while, then entered the first café he came across, killed some time, and tried calling.
The response was that he could come right away.

When he went to see him, Kawamura-san was lying in bed running a fever.
His thin cheeks were covered in a scraggly beard.

"So you were home after all. I was told you were out, so I had trouble killing time."

As Ryoichi complained discontentedly, Kawamura-san smiled and listened.

“Well, it’s been arranged that everyone should call if I’m out.”
“It’s because I’ve made it a rule not to meet troublesome people…”

Ryoichi gave a wry smile.
By nature, Kawamura-san disliked the telephone and would complain there was nothing as inconvenient as this.
Even if you locked up tight, even late at night, that blasted telephone would come jangling in out of nowhere and start talking.
He maintained it turned the home into a public thoroughfare.
If you suggested he should stop using something so disagreeable, he would retort that depending on how you used it, it could still prove more useful than people.
It must have been this reasoning that let him wield it so effectively during illnesses.

At that moment, a young woman came in with tea.
She was someone he had never seen before—and moreover, didn't seem like an ordinary woman.
Her Western-style coiffure curled with absurd elegance, sleek strands framing a flamboyant black-trimmed kimono.
Her nape stood cleanly exposed, facial skin unnaturally smooth.
Something like sunlight dappling through leaves glimmered in her eyes, mingling with faint perfume to assail Ryoichi.

As Ryoichi watched the woman’s retreating figure with a puzzled expression, Kawamura-san remarked nonchalantly.

“She’s just a woman helping out.”

“Is your condition very serious?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. You came all this way worrying about me, but it’s just a cold. A slight fever. It’s just around nine point five degrees, and even that should go down soon.”

It was just a regular water pillow, and there was no ice applied either. His cheeks were just slightly flushed and warm, but he was otherwise lively and clear-headed. Just as he was strong with alcohol, he was strong with fever—he laughed that he could handle up to forty degrees without issue. And he wanted to hear about Ryoichi’s travels.

“Oku-Nikko... That area’s nice, from Senjogahara to Yunoko Onsen. You know there’s a hot spring lake there? From the edges, boiling water gushes out and fills the whole surface. Then from the lake’s bottom, clear water springs up. That’s where they cultivate Hime trout. Going fishing there’s delightful—you take a boat out and catch plenty. When you hook one, you slowly reel it in while letting it play around. Since the lake’s surface is scalding water, by the time it reaches your hands, the trout’s perfectly poached. Then you eat it with vinegar soy sauce, see...”

Thinking it must be Lake Yunoko, Ryoichi smiled and listened along, then talked about skiing and bears.

“You probably can’t get all the way deeper in because of the snow, huh?” said Kawamura-san.
“You should go see it when there’s no snow—beyond those mountains lies an interesting place.
As it turns out, hot springs are gushing out there, but for some reason, the minerals dissolved in the hot springs separate out, solidify into rock-like masses, gradually pile higher, and have now formed something the size of a small mountain.
The hot springs gush forth endlessly, the minerals continue to solidify, and every day it grows taller—in a few years, it will become an attraction unparalleled in the world.
The minerals in the hot spring—what they call ‘yu no hana’—keep accumulating until they form something like Mount Fuji, growing taller day by day while hot springs gush from its summit…”
“Isn’t it splendid?”

Ryoichi thought it must be Kamata’s Fountain Pagoda, but by now he was growing irritated.
He felt both patronized like a child and suspicious that Kawamura-san might still be fever-delirious.
An odd restlessness took hold of him, compounded by the young beautiful woman who kept appearing with sweets and coffee only to withdraw again—her comings and goings strangely preoccupying him.
Finally, he resolved to leave.

At that moment, Kawamura-san suddenly made a serious face.

“Actually, I have a request to make of you…”

“Yes? What is it?”

“I need around five thousand yen... If you know any place that might lend to someone like me—with no collateral at all, purely on trust—could you inquire for me? It might prove difficult…”

Ryoichi’s eyes widened.

“Is this true? Like your earlier... stories about lakes and mountains…”

“No—this is a serious matter.”
“I absolutely need five thousand yen.”
“If it can’t be done, I must steel myself for that impossibility.”

Ryoichi fell into thought.

“Is it urgent?”

"The sooner the better, but there's no fixed deadline."

“Well, I don’t have any connections that would lend five thousand yen on my word alone… but I’ll consider it.”

“Ah, please—if you can get five thousand yen, it would truly save me.”

Promising he’d do what he could, Ryoichi took his leave.
In the entranceway, the woman in the black collar helped him into his cloak with practiced hands.

II

Ryoichi felt as if he'd been tricked by a fox spirit.
While Kawamura-san had always been an elusive figure, there remained his 37.5-degree fever, the black-collared woman, that derisive anecdote, and now this five thousand yen...
Yet this five thousand yen matter alone carried an air of genuine urgency.
Coming from someone who'd never before so much as mentioned money, there must have been dire circumstances indeed.

Ryoichi considered possible leads.
There was only one person he could approach about it.
That was his uncle, who also knew Kawamura-san.
But since such talk would be difficult before his aunt and family members, he decided to visit the company.
Having other business anyway, he waited a day; when he called to inquire, they told him to come around four o'clock.

The Marunouchi office district, around four o'clock in winter, was already devoid of sunlight, with departing company employees scattered about, steeped in a hurried mood. Feeling as if he had come to some foreign country, Ryoichi entered his uncle’s company but was made to wait in the reception room for about thirty minutes. After that, he was shown to his uncle’s office.

When Ryoichi awkwardly settled into the leather chair before the large table covered in threadbare woolen cloth, he found himself at a loss for how to broach the matter. His uncle toyed with some printed materials while gazing intently at Ryoichi through his large tortoiseshell-framed glasses. The fact that Ryoichi—who rarely showed his face—had moreover requested to meet at the company must have aroused his uncle's curiosity. Even so, he spoke in a gentle tone about various things. Finally, he asked what the matter was.

“I’ve come to ask a small favor…”

“So, regarding that matter…”

“Uncle, um... you know Kawamura-san quite well, don’t you?”

“Kawamura Kotaro? I know him.”

At that moment, Uncle stared fixedly at Ryoichi with a probing gaze.
Unable to endure that gaze, Ryoichi briefly stated his business: Kawamura-san had found himself in dire circumstances and wished to borrow five thousand yen...

For a considerable time, Uncle remained silent.
Ryoichi grew uneasy.

“Do you know what circumstances require five thousand yen?”

Ryoichi couldn't respond.

"Do you know what led him to such desperate circumstances?"

Ryoichi couldn’t answer that either.

For a while, the silence continued.

“Without being able to explain any circumstances and just asking for five thousand yen—I’m appalled at you too.”
“Well, putting that aside—what exactly do you think of Kawamura-san?”

“…………”

“That man is a madman.”

Ryoichi widened his eyes.
He had only met him two days before.
He had been lying down with a cold.

“Though admittedly, there’s nothing conspicuously wrong at first glance—hard to tell—but that type’s actually the most troublesome to handle.”

“Uncle,” Ryoichi leaned forward.
“Could you explain in more detail?”

“Hahaha, now you want me to explain?
Well, come over here now.”

He called Ryoichi to a nearby chair and then began to speak.
In the elevated area of Hongo Shinmeicho, there stands an exceptionally magnificent Japanese Chinquapin tree.
The ancient trunk measured over two jō in circumference at its base—approximately six meters—with branches extending horizontally from about three meters up, spreading across a hundred tsubo of space—some three hundred thirty square meters—its dense foliage forming a domed canopy.
A rare specimen designated as a municipal preservation tree.
Yet the entire three hundred tsubo plot containing it had been cleared and put up for sale.
Mr. Kawamura negotiated with the owner to lease only the central hundred fifty tsubo surrounding the tree.
Though details remain unclear, some say it was actually an installment purchase agreement.
Regardless of terms—whether through annual payments or exorbitant rent—he secured rights to that hundred fifty tsubo and erected a wooden fence around it.
This began last summer—since then he’s visited nearly daily, spending an hour or two idling beneath that tree before returning home.
That’s all he does.
Yet this alone surpasses rational behavior—and confidentially speaking—he’s allegedly been inciting some youth to commit outrageous acts, then probing their mental states as research material.
True or not, such conduct defies sanity.
Moreover, he’s taken up with a certain geisha—installing her in his home, parading her about town—reducing his finances to utter chaos.
Considering everything, one can only conclude he’s mad.”

“So given all that, since you’re close with that man, why not try discreetly investigating his situation?”
“I too respect him as a scholar, so when the time comes, I’ll try to think of something.”

Ryoichi couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
Regarding the geisha situation, he could guess it involved that woman, but when it came to matters like the Japanese Chinquapin tree and the young man—despite his frequent visits—he hadn’t seen any trace of such things.
It might be some misunderstanding, and he would have to investigate a bit more—Ryoichi found himself growing concerned.

And with that matter settled, Ryoichi accompanied his uncle for Chinese food as invited.
Since Uncle was fond of aged rice wine, Ryoichi had become fairly drunk while keeping him company.

After parting with his uncle around eight o'clock, Ryoichi went around to Kawamura-san's place.

Kawamura-san’s house stood slightly recessed from the street; after advancing five or six ken from the road, one immediately came upon a Western-style door. As Ryoichi started to enter, behind the stone gatepost faintly illuminated by the eaves light stood a tall, lanky youth—hatless, with arms folded over his coat. Remembering his uncle’s words, Ryoichi felt uneasy and temporarily walked past. When he returned after some time to check, the youth remained standing in the same posture as before. Ryoichi grimaced but resolutely went inside.

“Hello…”

When a voice called out and he turned around, the youth glanced sideways at Ryoichi and spoke.

"Are you here to visit Mr. Kawamura?"

Ryoichi remained silent.

“He’s not home at the moment, you know.”

As Ryoichi remained silent, the youth approached while staring at him with a piercing gaze.

“He should return in another hour or so.”
“I came to see the Professor too.”
“There’s no point waiting here—why don’t we go have some tea instead?”

Since the man didn’t seem particularly dangerous, Ryoichi decided to accompany him—or perhaps this was the man Uncle had mentioned.
Or perhaps this was a man Mr. Kawamura disliked meeting—in which case, diverting him would undoubtedly be for Mr. Kawamura’s benefit.

Ryoichi started walking alongside him.
He silently led Ryoichi along as though his destination had already been decided.
A sun-tanned profile with disheveled long hair.
A fixed gaze; a threadbare coat; old boots splitting at the seams—and he walked with an unnervingly quick pace.

A good while later, he suddenly said.

“What kind of relationship do you have with Mr. Kawamura?”

Ryoichi answered truthfully.
“Since we’re distant relatives who’ve known each other for years, I sometimes visit,” he said.

“So you’re Mr. Makino?”

Having his name spoken，Ryoichi felt both slight surprise and relief.
If this young man knew his name that well，he must be quite close to Mr. Kawamura.

From the elevated area of Hongo Hayashicho where Mr. Kawamura's house stood, Ryoichi followed him toward Ueno Hirokoji. Along the way, he gradually began staring at the faces of passersby—and before long was speaking to him.

"...That matter of likes and dislikes is decisive—something beyond anyone's control. When you ride a train, don't people clearly divide into those they like and dislike at first glance? It's not determined by things like their nature or social standing. It's the face. Just the facial features. And not whether they're beautiful or ugly, or light-skinned or dark. There's something more fundamental. Cats hate dogs' faces, dogs hate cats' faces—you see? That's why I decided to research this by photographing human faces. Carrying a small Kodak against my chest, I judge whether I like or dislike people coming toward me, then take their photo. By collecting these photos and arranging them from most-liked to most-disliked, you can conduct foundational research—you understand? Common photos are mostly fakes, so proper research requires first observing the real thing before capturing authentic images—there's no other way. The degrees vary—subtle distinctions, you see. But photographing faces is surprisingly troublesome work requiring skill. If I'm careless, they pass by or turn away. Some interfere outright. The government—envious of my research—seems to have secretly ordered police detectives to surveil me constantly. The one I hate most—terrified of having his face captured—informed on me. But I'll get that shot without fail. Until I photograph that bastard's face, I'll keep pushing forward."

“Without that photograph, my research won’t be complete.”
“Kawamura-san supports this research of mine and gives me all sorts of advice, but there’s just one thing that doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Everything is infinite—there exists nothing finite within the universe.”
“Therefore, he says any research—if not confined within certain boundaries—will never reach completion.”
“He says my research is nearly complete too.”
“However, that is a cowardly attitude for a researcher.”
“Actually, there’s a bastard interfering with my research.”
“There’s this bastard I hate most.”
“He’s real.”
“If I can get just one shot of that bastard, that’s all I need.”
“Everything beyond that is fictional—products of imagination—so it makes sense to set boundaries there.”
“It’s just one step away….”

Ryoichi was slightly thrown off.
I wanted to ask about those he liked, but not knowing what might happen, remained silent.
The young man prattled on alone.
After pausing and deliberating, he seemed content merely stating his own opinions and didn't seek Ryoichi's input.

Exiting from Ike no Hata to Kiridoshi below and proceeding to the maze-like back alley beyond it, the young man came to a stop in front of a small house.
On the front hung a sign reading “Dressmaking.”

“Here it is.”

The young man opened the lattice door and ushered Ryoichi inside.
Then he went upstairs alone.
Ryoichi stood dumbfounded in the shadow of the shoji screen on the earthen floor and waited.

III

In a six-tatami tea room, on the other side of a long brazier, a slender-shouldered woman was sewing. She wore plain, well-worn clothing, her scant hair carelessly tied up—a woman of about forty-two or forty-three. Her neatly defined eyebrows and sunken cheeks carried a certain lonely elegance, while the roundness of her chin revealed a gentle kindness. She appeared to be the sort of person who had lived a comfortable life until middle age, when sudden misfortune struck and reduced her circumstances, leading her to accept her fate with quiet resignation.

She welcomed the figure of the young man who had bounded in with a gentle gaze as if looking at a small child. The young man shrugged off his coat and sat down with his knees properly aligned before him. “I’m home.” Though the suit was old and threadbare, his appearance in it now seemed wholesomely good-natured—utterly different from when he had been walking outside.

The woman pushed aside the gaudy red sewing project to the side and was making tea.

“That was quick.”

“They’re out.”
“Oh,” came the disinterested reply.
“I should have waited, but…”
At that moment, as if remembering Ryoichi for the first time, he hurriedly stood up.

“Please, come in…”

Following Shigeki’s words, Ryoichi went up. With a curt “Mother,” he led him to a side room.

It was also a six-tatami room, with a desk and bookshelf beneath a high window, and alongside the bookshelf stood a large work table.
On the work table, numerous bottles and bowls were crowded together, and a single large red light bulb lay rolled out.
Probably there he would develop photographs.

He took out a black box from the closet. Inside were a great number of photographs. He began arranging them one by one on the tatami mats.

“Shigeki-san?”

At the reproachful voice, he looked up and saw his mother peeking from behind the sliding door.

“Ah, this person is a relative of Kawamura-san. He’s my ally.”

“Oh, is that so?” His mother bowed politely. “We’ve been constantly indebted to the professor… Shigeki is always…”

Her words faltered as she looked down, eyes brimming with tears.
Ryoichi struggled to formulate a proper response.

Shigeki had already begun arranging small photographs across the tatami, apparently oblivious to his mother's presence.
As the photographs multiplied across the floor, they seemed to push the mother backward until she silently withdrew behind the sliding screen.

A bizarre spectacle materialized on the stained old mats.
Frontal views, profiles, half-faces—these tiny snapshots formed ranks that somehow animated each visage, imbuing them with cryptic significance.
What astonished more was the methodical harmony governing their placement.
Most remarkably, though both sexes mingled in this gallery of faces, their features blended so seamlessly within the unified composition that gender distinctions nearly dissolved.

“First, the initial one… that one there.”

What Shigeki pointed at with trembling fingertips was the photograph hanging on the wall above the desk.
A half-body portrait of a woman in a formal kimono… Upon closer inspection, it was his mother from several years prior.
Then, when he turned his eyes to the tatami mats, they transitioned from those resembling his mother to increasingly different ones…
Foreheads forlorn, around the cheeks drifted something fragile and nervous, noses inconspicuous, chins possessing a gentle roundness.
Then gradually, the heads acquired a certain heaviness, the noses became prominent, and the chins grew pointed.
And furthermore, the foreheads grew compact, the noses sturdier, the cheeks puffed out, the chins shorter…
It was not based on standards of beauty but must have followed some special order.
And as for the final one… that particular photograph he claimed to detest most—if the first was his mother, then who in the world could this last one be?
Ryoichi peered cautiously at Shigeki’s face.
That face—was it somewhere around the middle of the whole arrangement…?

Shigeki crossed his arms and stared at the corner of the room.
His eyes reflected nothing.
He seemed either deeply engrossed in thought or simply blankly dazed—it was one or the other.

In the adjacent room too, there was no sound of what his mother might be doing.
The row of photographic faces rose before him, and Ryoichi averted his eyes with an eerie feeling.

When the lattice door at the front opened with an absurdly loud noise, Ryoichi let out a sigh of relief.
At that moment, Shigeki looked around as if waking from a dream and began hurriedly tidying up the photographs with a frightened expression.
In a panic as though suddenly ambushed by a thief, his gaze turned wild and his hands trembled.

At the entrance, the mother was responding to someone when a voice soon called out for Shigeki.
Shigeki didn’t reply. After putting away the photographs into their box and returning it to the cupboard, he went out.
Ryoichi was left behind alone and sat vacantly.
After some time passed, Shigeki rushed back in and whispered into his ear.

“Kawamura-san is here.”
“He might actually come.”
“Let’s leave right away.”

He whispered as though sharing a secret and stared fixedly into Ryoichi’s face.

“Please keep this secret from my mother. Because it would be bad if she worries.”

Ryoichi looked back at his face but could discern nothing.
In any case, he stood up and immediately went to check the entrance, but there was no one there.

When he returned, the mother greeted him politely.

“Are you already leaving? I’m afraid I haven’t been able to attend to you properly…”
“Ah… When you meet the professor, please do convey my regards.”
“To think I’ve received such a feast as well…”

There was what appeared to be a boxed meal placed there.

"Well then, I'll walk you there."
"I'll go have some tea first—it'll take a little while."

Shigeki said this to his mother and had already gone ahead to the entrance.

Ryoichi followed after.
After walking a short distance, Shigeki whispered in his ear.

“For Kawamura-san’s sake, I would throw away my life. Please rest assured.”

Ryoichi had no idea what any of this meant.
Shigeki's feet moved with ridiculous speed.
Half-jogging to keep up, Ryoichi gave up thinking.
If I go to Uncle's place, they call Kawamura-san a madman; if I visit Kawamura-san's place, I meet a young man who seems slightly unhinged; and then there's those strange photographs...
And Kawamura-san—who'd been bedridden with a 39.5°C fever until the day before yesterday—where could he possibly have come here from?
And what sort of thing was about to happen...
Ryoichi had become lost in the vague outlines and resolved to simply follow events as they unfolded.

The night seemed to have grown quite late, and the sparse figures of passersby were hunching their shoulders.
Wrapping his white, drawn breath in the mantle's collar, he quickened his pace so as not to fall behind Shigeki.

IV

After turning two or three street corners, Shigeki came to a halt before a small but tidy restaurant in a side street leading to the tram line. While peering inside and hesitating, he turned toward Ryoichi and whispered.

“Here it is. Please go ask for Kawamura-san.”

“Yes… but your name…”

“You’re asking about my name?”

Shigeki stared fixedly at Ryoichi’s face.
There was the same sharp, eerie light in his eyes as when they had met in front of Kawamura-san’s house.

“Don’t you already know?”
“I’m Takeyama Shigeki.”

Ryoichi entered inside and asked the shoe clerk about Kawamura-san.
They had the maid who came out convey their names.
The reply told them to come up.

Ryoichi urged Takeyama Shigeki forward and entered the tatami room.

Kawamura-san seemed drunk.
He looked at their faces and made a wild-eyed expression.

“Well now, this is unusual. Are you two acquainted? Since when did you two get so close? You shouldn’t go getting cozy behind my back.”

Ryoichi felt somewhat let down. Takeyama’s words had made him anticipate some incident, but Kawamura-san was just sitting there alone, leisurely drinking sake. Kawamura-san, who had been bedridden with a high fever until the day before yesterday, had shaved his beard and now looked clean-shaven and refreshed, appearing vigorous and youthful. That was the extent of the unusual occurrence.

However, the dialogue between Takeyama and Kawamura-san had turned into something like a riddle.
When the maid left, Takeyama clenched his fist and began to speak.

“Have they already left?”

“Who... was the companion?”

“Yes.”

“They left a while ago.
As you can see, I’m alone.”

“That’s true.”

After confirming once more, Takeyama looked around the room.

“Were they spies?”

“No—that’s not it.”

“Hargon?”

“No—
“It’s someone you don’t know.”

“Then everything’s all right?”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Both the research and the chinquapin tree are safe?”

“Of course they’re safe.
“Rest assured.
“I’ll personally guarantee it.”

Takeyama let out a breath as if relieved and smiled warmly.

“If anything happens, I’ll be here, so there’s no need to worry.”

“Hahaha, there’s no need to fret so much.”

“However, Professor, since you’re so carefree, you’ll get caught off guard if you let your guard down.”
“I’m being careful about that.”

“Please be careful.”

“Ah, it’s fine. Well, drink up.”

And strangely enough, as Takeyama settled down, Kawamura-san himself grew visibly concerned and began discreetly observing Takeyama’s demeanor.
Simultaneously, he sank into deep contemplation, a melancholic shadow clouding his eyes.

“How’s your mother…?”

“Well… Mother…”

Having started to speak, Takeyama suddenly seemed to remember something, straightened up with formality, bowed, and expressed thanks for the earlier delivered item.

“She was truly pleased.
“She was on the verge of tears.”
“That’s right—she’s waiting for me.”
“I suppose there’s nothing else we need to discuss.”

“Well, go ahead and have a drink.”

“I’ll come again. My mother is waiting.”

Then Takeyama looked around the room once more, but the moment he stood up, he fixed his eyes on the staggered shelves and strode resolutely toward them.
At that moment, Kawamura-san's face abruptly changed color.

“You mustn’t do that!”

When Kawamura-san shouted and stood rigidly, Takeyama’s hand held a small cloth-wrapped bundle from the staggered shelves.

In the abruptness of the moment, Ryoichi couldn’t comprehend what was happening, but by the time Kawamura-san sank resignedly back into his seat, the cloth wrapping in Takeyama’s hand had come undone, revealing a small pistol that glistened coldly. His eyes had stiffened into complete expressionlessness like a madman’s, their depths harboring unfathomable suspicion.

“Now sit down, and I’ll tell you.”

In Kawamura-san’s voice, unlike his earlier flustered demeanor, there was now something that carried an intimidating quality.

Takeyama gripped the pistol and silently took his seat.

“That is something I received from a certain person earlier. That person had experienced something terribly sad and even tried to commit suicide. However, upon reconsidering, they entrusted the now-unneeded pistol to me for safekeeping. To me, this is an important entrusted item. It’s not a lie. If you trust me, then by that trust I will not lie. Believe me.”

Kawamura-san’s words carried heartfelt sincerity. Struck by this, Takeyama hung his head quietly. Then he firmly raised his face.

“Please let me keep it.”

The two of them stared intently into each other's eyes.
It was a meeting where soul and soul directly touched.

“Very well,” Kawamura-san said after a while. “In return, you’ll swear to me, won’t you? Swear to me with your entire being. That you’ll never use it and simply keep it in your possession…”

“I understand perfectly. I swear.”

“Will you swear it even on your feelings toward your mother?”

“Yes.”

It was a scene so solemn it could even be called sacred.
Ryoichi was profoundly moved and sat perfectly still.
Kawamura-san and Takeyama remained silent for a long time.
Eventually, Takeyama suddenly rolled his eyes rapidly.

“Since my mother is waiting, I should go take care of her.”

And now he, having regained his composure, casually wrapped the pistol along with what appeared to be bullets in a cloth bundle and shoved it into his pocket.

“Give my regards to your mother.”

“Yes.”

Takeyama wore a bright smile and left.

Kawamura-san watched his retreating figure and fell completely silent, lost in thought.
His usual carefree manner had vanished entirely.
Ryoichi found himself unable to speak and stared at the fire in the brazier.
After some time had passed, Kawamura-san took a deep breath, picked up his sake cup, and gazed wonderingly at Ryoichi.

“Have you been acquainted with Takeyama from before?”

In Kawamura-san's eyes floated a serene hue.
Seeing this, Ryoichi formed a faint smile.

"We only became acquainted today."

"Today..."

"Yes."

There, Ryoichi recounted the events from when he had encountered Takeyama in front of Kawamura-san’s house in broad strokes.

"I see. And what do you think of that man?"

"What do you mean…?"

"Do you think he’s honest, or rather, a bit strange—"

Ryoichi hesitated in his reply.
And suddenly, he recalled his uncle’s words about Kawamura-san.

“Admittedly, if you call him strange—well, I’m the same way myself… I’ve been told it’s not the act of a sane person.”

“By whom?”

“I believe it was your uncle… and he offered various opinions.”

Ryoichi stared blankly.
Kawamura-san wore a bitter smile.

“Actually… today, I went to consult Uncle.”

“Consultation, you say…”

Ryoichi reluctantly confessed he had gone to ask Uncle for help securing funds and that it hadn’t worked out.

Kawamura-san burst into laughter.
It was a buoyant laugh.

“That’s no good.
I’d already gone and said my piece first, you see.
Truly, it’s a strange twist of fate.
You went to Uncle’s place, then met Takeyama again…”

Kawamura-san’s face suddenly clouded over. And adopted an extremely serious tone.

“This must be some kind of fate. I’ll tell you everything. But it’s late, and we’d be a bother here... Never mind that—come along with me.”

Kawamura-san settled the bill. At that moment, the maid said quietly:

“Um... They should be arriving shortly...”

“Never mind that. I have some business to discuss with this person and need to make another stop—we’ll handle it over there…”

“Very well, I will inform them accordingly.”

Ryoichi grew concerned.
“Are you expecting someone?”
“Hmm… You could say there is and there isn’t…”
Kawamura-san laughed brightly.

5

The place Ryoichi was taken to was a room in a meeting house. In the quiet, settled room, he listened to Kawamura-san’s story while drinking sake.

"In the faculty office at the school where I worked, there was a young attendant," Kawamura began. "It later came to light that he had only finished his second year of middle school and had long abandoned his studies, but after becoming a school attendant, he had started studying again with plans to take the middle school graduation certification exam. Whenever he found spare moments, he would do nothing but read books."

I had taken a liking to the young man.
He seemed to like me as well—there had even been an occasion when he asked me to sign a small poetry collection I’d published.
As for the poems and essays I occasionally wrote, he had apparently been reading every one he could find.

“Human likes and dislikes are such peculiar things—you can’t quite pinpoint how they form.
It was still a vague matter of feeling.”
I had developed an amorphous fondness for him, and he seemed to harbor a similar nebulous affection toward me.
Though I only visited three times a week, through occasional conversations and answering his minor questions, we gradually grew quite close.

And then, after about a year had passed—though he hadn’t been particularly cheerful to begin with—he suddenly became noticeably pale, nervous, and melancholic.
"I often cautioned him to look after his health."
He would answer that nothing was wrong and wear a desolate smile.
He began taking more frequent absences.

One day, I was shocked to see his condition.
I had exactly an hour to spare and was reading in the professor’s office, but during that entire time, he sat leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, staring vacantly into space.
His face was bristling; if touched, it would likely feel as cold as stone.
He remained motionless in the same position indefinitely.
In those eyes, fixed on empty space and seeing nothing, an eerie light drifted...

I couldn’t bear it any longer and asked what was wrong.
He looked up with a quizzical expression but suddenly broke into a warm smile.
And he said everything was hopeless.
The way he laughed and the words he spoke were completely mismatched, utterly lacking in harmony.
"If there's something worrying you, why not open up and talk about it?" I said kindly.
He thought for a while, then suddenly stood up and said, "Will you listen?" in an intense tone.

That evening, as promised, I met up with him, took him to a poultry restaurant, treated him to dinner, and listened to his story.
The story’s tone was somewhat odd and had inconsistencies here and there, but it was generally along the following lines.

Until about ten years prior, his family had been quite wealthy, with his father holding the position of section chief at a department store, but through some trivial incident, he became deeply involved with an Akasaka geisha and fell into a chaotic life.
After being driven to desperation, he fled to Osaka with the woman and somehow managed to live there for about a year.
After that—though the details are unclear—whether she had returned to being a geisha or found work somewhere else, it seems she wasn’t living a respectable life; she took a lover and ceased to care for him.
He flew into a rage, tried to kill the woman, failed, and was arrested.

"You can likely imagine what effects such a father's conduct had on him and his mother's lives.
Debt and disgrace... While making their way through society with constant shame, he managed to complete through his second year of middle school, but could no longer continue his studies beyond that.
They relocated repeatedly, like fugitives escaping under cover of night.
Still, he and his mother kept living together.
They simply couldn't manage separate lives.
How fiercely that maternal bond burned amidst such wretchedness should be evident to anyone with a shred of empathy.
With scarcely any relatives to seek aid from, their hearts grew only more tightly intertwined."

The mother did needlework while he commuted to a small factory as an office apprentice.
Before long he contracted pleurisy.
Dismissal and convalescence...
Life fell to rock bottom.
Through neighbors' assistance they secured a loan.
That debt became another seed of misfortune.
When he recovered enough to work as an attendant at my school—newly determined—he began studying for middle school equivalency exams just as his mother breathed relief—the six-month loan of two hundred yen carried crushing terms: twenty-five sen daily interest after deadline under guise of damages.
How could they manage fifteen yen monthly interest on two hundred yen?
Then came coercive remarriage proposals for his mother.
Remarriage sounded respectable but meant ambiguous arrangements with an old man—neither proper mistress nor caretaker.
She neared forty.
That face retaining refined youthfulness proved her undoing.
Society never overlooks exploitable value.

She steeled her final resolve.
And to him, she subtly revealed her intentions.
At such a moment, what words she chose and how she phrased them would be incomprehensible to ordinary people.
He told me about that time in these words:

“Mother didn’t show even a hint of sadness.
She revealed no trace of anguish in her gaze.
Then in a tone one might use for casual gossip, she said human fate resembles being swept along a vast, deep river—that struggling only hastens drowning, so perhaps it’s better to stay still and let the current carry you.
Without stating anything concrete, she spoke in a way that was both easily grasped and profoundly resonant.
She would discuss it like someone else’s rumor before adding softly—‘Ah, but we’re no different.’
With just that single phrase, the entire conversation revealed itself to be about us alone.
As she spoke those words, wisps of hair at her temples trembled faintly…”

"I could vividly see that scene before my eyes.
Mother was about to trample underfoot the chastity she had maintained until now—chastity preserved not for a husband’s sake but for the child’s honor—all for mere money.
That struck deep into the child’s heart.
And yet, through those long years of misery, this was the mother he had relied on completely, loved utterly, and harbored feelings toward that bordered on worship."

He did not sleep a wink that night, reconsidering everything from his childhood.
And then, he gazed intently at his mother’s face, exhausted from overwhelming grief as she slept.
It was a divine face.

He quietly got up, took out an old document case, and examined the photos inside.
There were several photos of Mother, and about two photos of Father.
He compared them.
Then, he fetched some nails and stabbed them repeatedly into every contour and facial line of Father’s photographs.
The two photographs were riddled with nail holes and torn to pieces.
He felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare.

Suddenly, an unearthly cry rang out, jolting him back to awareness.
Mother was crying.
When she saw his face as he turned around, she threw herself facedown on the tatami mat and wept.
It was less a sound of sorrow than one of anguish too raw to endure.

“I’ve never seen that manner of crying before,” he said.

From that moment on, in his mind, the images of his father and mother seem to have separated into completely opposed entities. Even his mother's visage had now detached itself from her actual face. And so he came to fixate on those two apparitions—one a demon, the other surely a god.

"If I phrase it this way," he said, "you must already know who he is."
"That Takeyama Shigeki."

After hearing Takeyama's story, I visited that house. It appeared to be a wretched existence. At that time, since I had some financial leeway, I paid off their high-interest debt. Then, since Takeyama's house happened to be near the hanamachi district in that area, I explained the situation to an acquainted geisha and arranged for her to handle tasks like mending everyday clothes and tending to trivial items as much as possible.

The mother managed to get by with that arrangement, but the real problem was Takeyama.
He could no longer manage his school attendant job nor continue his studies.
There didn’t appear to be any particular mental abnormalities, but from that point onward, he became unlike ordinary people.
At first, he holed up at home drawing nothing but clumsy pictures, but one day he snatched the month-end money and returned with a camera.
Then came that photo obsession—exactly as you’ve seen.
It was his theoretical framework: research into how facial features correlate with personal preferences.

Carrying around a camera and indiscriminately photographing people’s faces, he had gotten into trouble with the police on two occasions.
After receiving word from his mother, I bailed him out but struggled with explaining that he wasn’t truly mentally ill.
What’s more, persuading him to abandon that so-called research of his proved utterly beyond my power.
Having been taken to the police and such, he began conjuring absurd delusions—convincing himself there were those trying to interfere with his research—and came to believe he was constantly being targeted by spies.

Waiting for the right moment... or waiting for some opportunity... Believing there was no other way beyond those options, I resolved to bide my time by occasionally assisting the mother's livelihood—though only in minor ways.

Now, to return the story a bit earlier in time, alongside Takeyama’s spy delusion came to be depicted another phantom.

Six

On the cliff of Shinmeicho, at what was once the estate of Mr. Kido, there stood an exceptionally magnificent Japanese chinquapin tree.
"That... Oh, you've already heard about it from Uncle?"
"That’s actually what this is about."
"During a walk, it suddenly caught my eye—I came to like it immensely."
"Falling in love with a tree might seem absurd, but even the ancients deified trees and stones as gods."

After that, I often found myself walking toward that Japanese chinquapin tree. Seeing that youthful giant tree—its branches and leaves spreading over about a hundred tsubo in thick clusters—brought an indescribable joy. As time passed, I gradually grew desirous of it, so I went to see the person managing the over three hundred tsubo of vacant land around there and tentatively inquired about its price—though of course I couldn’t possibly buy it. However, when I met the son of that household—what do you think happened? He was a graduate of my school, and moreover, a man I had taught.

I was ushered into the sitting room where we discussed various matters. When I jokingly mentioned my fondness for that Japanese chinquapin tree, they said something like "Since it's you, Professor..." and before I knew it, I ended up renting about 120 tsubo of land around the tree under the condition that it would last until a buyer was found for the property.
And because children would enter to climb the tree and play—likely damaging it—I installed barbed wire around it and had gardeners tend to it... To others, it must have seemed like madness.
But you can’t imagine how happy I was.
Moreover, since the tree had been designated as a municipal preservation tree—meaning individuals couldn’t freely dispose of it—there would hardly be any buyers for such restricted land. This also meant that if I were to purchase it, they would provide considerable convenience.
I ultimately didn’t have the money to buy it, but the mere possibility of being able to purchase it brought me joyful hope.

I went to see that Japanese chinquapin tree with the anticipation one feels when meeting a lover. When I unlocked the gate and entered, the tree's branches spread just above my head, their foliage extending across a hundred tsubo. This emerald sanctuary held dappled sunlight dancing across its leafy ceiling while cool winds swept in from Tabata's distant heights.

One day when I chanced upon Takeyama during my walk, thinking it might steady his mind, I brought him to the tree. His jubilation proved extraordinary indeed. He kept circling the trunk with his hands, scaling lower branches, and staring transfixed at the verdant canopy above—perpetually marveling. His eyes shone with vitality like those newly awakened.

I gave him a spare key to the gate so he could enter whenever he wanted.
He seemed to go nearly every day.
And around that time, his mental condition was at its most stable.

Until then, things had been fine, but in truth, even while engaging in such carefree activities, my financial situation was already teetering on collapse.
It's somewhat embarrassing to admit, but I'd grown unexpectedly close to a geisha named Kosuzu in this area, and we'd fallen so deeply in love there was no turning back.
This had me spending considerable sums of money.
Then came certain social obligations - I'd become joint guarantor for a substantial debt that fell entirely on me when the principal passed away.
With just my school salary and meager writing income, I could no longer make ends meet.
I couldn't even pay the interest on my debts.
So I resolved to cut costs even regarding the Japanese Chinquapin tree - though its monthly rent was only thirty or forty yen.

I pitied Takeyama, but there was nothing to be done—and given my obligations toward his mother as well—so I lied, hinting obliquely that a buyer had seemingly been found for the Japanese Chinquapin tree's land and that we might have to vacate it soon.

Takeyama reacted with extreme sensitivity to that hint.
With his characteristically sharp, suspicion-laden gaze, he began asking all sorts of questions.
As I kept evading with half-hearted replies, he eventually declared on his own that he had identified the man trying to purchase the Japanese Chinquapin tree's land.

“It’s a man named Harano Kentaro.”

I was dumbfounded.
I didn’t know where he lived or what kind of man he was, but he kept insisting it was someone named Harano Kentaro.
He later came to abbreviate that to “Haragon” when saying it.

“It’s an important tree. We mustn’t hand it over to someone like Haragon! If we lose, I’ll hang myself from that tree.”

He truly seemed capable of going through with it.
This was dangerous, I thought.
With the resolve that I wouldn't lose to someone like Haragon, I actually consulted your Uncle about money and tried other avenues as well.

Harano Kentaro... That name, whose origin remained unclear, became not just for Takeyama but for me as well, a sort of adversarial presence.
And I went so far as to seriously consider purchasing the land with the Japanese Chinquapin tree through an annual installment plan.

Such shifts in emotion might be beyond your understanding, but they are common occurrences for those in love.
The relationship between Kosuzu and me might as well have been called love.
We were constantly thinking of each other.
If I couldn't go out to her, she would come to my house.
We never grew tired of each other.
I had never before known a love that lasted this long.
She was, of course, a woman of limited knowledge, and there was no deep spiritual connection between us.
However, true love seems to reside not in such things, but rather in the harmony of moods, the scent of breath, the tactile sensations of the body—those sorts of places.
She was well aware of my financial situation.
If things became utterly impossible, we would die—that was the mindset we both shared.
Given such circumstances, it seems my serious consideration of purchasing the land with the Japanese Chinquapin tree was by no means unnatural.

So, amidst these circumstances, an entirely unexpected figure made an entrance.

VII

One morning, there was a phone call from Kosuzu asking if I knew a man named Takeyama Mokichi.
I was surprised.
Takeyama Mokichi, from what I had previously heard, was Takeyama Shigeki's father.

After getting the general details over the phone, I immediately went to meet Kosuzu.

She had attended a large banquet the previous night and then returned from another restaurant afterward. When I went there, it turned out to be one of the guests from the earlier banquet. He remained silent and drank nothing but sake. He was a somewhat sinister-looking, rather elderly man. He looked oddly withdrawn and, with excessive politeness, apologized for going out of his way to summon me. And then immediately, he said he wanted to ask about the man called Takeyama from the earlier conversation.

The details of that earlier conversation hadn't remained clearly in Kosuzu's memory—as the banquet neared its end and the gathering grew listless, four or five geishas had clustered together, apparently bringing up some talk about photographs. From this discussion comparing photographs to real faces, Kosuzu—remembering Takeyama Shigeki's story that she'd heard from me—insisted that photographs shouldn't be underestimated, mentioning there was someone who had captured nearly a hundred unadorned faces. She also said he was acquainted with Kawamura-san. However, during that period whenever I got drunk, I'd persistently start talking about the Japanese Chinquapin tree, venting my indignation toward Haragon in a "who does that bastard think he is?" manner. This led some attendees to mockingly reframe it as "the Professor of the Chinquapin Tree and his dear Mr. Haragon," at which point she—Kosuzu—seems to have inadvertently let slip about Takeyama being an actual person. Given that it involved tipsy geishas chattering among themselves, the actual circumstances remained unclear.

Just because of that, when asked again what kind of person Takeyama was, Kosuzu became cautious.
However, the other party seemed entirely absorbed in his own thoughts—he was in fact someone investigating this Takeyama Shigeki fellow—and after requesting that we ask the "Professor of the Chinquapin Tree" about the matter, he set a date for a response, left his business card, and departed.

There was no longer any room for doubt.
I decided to meet him myself.

On the night of the promised day, when Kosuzu called, I immediately went out.

At that time as well, it was that same restaurant from before.

A man in his fifties with short-cropped stiff hair stood out for its oddly abundant dull white strands, though his eyes held an unnervingly intense gleam. The moment I saw those eyes, I immediately recalled Takeyama Shigeki's eyes. They were the eyes of something midway between a madman and a criminal. What struck me next were the narrow forehead, swollen cheeks, short chin - all forming a rounded contour - coupled with a thick nose. By Takeyama Shigeki's photographic classification system, this was a facial structure destined for the most detested section. His worn Western-style suit bore an entwined gold chain.

You can likely imagine what feelings I harbored toward such a man. It could even be called something akin to antipathy. I adopted a coldly decisive attitude. The other man was absurdly polite—so obsequious it seemed deliberate. Yet despite this, the conversation immediately turned to business. He stated that he lived solely to meet his biological son Takeyama Shigeki just once, and that if I knew his whereabouts, he wished for me to grant this desire.

Then he spoke of his present circumstances.
When he was caught attempting to murder a woman in Osaka, the fraud he had committed shortly before was also uncovered, forcing him to serve a three-and-a-half-year prison sentence.
After his release, he went to Keijo.
He resolved himself to work continuously, returned to Tokyo several years later, and worked at a confectionery company.
He claimed that being able to live peacefully like this as a man with a criminal past resulted from his subsequent correct resolution.
And he had constantly searched, wanting nothing more than to catch just one glimpse of Shigeki.

What he said was correct, his tone was courteous, and his attitude was servile. I was left with a strangely discordant impression, and my initial antipathy did not fade. And so I resolved—though given my nature I would have done the same regardless—to lay bare the circumstances of Shigeki and his parents, proceeding to tell him about Shigeki's mental state as well.

"Is it that I absolutely must not meet him?" he said.

"I think there will be an opportune time. When that time comes, I'll arrange it for you. However, you cannot go right now," I declared firmly.

Kosuzu later said my attitude at the time was just like a judge's. Yet I had no intention of reproaching him for his past deeds. What I couldn't stomach was the man before me now. It might have been an almost animal revulsion.

After that, for about a month, there was no word from Takeyama Mokichi. Then suddenly yesterday came a call, and tonight I met him at that same restaurant as before.

“What did you think of that pistol Shigeki took away?”
“That’s something Takeyama Mokichi entrusted to me.”
He spoke in this way.

“After that incident, I considered many possibilities, but ultimately came to feel that meeting Shigeki would be utterly impossible.”
“In my despair, I came to think that my entire life up to now had been wasted, and I resolved to kill myself with this pistol I brought from Korea.”
“In the midst of that resolution, I became unbearably lonely.”
“Please laugh.”
“If I’m to die anyway, I want it to be by Shigeki’s hand—that became my final hope.”
“It was the same feeling I had in prison when I wanted to meet Shigeki just once.”
“Mother... my ex-wife... I hardly gave them a thought.”
“It was only Shigeki.”
“The bonds of blood are a terrifying thing.”
“Having concluded that I simply can’t die alone like this, I entrust this pistol to you.”
“Even if just for a moment—please keep it until I can meet Shigeki.”
“If I don’t do this, I feel I might commit some other terrible act rather than kill myself.”

There I perceived a soul that had transcended common sense and reason, pushed to its utter limit. There were absolutely no schemes or stratagems involved. This was a genuine desire from the heart—a precarious line where any act might tip into virtue or vice with just one step's difference. And his face bore an indescribable radiance. I chose not to resist it and took custody of the pistol.

Yet that initial animalistic antipathy I felt toward him refused to fade. It didn't seem to stem merely from his appearance or demeanor. In this light, Takeyama Shigeki's research into preferences appeared shallow by comparison. What I felt ran far deeper than that.

I was torn between both feelings, yet couldn't oppose his yearning.
I promised I would arrange for him to meet Shigeki in the near future.

After he left, I sank into a bottomless reverie.
I drank.
Then it suddenly occurred to me to deliver some prepared dishes to Shigeki's mother.
When I thought about that mother, my heart would soften somehow.

Then you all came, and matters concluded as you witnessed.
I remained astonished by Takeyama's sensitivity.
Though his conjectures about spies and Haragon missed their mark, he had ultimately discovered that pistol.

But I was already relatively optimistic. That pistol was one into which the father had poured his heart. It might exert some influence on Takeyama. Even if things like telepathic resonance or psychic phenomena—those supernatural concepts—couldn't be believed in, the steel bearing his father's traces, or perhaps simply the steel itself, might exert some beneficial influence on him. For those who love, such fantasies must be permitted.

Kawamura-san ended the conversation there.

At this point I wish to interject—in truth，Kosuzu had arrived midway through Kawamura-san’s account．To avoid interrupting his story，I had deliberately remained silent，but when there came a lull in conversation，a brief exchange occurred among us three．Kosuzu abruptly turned toward Ryoichi and greeted him with，“The other day...” Unlike at Kawamura-san’s house，his expression now appeared remarkably unguarded and animated．Yet soon enough，Kawamura-san resumed speaking，adopting a tone that utterly dismissed Kosuzu’s presence．She continued silently pouring drinks．

When Kawamura-san finally said, “Those who love must be permitted such fantasies,” and fell silent, Ryoichi felt a truly peculiar sensation. Kosuzu kept her head bowed without moving. Her face was large-featured—a resolute ridge across her forehead, generous charm about her mouth, cool small eyes—but seeing that snow-white countenance tilted in lamplight, apparently deep in thought, Ryoichi grew uneasy. Compared to Takeyama and the others, Kawamura-san and Kosuzu somehow seemed more dangerous.

Kawamura-san seemed to have indeed been thinking about Takeyama when he suddenly began speaking.

"No matter what happens, it won't amount to anything significant.
I'll arrange for them to meet soon.
At that time, won't you come along too, Makino-kun?
Having even one more person present might lessen the mutual blow.
If it goes well, we can meet properly later.
Well, things will take their course.
Human fate is like being swept along by a great deep river—there's nothing to do but yield to nature's current—that's what Takeyama's mother said.
That's right.
Now that things have come to this...I feel that mother is the most admirable one..."

At that moment, Kosuzu said with a dissatisfied look.

“But you’re so spineless.”

“Well, I’m different from you people in that line of work.”

“That may be true, but…”
And she paused to think.
“That’s strange—why doesn’t Takeyama’s father say he wants to meet his ex-wife? Even so, is he still feeling awkward about it?”

“That’s not the case. But actually, that’s precisely it—the problem is… He doesn’t care about his wife, but he wants to see his child… That’s where it feels different.”

When the words stopped, Ryoichi couldn't settle.
Seeing this, Kosuzu offered him a drink.

"Oh right—today's my recovery celebration."
"Let's go out."
"I'll take us around to all our usual spots."

“No, it’s already late. You mustn’t.”

Kosuzu tried to restrain him outright, but Kawamura-san began throwing a tantrum.
The sake they had been drinking while talking seemed to have suddenly taken effect once the conversation ended.
Kosuzu chided him while trying to soothe, and Kawamura-san began spouting nonsense like a spoiled child.

“Look here, isn’t Makino-san laughing?”

“Ah, Makino-kun! Have a drink—it’s my recovery celebration.”

Ryoichi saw such aspects of Kawamura-san for the first time, and recalling that Kawamura-san had been bedridden with a high fever until the day before yesterday, he found himself feeling strange and, before he knew it, was already drunk.
And it was nearly three o'clock when he was taken home by car.

About ten days passed, and Ryoichi received an express postcard from Kawamura-san.
—Please call me immediately upon reading this postcard.
and that was all—something utterly characteristic of Kawamura-san.

Ryoichi was concerned about Takeyama, so he rushed to a nearby public telephone.
Kawamura-san answered the phone and said that he should come immediately if there was an opening.

When he arrived, Kawamura-san was lying sprawled out in his second-floor study, appearing completely untroubled.
Kosuzu had come, her hair done in the same bundled style as before, dressed in flamboyant yet unpolished attire.
She too wore a bright expression.

“Oh, the other day...”
“When you got home, you weren’t scolded or anything, were you?”

Kawamura-san heaved himself upright—contrary to both his conversational tone and seemingly carefree demeanor—yet somehow lacked vitality.

“Actually, I asked you to come here because I wanted to report on Takeyama.”
“Because it turned out to be an unexpected result……”

The result was something Ryoichi could never have imagined.—

After that, Kawamura-san had been racking his brains over how to arrange a meeting between the Takeyama father and son, putting it off day after day.
Then, on the previous Sunday afternoon, Takeyama Shigeki arrived.

“Professor, my research is complete. Come immediately.”

The endings of his speech grew clouded, and his eyes remained utterly fixed without movement. He had entered the tatami room still wearing his shoes.

Kawamura-san tilted his head but nevertheless asked for an explanation—it turned out the final most detested face had been captured in a photograph. Moreover, numerous shots had been taken. Though swarms of spies emerged to interfere, he had ultimately achieved victory...

Kawamura-san flinched.
He drove off with Takeyama in the car.

The house was hushed.
When they entered, the mother sat with a deathly pale face, like a statue.

“What’s wrong?” Kawamura-san called out.

She did not readily produce a reply.
Her heart had likely fallen into some deep abyss, and it must have taken great effort to resurface.
At long last, she managed to offer a greeting and then began to speak.

That day was calm and clear.
Takeyama had apparently taken out the camera equipment his mother had hidden and secretly left with it at some point.
And after two or three hours had passed, he came rushing in from the front.

“Mother, please rejoice.
“My research is complete!”
“I’ll go call Professor Kawamura now, and we’ll develop them together.”

And he placed the camera equipment on the desk in his room and rushed out again.

The mother was seized by an uneasy premonition. As she sat still, suppressing her agitated heart, some time after Shigeki had left, a man lumbered in. The moment she saw him, she let out a gasp. It was her husband, Mokichi.

Mokichi stood rigidly, staring fixedly at her. No trace of extreme violence could be discerned within him.

“You’ve done a fine job raising Shigeki!”

That single remark crushed every last one of her emotions.

“Where’s Shigeki’s living room?”

She couldn’t respond.
She couldn’t move a muscle.

Mokichi strode purposefully into the side room.
There came the violent sound of objects being smashed and destroyed.
After that came a period of hushed silence, soon followed by the continued sound of rummaging about.

A long time seemed to have passed.
When called and looking up, she found Mokichi standing rigid with a corpse-like pallor.
In his hands were a small pistol and a small paper box.

"What is this?"

She too was startled.
The objects were completely unfamiliar.
But what shocked her more was Mokichi's voice—now devoid of vigor and trembling—while his pistol-gripping hand quivered violently as tears began streaming from his eyes.
He wiped them with the back of his gun-hand.
Still he stood rigid.
His knees visibly trembled.
Then suddenly he started, glanced about, and fled outside.
He seemed to turn back once and move his lips, but no words reached her ears...

She was left alone and continued sitting as if her entire body were paralyzed.

At that moment, Kawamura-san and Shigeki came in.

Later, it was discovered through subsequent inquiries that not far from Takeyama's house, several people had witnessed a strange spectacle.
At one end of the wide street there, a fifty-year-old man suddenly stopped like a pole.
He stood rigidly like a pole, continuing to stare fixedly straight ahead.
When one followed that gaze, Takeyama Shigeki—somewhat known in the area as being unhinged—was there with a Kodak clutched to his chest, photographing the man standing rigidly.
After finishing one shot, he changed direction this time and took two or three photographs.
Throughout this, the man stood as rigid as a pole, or perhaps like a martyr.
Finally, Shigeki threw a glance toward the man and started running.
The man also chased after him and ran off....

“Because I was dithering, Takeyama’s father apparently couldn’t wait any longer and ended up wandering about aimlessly,” said Kawamura-san. “Still, even if we’d arranged for them to meet face-to-face, the result might have been no different. Or it might have led to something even more tragic. The phantom in Takeyama’s mind seems to have already robbed him of any ability to recognize his father……”

While Kawamura-san was hearing the general story from Takeyama's mother, and even afterward, Takeyama had entered his room and never came out.
When they went to check, Takeyama sat dazedly amidst scattered fragments of camera equipment.
His body was rigid.
His mind had apparently stiffened as well.
He kept his eyes fixed in place; no matter who said what, he didn't utter another word.
Even so, when they took him by the hand and led him away, he followed along obediently.

That night, it came to light that Takeyama Mokichi had shot himself through the heart with a pistol in his apartment room, discovered a day later.
The pistol he appeared to have been clutching even in his final agony confirmed it was suicide.
No suicide note or anything resembling one was found.

Having finished recounting these matters, Kawamura-san fell silent for some time as though awaiting Ryoichi's opinion.
Ryoichi found himself at a loss for words.
Kawamura-san spoke while exhaling cigarette smoke.

“Now I feel I vaguely grasp why I instinctively disliked Takeyama’s father."
"After hitting a dead end, he ran off with a woman."
"When she betrayed him, he tried to kill her."
"Then he forced himself to meet his child."
"And finally ended up taking his own life."
"But if it were me, I’d have killed myself at the very first step."
"That might be the weakness of an intellectual like me—but also their strength, their optimism."
"In short, it’s a matter of character.”

Ryoichi felt as though he had simultaneously touched upon both Kawamura-san's coldness and warmth. At the same time, he found himself wondering how Kawamura-san would have perceived Takeyama's incident had there been no love with Kosuzu. After all, Kawamura-san too must be unable to attain a state of mind that transcends his current circumstances. Ryoichi found himself thinking that he had to reassess the relationship between Kawamura-san and Kosuzu.

What reassured Ryoichi was that Kawamura-san proposed they all go bid farewell to the Japanese Chinquapin tree now.
Along with the collapse of Takeyama Shigeki’s phantom of hatred, Genba Kentaro’s illusion also seemed to have crumbled.
Kawamura-san said musingly,
“The Japanese Chinquapin tree doesn’t actually matter at all.
Because Takeyama was so fixated on it, I too ended up feeling strange, but natural beauty isn’t something that should be owned by individuals.”

Kawamura-san, Kosuzu, and Ryoichi were all silent in the car.
Even after opening the gate and stepping beneath the Japanese Chinquapin tree, no one spoke much.
The sun sank westward, and the shadow of the Japanese Chinquapin tree stretched long beneath the cliff.
Beyond the rows of rooftops in the lowland that was once farmland, the highland area of Tabata basked in direct sunlight, shining bright and warm, but beneath the Japanese Chinquapin tree, it was deeply shadowed and chillingly cold.
Ryoichi did not think the Japanese Chinquapin tree was particularly impressive.

“This place must be seen when bathed in morning sunlight,” said Kawamura-san.

That resounded like words of farewell. In a short time, the three left there and got into the waiting car. And they went to eat Chinese food near Ueno’s Shinobazu Pond.

“Today we can indulge, but starting tomorrow we’ll have to be frugal forevermore,” said Kawamura-san with a laugh. “From now on, I won’t have to be called a madman even by your Uncle anymore.”

“Are you getting married?” Ryoichi blurted out.

Kawamura-san and Kosuzu exchanged glances and shared a bright smile.

“You’re so quick to jump to conclusions—it’s troublesome.”
“You really do think in a more liberated way, don’t you?”

Ryoichi blushed for no particular reason.
And once again, he found himself unable to comprehend Kawamura-san’s feelings.

Takeyama Shigeki entered the charity mental hospital.
The father's remains were sent to his hometown of Yamagata, and his mother began working as a housekeeper at Kawamura-san's home.
And the Japanese Chinquapin tree in Shinmeicho, several years later and even now, belongs to the city’s management as a Natural Monument and continues to thrive.