Pathway to Japanese Literature

Tanimura went as far as the station front and turned back.
He had thought to tell only Fujiko about it beforehand.
He wanted to hear Fujiko’s opinion.
He lacked confidence.
And he wanted to seize from Fujiko’s lips that thread which might lead to confidence.

Tanimura was on his way to confess his love to Shinko.
He had long wanted a love devoid of physicality.
He had thought that he wanted a love consisting solely of the soul—one that would burn with madness for its sake and then burn itself out.
And at such times he had always envisioned Shinko in his mind; yet when he changed his perspective, perhaps it was precisely because Shinko's presence perpetually occupied his thoughts that he had grown accustomed to desiring a love consisting solely of the soul—one that would burn with madness and then extinguish itself.

However, when it came to defining what manner of person Shinko truly was, he had always believed he understood—yet when pressed, his confidence wavered.

Shinko had also been Okamoto’s disciple.
Okamoto called Shinko a villain.
He declared her an innate femme fatale—a heartless creature armored in lies, a born criminal of nature.
It was said that Okamoto and Shinko had been lovers, appearing quite intimate for a time.
Back then, Shinko was twenty-one or twenty-two and Okamoto forty-six or forty-seven; yet Shinko would always invite female companions along, avoiding being seen walking alone with him.
True trysts shun prying eyes—what transpired beyond sight remained unknowable.

There was a rumor that no one could even begin to guess how many lovers Shinko had.
However, there was no man who had actually declared himself to be Shinko's lover.
In any case, she had dozens of male friends.
It was clear that some of these men had poured considerable money into her, for Shinko's outfits changed daily, all of them expensive.
It was said that her monthly expenses neared ten thousand yen, but Shinko's salary fell short of even a hundred yen.

Shinko was employed in the planning department of a publishing company called Kōzōsha. There were rumors that she was the president’s secretary or, in other words, his mistress, but the president was a man nearing sixty with money, and publishing was his pastime. He spent lavishly to produce expensive art books and luxurious hobbyist publications, though among them he had already put out several volumes by a little-known historian. This historian was a childhood friend. His name was Machida Sōkotsu. He was not a university professor; this man’s study of national history had itself begun as a middle-aged diversion, starting from ancient clan systems and more recently fixating on matters resembling ethnology.

Shinko was lodging at Sōkotsu’s house.

The Sōkotsu couple had no children.
They were an eccentric pair who doted on Shinko as if she were a doll—traveling all the way to Kyoto to search for fabric for her bed covers, living contentedly with their own cheap, nearly broken furniture while having furniture shipped from Beijing for her living room and guest room, placing orders for tablecloths from Nishijin, and spending vast sums of money.
Yet despite this, they were apparently not particularly wealthy; though descended from a provincial old family, they had sold off all their fields and possessed only a modest sum, but declaring that money would be useless once they died, they reportedly spent the greater part of it to decorate Shinko’s room.
Shinko, in this beautiful living room, would spend her spare time organizing Sōkotsu’s book collection and compiling a catalog.
Therefore, in Shinko’s living room, around a hundred old-fashioned books—utterly unsuited to such a space—were always piled up.

Shinko was twenty-six.

Tanimura came to know Shinko when she was still twenty and innocent.
In the years that followed, they did not grow particularly close, yet whenever they met, they could converse with utter ease—a quality that seemed inherent to their temperaments.
Shinko would sometimes treat him to expensive Western liquor, but Tanimura would deliberately tease her half-jokingly, saying, "Shin-chan must be quite wealthy."
Even when he showered her with crass questions like "Where’s your golden vine?"—meaning where her financial patron was—she never got angry.
Of course she did not respond, nor did she show any particular reaction.

Tanimura spoke to Shinko quite bluntly.

“They say there are beauties so stunning that no one dares court them—could that be your situation, Shin-chan?”
“But you must have been courted quite a lot, I suppose.”
“What style of courtship might appeal to you? As a reference, won’t you tell me?”

“Give presents.”
“Across all ages and cultures.”

“Ah... I see.”
“So—does that please you?”

Shinko did not answer.

Tanimura had always treated Shinko like an innocent girl. In fact, there was an aspect of him having half convinced himself of this by temperament. Yet despite this, he would treat Shinko as a femme fatale and pose bluntly vulgar questions; but since there was an aspect of him treating her like a girl by temperament, it seemed this contradiction redeemed him.

There had been circulating a kind of accepted notion that Shinko was an innately unchaste woman. Amidst these, Okamoto’s words of curse had been seared particularly vividly into Tanimura’s mind. “Heartless and ruthless, and an innate ‘criminal’—that was what he declared.”

For Tanimura, the word “criminal” held a more inescapable weight than “unchastity.” Could Shinko truly be unchaste? She might be unchaste. However, there was no carnal feeling at all—she was pure. Rather, there was an air of purity about her. Somewhere within her lingered a childlike innocence that remained like a fragrance clinging to fabric. While the bodies of virgins and non-virgins can generally be distinguished even when clothed, Shinko seemed both like a virgin and not one at all. When he once posed this question to Fujiko—“She’s not a virgin,” Fujiko declared outright—she knew how to act like one.“She’s an innate femme fatale of that sort,” she said.

However, Shinko’s childlike innocence, purity, and chastity—they had an awakening quality. It was, indeed, a flower. What a beautiful crime, Tanimura thought. It was as though beauty itself were a crime. She was not what one would call unchaste. She should indeed be called an innate criminal. Perhaps even murder—that thought was as beautiful as ice. It differed from a demon. The flower itself harbored the will to crime. It was nothing other than that.

That was Tanimura’s fantasy.
He was not inherently given to fantasy.
Yet with Shinko alone, he became an extreme fantasist; grounded in those illusions, he had conceived of a love devoid of physicality—a purely spiritual affair—in an utterly emotional way.
Having long been engrossed in these musings without ever doubting their fantastical and emotional nature, he finally resolved to break through them—stepping outside, beginning to walk, until at last he understood.
Shinko was indeed a femme fatale.
Tanimura refused to acknowledge carnal desire.
Yet Shinko remained a woman procuring vast living expenses through means unknown to him.
Tanimura’s legs gradually lost their strength as he walked.

He thought of meeting Fujiko.
First, he would lay out his plan to Fujiko and seek her criticism.

★

Fujiko’s husband Ueshima, a stockbroker, was present.
His eyes widened.

“Is there such a splendid femme fatale in Japan?”
“Huh?”
“I just can’t believe it.”

“No, it’s true.
At the very least, she has close to twenty lovers.
And Ms. Shinko doesn’t love a single one of them.
She doesn’t have a heart capable of love.
She’s innately heartless and ruthless.
She’s a born high-class harlot—even if you try to seduce her, she won’t feel a thing.
Mr. Tanimura.”

“But if that’s the case, isn’t there merit in trying to seduce her?”

“Huh, Mr. Tanimura.”
“How amusing you are.”
“You should by all means go ahead and self-destruct.”

Fujiko listed the names of Shinko’s lovers one by one.
There were painters, there were businessmen, there were merchants, and there were famous Kabuki actors.
All of them were middle-aged or older men of considerable status and financial power, so it was only natural that they no longer paid any attention to the likes of Okamoto—or so the story went.

“Didn’t you once remark that Ms. Shinko might be a virgin?”

Fujiko's eyes gleamed.

Among Okamoto’s disciples was a young man named Ogawa.
Tanimura also knew him—a man of single-minded temperament yet capricious by nature.
When this man courted Shinko, she reportedly declared, “I am a virgin.”
He chased Shinko until he was utterly spent, yet ultimately could become nothing more than an admirer.
Shinko did not take the youth seriously.
The youth could only surround her in worship—in other words, because he was single-minded and fiercely possessive, Shinko would not let him advance beyond being an admirer.
That was Fujiko’s account.

“What kind of virgin would say ‘I am a virgin’? There’s no need to declare it.”

Fujiko stared at Tanimura even more intently.

“Mr. Tanimura.”
“Do you know why I’m saying these things?”

Tanimura did not answer.
Her eyes seemed to contain a cruel hatred.
Fujiko, perhaps finally embarrassed herself, averted her gaze and chuckled softly, but—
“Mr. Tanimura.”

The eyes gleamed again.

“You know,”
“Ms. Shinko—I think she’ll probably say it to you too.”
“‘I am a virgin,’ she’ll say.”
“I have a premonition.”
“She’ll definitely say it.”
“Make sure you get a good look at Ms. Shinko’s face in that moment and remember it.”
“It’s not some clichéd line.”
“If you can scorn such words, all the better.”

Tanimura was thinking about something else.

Even from Fujiko's spiteful conjectures, one could conclude that Shinko's purpose in life was not carnal desire. What then could her purpose be? Was it deceiving men? Swindling money? That seemed less a purpose than something instinctual. For some reason, this was Tanimura's conviction. The cursed voice of Okamoto branding her a born criminal had taken root in his mind. Nothing described Shinko more accurately than this shameless old lecher's venomous pronouncements. Okamoto—single-mindedly carnal—saw her as a criminal, but the possibility that this might hold a different meaning for him personally gave Tanimura courage. If Shinko truly possessed this power to bewitch people, he wanted nothing more than to be bewitched and destroyed—so Tanimura resolved.

★

It was a winter day.
With winter’s arrival, it had already been several years since Tanimura’s outings would stop—a firmly established habit.
Motoko was suspicious about his going out, but in response to that, he said he was going to look for a book.
How many years had it been since he last felt the winter air?
When exposed to the sharp north wind, he rather felt a sense of refreshment and a semblance of health he hadn’t known in years.
He had covered his nose and mouth with a muffler, but he felt so tempted that he even wanted to take it off and expose himself to the biting wind.

To want to experience love with Shinko—was that perhaps to want to be deceived? Tanimura wondered.
The winter air he had forgotten even made him feel an unexpectedly fresh vitality.
That too was one of the joys of being deceived.
Struck by unexpected things he had never known, he wanted to lose himself.
He wanted to be destroyed, he thought.
A strength long forgotten seemed to be returning.
It seemed to harmonize with the sharpness and vigor of the outside air.

In Shinko’s living room, there was one thing missing for a woman’s living room of her sort.
It was a piano.

Tanimura did not like music.
because music was carnal, and because he could see the ecstasy and intoxication that music imposed as nothing more than base passions elegantly disguised.
Motoko liked Chopin.
Tanimura too could not escape that ecstasy and intoxication.
Tanimura considered the embrace.
Motoko’s embrace did not require music’s assistance.
However, even in times without embraces, music that replaced embraces—Tanimura envied Motoko’s body enraptured by music.
And each time, he scorned music.
Music did not resemble art.
It merely resembled perfume.

From Shinko’s body, the first thing to seize him was the stimulus of perfume.
It was around the time of the retreat from Guadalcanal.
Even if people harbored ominous premonitions, no one could have dreamed that Tokyo would become ruins two years later.

However, what had vanished most conspicuously from the city was first and foremost the scent of perfumes.
Even the aroma of coffee.
Even the aroma of butter and meat being grilled.

The perfume’s stimulus left him flustered.

“Even someone like you wants to wear perfume, Shin-chan?
Or do you lack confidence in the appeal of your natural self?”

“You always suddenly come out with such spiteful remarks like today’s, don’t you.
You suddenly felt like teasing me, I suppose.
This morning, the moment I opened my eyes—”

Tanimura’s composure was crystal clear.
The vivid patterns of the large Chinese brazier with its glowing red coals, the design of the vase on the display shelf, even the titles of books in the bookcase—all seared vividly into his mind, leaving absolutely no room for the feverish emotions that typically accompany a love confession.

Tanimura did not hesitate.
Something was about to happen—he knew.

A gate opened.
He had to open it.
He understood that first he had to throw himself.
Toward the gate.

“I’ll omit the prelude.”
“Shin-chan.”
“Because I despise atmosphere.”

His composure still held.

“I came to confess my love to you, Shin-chan.”
“It might not be love.”
“Because my heart shows not the slightest flutter.”
“I want to love the scenery.”
“The beautiful scenery that is you, Shin-chan.”
“I want to live the dream itself.”
“I want to become like a sack stuffed full of your words, your eyes, your heart—all of it.”
“To burn up completely with the sack.”
“I don’t know if you’ll let me into your own sack—but I want to chase you.”
“This love is my faith.”
“What I crave is martyrdom.”

Tanimura gave a wry smile as his words grew too grandiose.

Shinko appeared to be in a daze.
She closed her eyes.
Her face suggested she wasn't hearing anything, yet she also seemed entranced.

Even when Tanimura's words trailed off, Shinko's demeanor remained unchanged.
Tanimura struggled, trying and trying to cast himself away.
In other words, he wanted to cast himself away by saying everything.
There had to be something like a point of no return in his heart.
Suddenly, a line as if he had crossed over and stepped beyond.
He was growing frustrated.
He still hadn't crossed that line.
He found Shinko's demeanor unexpectedly perplexing—whether she was in a daze or entranced, the utterly elusive complexity of her shifting nuances struck him as truly remarkable.
At the very least, had he not confessed his love, he would never have witnessed this intricate play of shadows.
There were slightly sharp-edged shadows as well.
There were also soft shadows.
There were shadows of youthfulness, but Tanimura certainly recognized other shadows—those that spoke of amorous sophistication.

This woman never grows weary of love, Tanimura thought.
That thought gave him strength.

“Rather than wanting to be loved by you, Shin-chan, I want to love you.
I want Shin-chan to become my absolute.
I feel Shin-chan has the power to make it so.
And I ardently wish for Shin-chan to make it so.
Just as I could die if Shin-chan told me to, I want to lose myself completely.
I want to burn with longing.
For Shin-chan’s sake, I want a power to dwell within me—one that would abandon all else and never look back.
I seem to be getting a bit too intense.
In other words, because my heart isn’t intense, I use intense words.
Because my physical strength is too weak, I want to feel only a soul that burns.
I want a master more intense than the physical body.”

While speaking, fragmentary thoughts of various kinds flashed through his mind.
For example: boredom; self-exaggeration; meaninglessness; deviation from true intent; self-loathing; wanting to stop; wanting to fall asleep.

However, Tanimura felt the pleasure of those being extinguished one by one through Shinko’s face and form.
That was not his own contrivance to convince himself of that pleasure.
Thoughts were being sucked into Shinko’s face and form, erased as they went.
All that ever lingered in his consciousness was Shinko’s face and form.

That too was a form of coquetry, Tanimura thought.
It was the most artificial—a work of some craftsman.
There was one unforgettable surprise Tanimura held.
He couldn’t notice it in that moment.
Because its meaning lay in what could not be noticed.

Shinko did not show the slightest surprise.
Even when Tanimura’s abrupt courtship had begun.
There was no trace of simplicity, artlessness, or even the faintest hint of awkwardness to be discerned.
At times entranced, and again vaguely—she remained utterly lost in a daze.
There was no need for Tanimura to feel anxiety about the potential breakdown of Motoko that might someday occur.

Why hadn’t he courted her until now?
I could have spent time with her anytime.
I feel like there’s some meaning in that.
However, such a form was nowhere to be found.
It was simply that he felt no fear whatsoever.
Everything seemed to be forgiven.

★

Tanimura settled into a calm state of mind.
He had thought himself calm until now, but it felt as though an entirely different calmness had taken its place.
The urge to rush—the compulsion that he must hurry—had vanished.
He felt like a small boat drifting upon this room’s waves.
Eventually it would reach some shore.
A southern island or the northern edge—which would it be?

Now he could yawn freely.
He could light a cigarette and take a deep drag.

“Do you remember your own paintings, Shin-chan? I strangely haven’t forgotten them. It’s because they’re too ordinary. The colors, the forms—even the words the artist speaks through them. There’s no distortion whatsoever. You always painted girls around twenty, didn’t you? Western clothes, Japanese clothes... and probably no nudes, I’d wager. They’re just too ordinary and conventional, you see. But I’ve gradually come to understand. Your paintings aren’t chatter. They lack curiosity. Yet others—even a conventional woman like Motoko in our household—paint pictures cluttered with prattle and nothing but curiosity. It’s not as though any particular dream of the artist’s is entrusted to those paintings. There’s only an imaginary play of colors. You don’t need that imaginary play at all—do you? Rather, you can’t do it. You’ve no need to toy with curiosity in your paintings. Because you’re a natural-born artist in life itself.”

Tanimura was calm.
A smile alone floated on his face.
However, he did not release his attentive gaze from Shinko’s face.
The dazed expression and the quiet calm of the gentle, slackened curves of shoulders, chest, and arms were splendid.
But something even more splendid should happen.
A change.
When next, and how?
He resolved not to let that moment slip away.
However, he was not a hunting dog.
Because he had not anticipated Shinko’s collapse in the slightest.
He already no longer doubted Shinko’s technique.
And he wanted to believe in its omnipotence.

Tanimura began to feel like playing around.
He felt like fooling about even more.
He wanted to say everything he wished to say.
It felt as though Shinko was luring him, yet also as though he were trying to lure her.

Tanimura felt as though he had played this sort of game in his childhood—climb the persimmon tree and pick persimmons for her. Below, a girl was pointing: “Higher up! Yes, that’s good—no, even higher than that. There!” Then the branch snapped; he fell to the ground and broke his leg. That was not Tanimura. It was the older boy from the neighboring house. If he were alive, he should still be clinging to crutches even now.

This room held no boredom or resignation.
That was Tanimura’s resolve.
Up, up—he would climb to pick persimmons.
Without fearing to fall.
Until he fell.

Tanimura thought how nice it would be if he could stay just like this, in this very state, and fall asleep.
And he thought how nice it would be if he could remain just like that, never awakening from that sleep for eternity.

“All I comprehend now is the stillness of this room.”
“I can’t hear a single sound from the world.”

And Tanimura continued his delirious monologue.

"The brazier's fire turns to ash little by little, its dreariness seeping into my ears—or so it feels."
Confidence arose within me.
That’s because—you see—it seemed I’d realized Shin-chan is someone who can endure any form of love.
Shin-chan is someone who can endure being loved, not someone who loves others.
And I will be able to endure loving Shin-chan.
I do not necessarily mind not being loved.
Rather, I want to become intoxicated by the poignancy of embracing the most heartless soul.
Shin-chan’s heart is like cold water.
It is like a pond at the mountain's peak.
A wind blows across the lake surface.
The wind at the mountain’s peak...
And only the sky is reflected.
Only the sky, you see…
A soul that is solitude itself.
And it captivates people solely through the beauty and tranquility of that pond’s form.
I climb up to the peak of that mountain.
Though my body is weak, panting all the while, you see.
And yet, strangely, even my weak body feels invigorating.
"I want to throw myself into that pond and die."

Shinko’s face finally broke into a smile.
The eyes were still closed.
Suddenly, the eyes snapped open.
And she stared at Tanimura.

However, she leaned back against the chair again and fell into a daze.
The only difference was the faint shadow of a smile that now played across the face.

★

Strange eyes—they were like stars, Tanimura thought.
Her eyes snapped open wide, stared, and then closed.
They were not eyes that pleaded in the slightest.
They were not eyes that conveyed words.
They held no meaning whatsoever.
Just wide-open eyes that stared—nothing more.
They were merely sharp.
That was all.

For the first time, Tanimura closed his eyes.
It was because he had grown sick of his own eyes.
Yet he could not bear keeping them closed.
He could not bear losing sight of Shinko’s face.

“Shin-chan.”
“Won’t you give me some kind of answer?”
“You can keep your eyes closed.”
“It’s cruel to stare at me like that.”
“You don’t need to respond to my confession.”
“Just… I only want to hear some words.”

Shinko did not answer.
The daze remained unchanged.
The shadow of a smile might have quivered slightly.
Something was always quivering.
Something like a shadow with no visible form.

Tanimura gazed at himself clinging to Shinko.
Yet it was not unpleasant.
Then he noticed—
that every impulse to treat her like a girl had been uprooted.
His courage swelled stronger still.
It was a resolve that felt no shame in any folly, feared neither ruin nor death.

Tanimura gazed at Shinko’s mysteriously thin lips. They gave him the sense of a delicate machine’s destiny—one that would never speak truth. Her nose was pointed yet bore a small roundness at its tip. There, cold secret droplets seemed to congeal and crystallize. One might well discern cruelty, brutality, and insincerity there. Yet the line from nose to lips also exuded a childlike quality. Every impression her face conveyed was faint. But noticing its softness and fullness reminded one of a particular aspect of Shinko’s temperament. Therein lay idealism and grace. There existed a loftiness of soul in certain matters that permitted no compromise.

This woman would never speak the truth for anyone’s sake, not even unto death.
Even in the intoxication of carnal desire, she would never let slip a cry of truth.
Shinko would never betray others through that distrust.
Because the act of fulfilling people through truth had been lost forever.

Tanimura recalled the small fountain at the corner of the park’s paved path.
He found the grand nature of the waterfall he had seen in the mountains repulsive.
Rivers flow from high places to low places; waterfalls plunge from above to below.
The sheer obviousness of nature was something he had always detested.
Water must leap upward; night must become bright.
The artifice of man must be the truth of this world.
Human reason must be utterly devoted not to the truth of nature, but to false truth—to its perfect construction.
No truth in this world can surpass falsehood.
Because falsehood alone is perhaps never tedious.

Tanimura fantasized about the joy of being deceived by Shinko. He himself wished to become one of those actors who could deceive Shinko in turn. And realizing that this confession of love was not, after all, the truth within his own heart, he felt secretly satisfied. In the end, he could never be a great actor. If only he could become that small fountain at the corner of the park's paved path. Shinko seemed like an artificial light deceiving the night.

“I have never seen anything as immaculately pure and solitary as your confidence, Shin-chan.”
“Art bears no resemblance to you.”
“This talk of enduring beyond death is mere garrulousness.”
“Such shameless presumption.”
“When it dies, it vanishes.”
“Even what persists must ultimately perish.”
“That alone constitutes the sole principle I can credit in this world.”

Tanimura could not distinguish between falsehood and truth in his own words.
He was pushing himself away.
It was enough to find satisfaction in the mere awareness of pushing himself away.

“You probably don’t trust anyone but yourself.”
“You aren’t thinking about eternity.”
“You know with instinctive conviction that you will disappear.”
“What philosophers come to know after reading ten thousand books and reaching senility’s end—you’ve known since birth.”
“You would never commit ancient Chinese emperors’ folly—those dreams of eternal youth and immortality.”
“Because you aren’t some practical hedonist.”
“Because you’re always a victim.”
“A born victim.”
“To philosophy’s final fruits—what religion and art strain toward—you’ve been innately aligned since birth.”
“You can only find fulfillment through remaining unfulfilled.”
“Right now—this moment—you’re fulfilling me.”
“Through that mysterious beauty.”
“You’re an intricate machine made to captivate people.”
“And only when enchanting others do you become fulfilled yourself—”
“—through this machine’s own rotation.”

Shinko’s face began to smile again.
The eyes remained closed.
But her smile was different from a dazzling one.
Nor was it a listless smile.
It was neither complex nor profound.
It was simply a smile.
On Shinko’s face.

Suddenly, her eyes were opened again.
At the same instant, a single word was uttered.

“Open the window.”
“I am hot.”

Hot, she said.
Tanimura was captivated by the sheer brilliance of the simple effect created through the layering of three strikingly isolated elements: sound, pronunciation, and meaning.

★

When he returned after opening the window, Shinko called the maid and gave an order.
Then she vanished into the bedroom.

Green tea arrived, sweets arrived, mandarin oranges and apples arrived, while charcoal filled the Chinese brazier with a boiling kettle set upon it.
There existed only one green tea bowl for Tanimura - none for Shinko.
After the maid departed and the water reached its rolling boil, Shinko at last reappeared.
Shinko pushed the green tea toward Tanimura.

"Why won't you drink, Shin-chan?"

"I don't want any, you see."

“Is the reason simple and clear?”
“Is it always?”

Shinko laughed.

“Is there someone whose throat never dries?”

“If there were such a person, I thought it would be Shin-chan.”

“I’ve never served tea to anyone in this room before.”
“In this room, I only sometimes drink ice water in midsummer.”

“Why do you only let me drink tea?”

“Because you talk too much.”

Shinko sorted through the apples and gripped the knife. “Shall I peel one?”
“A mandarin orange?”
Tanimura did not respond for a while.
He had no appetite.
And because watching Shinko brought him pleasure.

“I don’t have an appetite.”
“Even if I did have an appetite—”

Tanimura laughed.

“While courting Shin-chan, one can’t very well go piling up mandarin orange peels and apple peels on the side, can they?”

Shinko stared at Tanimura while laughing.
Though she laughed, her eyes did not.
They were wide open—simply clear and sharp.
What overflowed from the juxtaposition of smiling lips and unsmiling eyes was a quiet dignity and meaninglessness.
There existed no meaning whatsoever.
Beyond the quiet dignity.

“You’re quite the riddle master.”

“Why?”

“Who is one who only receives love but never gives it?"
“Shinko.”
“Who is the cold machine that leads people astray?”
“Shinko.”
“Who is the person who never tells the truth?”
“Shinko.”

Shinko’s eyes were sharp.
There was no further meaning there.
There was neither youthfulness nor sophistication.

The eyes closed.
She leaned back into the chair.

“Tell me more.
“The riddles.”
“Are there more?
“No more?”

Once again, a daze set in.
The only difference was that she now held a single apple.

Was she seething, satisfied, empty, or spiteful? It became even more elusive.
However, Tanimura did not falter.
He was conscious of his resolve to accept any ruin, any disgrace.

“Shin-chan, do you know Professor Okamoto’s theory about you?”

Tanimura no longer hesitated.
He felt he had forgotten how to regret anything.

“Shin-chan is a heartless and cruel person—a born criminal, he says.”
“I believe this to be the greatest homage ever dedicated to Shin-chan.”
“Professor Okamoto is the most voracious hunter of female flesh, but from Shin-chan he failed to sniff out the secrets of her body—he grasped only the shadow of her soul.”
“For Professor Okamoto, no matter how chaste and noble a female body may be, it is nothing but a female body with secrets.”
“Though admittedly, that’s an opinion I share with Professor Okamoto.”
“Even Professor Okamoto could not grasp the secrets of the female body from Shin-chan and calls her a born criminal.”
“What does it mean to be a born criminal?”
I never tried asking Professor Okamoto, nor did I have any desire to, so I didn’t truly understand what he meant by that.
However, one thing about the nature of this term that could not be doubted was that it referred to an eternal solitary being.
Everyone is lonely, but when it comes to the physical body, women are not necessarily so.
The secret of the female body was that it refused isolation.
For that which does not isolate itself, there can be no such thing as a born criminal.
Therefore, I thought:
That Shin-chan has no female body.
Women speak the truth not through words, but through the body.
Not through the soul, but through the female body.
If there is no female body, women will never speak the truth.
Shin-chan can never have a moment when she can speak the truth.”

Tanimura knew he could have said something far more cruel.
That was concerning what Okamoto meant by "born criminal."
But he was satisfied with indulgent sophistry and praise alone.
And he was satisfied even with the fact that he could be satisfied with just that.
Nothing could be more trivial than saying everything.
That was the truth of this room.

“My riddles are over.”

Tanimura felt the force pushing up words from within his body.

“I’ve become utterly lost in Shin-chan’s heaven-sent criminality, you know.”
“I don’t get lost in the eyes or the nose.”

That wasn’t the case.
He liked Shinko’s eyes and nose as well.

★

Shinko always opened her eyes wide and clear.
Never did she open them slowly.

Shinko took a bite of the apple she held, skin and all.
She bit into it calmly.
The teeth were white.

“You should have some like this too.”

There was a somewhat teasing tone directed at Tanimura.
In fact, Tanimura did not have the habit of biting into apples with the skin.
However, the teasing was not necessarily about the apple.
Tanimura was always caught off guard.
The teasing had been meant in that sense.
Shinko was aware of the beauty in the distortion and transformation that came from biting into the apple with its skin.

Shinko took two bites and stopped.

Why hadn't she stopped after one bite? Tanimura wanted to ask but refrained.
That was indeed a foolish question.

Even two bites were beautiful.
Even three bites were beautiful.
Rather, he had wanted her to eat it down to the core.
The way she held the apple and brought it to her mouth was crisp from the very start.
The way her shoulders and elbows drew inward also stung his eyes.

“Your riddles demand that I must always be the wicked woman, don’t they?”

“It’s the opposite.
“I am praising you.”

“So, you mean I’m a wicked woman, don’t you?”

“There’s no way I used the word ‘wicked’.”
“Because I have no concept of good and evil.”
“Just coldness, loneliness, being a victim, being a criminal.”

Shinko burst out laughing.
That was a vision of even more vivacious exuberance and artless innocence than when she bit into the apple.

“And you call that praise?”

“For you alone, Shin-chan...
“Because you alone, Shin-chan, are the special one worthy of this praise.
“If I said this to others, they’d be furious—but only because they lack anything praiseworthy to begin with.”

“Do you think I won’t get angry?”

Tanimura did not hesitate.

“I do think so. I do believe it.”

“You remarked that my paintings were utterly ordinary and conventional, didn’t you? What if that truly is my heart?”

“Art may never betray its creator’s heart,” he said, “but Shin-chan’s paintings aren’t art at all.”
“They’re merely a young lady’s practice pieces.”

Shinko’s face transformed once more.
Not an ounce of malice remained in her features.
No other emotions surfaced beyond this.
Only guileless innocence persisted.

“You are a remarkable dreamer. But an amusing dreamer. Perhaps even an innocent dreamer. That is, if you’ll pardon the crime of humiliating me. Still, rather than being overestimated as some virtuous soul and having to maintain appearances, it’s far more entertaining to be cast as a delinquent and lean into the role. I do enjoy playing games, you know.”

“That’s precisely it, Shin-chan. What I’ve been trying to say all along—”

“Oh, do wait. Your prattling—”

Shinko raised a hand to check him, yet her whole being radiated genuine liveliness.
This could only be perceived as pure innocence through and through.
To any observer’s eye, she seemed merely an ordinary, fun-loving girl caught up in mild excitement.

“You go connecting everything haphazardly to your own fantasies, you know.”
“I detest being coerced like that.”
“I am myself.”
“A woman without flesh and blood—how absurd.”
“I’m no specter.”
“And this ‘criminal’ nonsense—since when do felons take orders from their victims?”
“But play—oh yes.”
“Counterfeit romance? All the better.”
“No sorrow when it ends.”
“Dogs I adore—yet never keep.”
“For they die.”
“Then comes grief.”
“Loathe sadness more than anything.”
“My own tears? Unbearable.”
“Others’ weeping? Equally vile.”
“Half my days spent at play.”
“The rest? Work.”
“Work too I cherish.”
“Forgetting becomes possible.”
“Even forgetting play itself.”

Shinko’s face flushed.
The words rhythmically quickened their pace.
That was something verging on frenzy.
Tanimura could tell her face was flushed.

“Ah, it’s hot.”

Shinko turned around and walked toward the window.

★

“If it’s a game of counterfeit love, I like it even more,” Shinko said.

"That must be forgiveness in response to the confession," Tanimura thought.

However, Tanimura was struck not by joy at her forgiveness, but by an even more intense surprise. That was the flush on Shinko’s face. That was truly an unexpected change. It was a tempest-like passion. What appeared on her face was nothing more than a flush, but...

Tanimura had been fantasizing solely about the most exquisite techniques concerning Shinko. He had never even momentarily conceived of such violent passion. The facial flush did not merely betray that fact. It was something that betrayed the very foundation of his fantasies about Shinko. Indeed, what the facial flush revealed was not spiritual passion. Rather, it was the most physical passion. It was a passion that immediately connected to physical acts—or rather, one that made him intuit nothing but those acts. It was not something healthy. It was something mindless. It was not vigorous. It was even more violently intense than that. It was pathological. And its essence remained incomprehensible. It was probably a passion that made him imagine something called infinity.

“I am me, you know,” Shinko said.
“The idea of a woman without a physical body is ridiculous—I’m not a ghost, you know,” she said.
It was unclear whether these were honest words or calculated ones.
Had it been Tanimura from five minutes earlier, he would have had no room for anything but viewing this as artifice.
After seeing her flushed face, everything differed.
Rather, it could even be seen as a form of protest.

However, once again—just as with all words—even the flush on her face might be an innate artifice, Tanimura feared.
It was too abrupt.
Too violent.
A spectacular surge.
At any rate, the sole truth was that his confession had been accepted.
Yet relying solely on this acceptance proved woefully inadequate.
For the flush he had witnessed on Shinko’s face was far too striking.
His old fantasy had been abruptly shattered.
And now a new fantasy had instantaneously taken its place.
That fantasy was Shinko’s physical body.
A body imbued with an abnormal passion beyond anything he had ever imagined.

Tanimura wondered why he had never contemplated this physical body until now.
Had there been no clues to ponder?
That was part of it.
Yet a love devoid of physicality, consisting purely of soul—the very concept itself was unnatural.
It was too phantasmal.
That fantasy served as a shield for self-defense, Tanimura thought.
It felt like nothing more than a defensive illusion born from overanticipating Shinko's rejection and manipulation.
Though he hadn't dwelled on Shinko's physical form, he had always recognized its beauty.
And he had fixated solely on the passion of being manipulated.
That fantasy's sweetness was simply something he had never before deemed unnatural.

One undeniable fact was that he had liked Shinko since quite some time ago.

★

Shinko did not return from the window.
Tanimura walked over there.
He thought about his own sickly, pitiful body.
He wondered if even the passion that this sad body of his had resolved upon after all its sorrow still pertained not to the soul, but to the woman’s body.
He doubted whether he should believe it.

If only the flush on Shinko’s face were just a momentary hallucination.
No—if only everything were Shinko’s heaven-sent artifice.
Tanimura was pierced by his body’s sorrow—its wretchedness.
He lacked the courage to set his own lamentable flesh against Shinko’s physical form seething with monstrous passion.
He burned with shame.
And terror seized him.
A terror born of humiliation at his impotence.

Yet even this terror existed only because hope still lingered within him.
Were someone to ask what filled Tanimura’s heart now, he would answer plainly.
He did not know.
The unfolding of events alone held all meaning now—so he told himself.

“Shin-chan, you said you like counterfeit love, right?”
“My love isn’t counterfeit.”
“It’s what you’d call false love.”
“Falsehood may be truth.”
“However, a counterfeit is probably nothing more than a counterfeit.”
“Shin-chan, you might have had a stylish antique hobby, but that wit of yours doesn’t quite get through to me.”
However, I thought.
Shin-chan had allowed my confession, I thought.
“It’s okay to believe that, right?”

Shinko closed the window.

“The winter wind must be bad for you.”

“I don’t think it will immediately endanger my life—though.”

“Why didn’t you tell me to close the window?”

“Because Shin-chan doesn’t like that.”

“Even if it endangers your life.”

Tanimura nodded.

Shinko’s face burned.
Her eyes were like oil.

“Even I loved you more than anyone, you know.”

Tanimura froze.

“I’m not myself today.”
“Because you’re being too much.”
“Because you’re being mean.”

Shinko’s lips pleaded. Suddenly, her complexion paled.
It felt as though her limbs were writhing in anguish.

“You’re a terrible person.”
“You’re tormenting me.”

Shinko clenched both hands and pressed them against her temples.

"You're tormenting me so much, so much."

Lips trembled.
Eyes closed.
The body stood upright and swayed.
It was on the verge of collapsing.
When Tanimura caught her, Shinko collapsed against his chest while keeping her fists pressed to her temples.

Tanimura lacked the strength to hold her up.
Through reflexive full-body effort, he became aware that there could exist a deceptively slow span of time in which he fell onto his buttocks and Shinko slid down from his grasp.
Despite this, Shinko—having slipped down—lay prone on the floor with considerable force.
She remained in a posture with both fists pressed against her temples.

Tanimura was perplexed by the weight of the unresponsive body.
To embrace Shinko and lay her supine required him to expend every ounce of strength.
He could not right her onto her back unless he rotated himself beneath while clutching her and fell.
When he finally slid Shinko's form downward and freed himself from its burden, he grew more disoriented by desire's torment than exhaustion's anguish.
Shinko's face showed no injuries.

Shinko faintly opened her eyes.
Tanimura kissed Shinko with a timidity and slowness far exceeding what he himself willed.
He felt hollow rather from the very intensity of that desire.
Shinko answered the kiss, her eyes opening wide with anguish.
Both fists came free from her temples and moved through the void—broad, high, slow.
As if embracing empty space itself, then gradually, both arms wound around Tanimura's emaciated back.
Those arms contained no strength.
She coiled around his back yet made no contact.
Only several fingertips pressed and moved against both edges of Tanimura's back—slowly yet forcefully—as though guided by some blind fingertip will.

Shinko was suddenly choking with sobs.
Every part of Shinko burst forth at once.
All her strength gathered in her arms, and she clutched Tanimura’s chest.
She frantically sought lips.

Tanimura was bewildered.
His arms were living things that willed themselves to clasp Shinko’s neck.

Everything that happened afterward was a blur to him.
It was all things he had never experienced before.
The two of them rolled all over the room.
Everything was natural.
And he became more bewildered in a fit of inverted agitation when seeing Shinko above him than when looking down at her below.
Because at that moment, Shinko’s face resembled no other face.
Shinko was not intoxicated.
She was just aroused.
Her complexion was brown.
It was tinged with a slight redness.
Her cheeks were full, her eyes blazed.
Her eyes could not close.

The two became one.
They collided with the wall and rebounded.
They even collided with the brazier.
There came a time when Shinko lay collapsed on top of Tanimura.
The two lay collapsed, overlapping in a cross shape.
The two were completely exhausted.
Tanimura was finally entirely aware of his breathing.
However, Shinko slowly rose up once more and began to wrap her arms around Tanimura’s neck.
Then, once again, new strength welled up.
Tanimura was stirred by the inexhaustible strength of his own flesh.
Whenever Shinko collapsed from exhaustion, she would always fall forward onto Tanimura’s body, their forms overlapping in a cross shape.
Tanimura could not form a single thought.
The act of staring at Shinko was all that existed.

The time came when they naturally separated.
Shinko rolled against the wall and lay collapsed.
From waist to legs lay exposed.
No thought of concealment remained.
Her arms stayed crossed over her forehead.

Tanimura clothed himself.
He stared at Shinko's naked lower body.
No trace of carnal vulgarity showed.
Nothing moved with functional purpose.
Not even a scrap of paper remained.
All stayed cast aside in wild abandon, even now.

The slenderness of Shinko’s waist further agitated Tanimura’s exhausted heart.
Only that the vertical thickness was somewhat slender; the curves of her chest and hips were gentle, with no unnatural protrusions anywhere.

Tanimura could not help but look at the hidden chest.
He leaned forward, placed his hands on the jacket,

“Shin-chan.”
“Show me your breasts. I never imagined until today that there could be such slender, round beauty in your waist.”
“I want to see all of Shin-chan’s body.”

“Yes, look.”

It was an effortless reply.
As if prompting Tanimura’s ministrations, she languidly freed one arm from her forehead and gripped the edge of her rumpled jacket.
Tanimura saw those beautiful breasts.
He saw the pure white chest.
He saw the gentle curves flowing from her waist.
He could not sate his gaze.
Then hid them beneath the jacket.

Not a single ugly or shadowed thing could he recall.

“Shin-chan.”
“Now I dread seeing you clothed.”
“To think that even today—from this moment onward—I must look upon you dressed...”

“But we can’t stay like this forever.”

“I will likely only be able to feel at ease when looking at your naked body.”
“How painful this is.”

Tanimura inadvertently muttered.
"How painful this is," he thought.
Yet he felt refreshed.
Despite the severity of his fatigue—the emptiness of complete exhaustion that had consumed all his strength—

Is this what the physical body could be like? Tanimura wondered.
What a healthy thing it must be.
All of Tanimura’s expectations had been betrayed.
Yet he felt not the slightest regret.
Who could this woman be?
Would tomorrow truly resemble today?

And Tanimura thought about his own sorrowful body.
About this body that couldn't necessarily foresee tomorrow's happiness from today's.
As he reflected, everything about this day had been strange.
The sole mournful mystery was this spring-like wonder of his carnal passion throughout the day.
Then he felt darkness only when contemplating his own body.
Rather, he felt shame and grotesquerie.

He thought of Motoko's body.
He thought of her grotesqueness.
Soul-based love—no, rather these two people mired in carnal grotesqueness.
Thinking thus, he tasted faint bitterness at its repulsiveness.

What is the soul?
Does such a thing even exist?
But I want something.
Something other than carnal desire.
Something that connects men and women.
A single string.

Everything was refreshing and fulfilled.
However, one thing remains unfulfilled.
Perhaps—maybe something that must be called the soul.