Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the entrance of Mitsutaka Woodworks,

A paper notice reading "Closed for Election" was posted.
The candidate might be fine with that as proprietor, but his employees would surely suffer.
Upon gathering neighborhood rumors,

"As for the employees—even counting the errand boys—there are only seven or eight in total."
"Since they're all fully occupied with election campaigning, the business may be closed but has never been busier," came the talk.
Mitsutaka Yoshitarō was a man who had appeared in this area after the war and made his mark manufacturing refrigerators.
Now employing craftsmen to produce wooden furniture, he ranked among the top earners locally.
Yet neighbors whispered this candidacy might reduce him back to wood shavings.

If elected as a Diet member, one might gain money, but merely running for office should bring none.
There was also the approach of store advertising, but for a business manufacturing refrigerators and wardrobes, that wouldn’t make much impact.

“In other words, he’s just some political fanatic, huh?”

Anyone would naturally think this way, but somehow, that didn’t seem to be the case.

Kankichi, who resided in this neighborhood, had overheard these rumors without particularly trying to listen—and there, relying on a reporter’s intuition—he sensed that something might be lurking beneath the surface.

But what ulterior motive could a candidate like him—utterly unknown, with no base or reputation—possibly have? There were candidates put up to split others' votes, but to steal votes away, one needed both influence and clout. Mitsutaka Yoshitarō lacked those. At best, he might manage to secure a hundred votes.

“However，humans do not act without reason．Not even a madman．”

This was a phrase written in a certain psychology book，and Kankichi seized upon it with a start．

"A Fascist, maybe?"

There existed in town a self-styled patriot turned lunatic whose very face defied his madness.
There were cases where even those living nearby wouldn’t notice until he delivered that speech.
Just as one wouldn’t recognize the madman next door until his fit came upon him.

However, Kankichi fortuitously managed to hear his campaign speech at the station square while returning from the newspaper office.
It was truly something that reached the height of peculiarity.

“I am Mitsutaka Yoshitarō—Mitsutaka Yoshitarō is who I am.”
(Bowing to all sides) “Please take a good look at this face.”
“This is Mitsutaka Yoshitarō.”
“(Someone calls out: ‘Hey, pretty boy!’) No, I am not a handsome man.”
(Someone shouts: “Don’t be so modest!”) “I am well aware of my own standing, but both my face and my mind are those of a thoroughly mediocre man.”
(The people roared with laughter) “Even if I were to be elected as a Diet member, there would be no change in Japan’s political situation.”
(Someone called out: “That’s obvious!”)
(The people laughed even harder) “I am opposed to rearmament, but if Japan were to rearm, the country would not endure.”
“First, stability in the people’s livelihoods (…)” — in short, it boiled down to the standard anti-rearmament arguments most frequently seen in newspapers.
There was nothing novel about it, nor anything radical.
Moreover, his oratory was utterly lackluster.

“What’s the purpose of this candidacy?”

He struggled to comprehend it.
He decided he should confront the man directly.
It was that bad habit of newspaper reporters.
Even if you confronted them directly, there was no chance of hearing their true intentions.
Moreover, if there were ulterior motives at play, they wouldn’t just withhold the truth—they’d resort to scheming, risking entrapment.
To uncover real intentions required indirect methods.
Yet knowing this, that reckless impulse to meet the subject head-on—that’s what they called a reporter’s instinct.

Kankichi visited Mitsutaka Woodworks late at night.
The man who appeared at the reception was a sinister-looking fellow in his forties who took his business card,

"Oh?"
"A newspaper reporter?"
"A newspaper reporter?"
"Ha ha ha."
"Newspaper..."
"Ha."
"Haa!"
"Ha ha ha!"

His deranged laughter showed no sign of stopping.
That cackling guided Kankichi deeper inside—continuing unabated even after he'd been introduced to Mitsutaka in the inner room.
Mitsutaka grimaced distastefully yet allowed the laughter.
Everything during this election period seemed bent on endurance alone.

“I’ve come to ask about your impressions of running for office.”

“Ah, do make yourself comfortable.”
He maintained the politically astute demeanor expected of a candidate, yet it all rang utterly amateurish.
For that very reason, it didn’t leave a bad impression.

“Is this your first time running?”

“Yes.”

“Why have you not run for office until now?”

“Well, you see...”
“In short, this is my extravagant hobby.”
“I’ve managed to acquire a modest sum of money.”
“That’s precisely what funds this hobby.”
“It’s a hobby made possible by money, you see.”
“The neighbors are kind enough to worry about it as well, but I have made myself perfectly clear.”
“Since it’s a hobby, I don’t mind.”
“Please do not concern yourselves.”
“‘Please allow me to fulfill my true ambition,’ I said.”

“When you say ‘true ambition’...?”

“It’s a hobby.
The true ambition of a hobby.”

“Excuse me, but do you normally refer to yourself as ‘I’ in daily life?”
He appeared startled, his face flushing crimson,

“My apologies. I typically use more casual terms like ‘ore’…”
The cackling man in the room’s corner listened intently, then began snickering anew, making Kankichi pity Mitsutaka.

“You’re running as an independent—but which party would you support if pressed?”

“The Liberal Party, I suppose,”
“Ideologically, we share much common ground.”
“However, greater care must be taken to nurture small and medium-sized businesses.”
“This represents my profound dissatisfaction—and what I intend to address…”

As Mitsutaka began slipping into campaign rhetoric, Kankichi raised his voice to steer him away.

“Who do you admire?”

“Admire?…”

“Or a senior you respect.”
“A political mentor.”

“I have no senior.”
“I am entirely self-reliant.”
“Consistently self-reliant,” he declared emphatically.
Beside him lay a collection of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s stories.
It was a book that seemed entirely unsuited to him.

“Who reads that book?”

“This?
“Ah, this is mine.”

He took out two or three more books from behind his knees and showed them. They were works by Dazai Osamu.

“Are they interesting?”

“They are interesting. Laughable books.”

“You find them funny?”

“Funny indeed. This one here is incomprehensible.”

Having said this, he produced a single Iwanami Bunko volume. When Kankichi took it, he saw it was by Kitamura Tōkoku.

“What about your education?”

“I dropped out of middle school.”
“I used to read books quite extensively.”
“However, in recent years, I haven’t been reading them.”

“But you are reading them, aren’t you?”

He did not answer.
He seemed tired.

“How many votes do you think you can get?”

When asked, he merely averted his gloomy eyes briefly and did not answer this one either.
Eyes that seemed to betray his true self—gloomy eyes.

“This **is** his true self!”

Kankichi kept that day close to his heart.
All his other words were just an act.
Like that forced, stifling "I" he used.

"In short, there's something behind this."
Kankichi steeled his resolve, determined to get to the bottom of it.

★

On his next day off, Kankichi lay in wait from early morning and tailed Mitsutaka Yoshitarō’s truck. With the intention of observing exactly where he went and what he did, he had begged and pleaded with the manager to borrow one of the company’s cars. Where would he go? What would he do? Who would he meet? What would happen? He had been laughed at by the manager.

“You say there’s an ulterior motive—what exactly do you think it is?”

“For example, perhaps smuggling. Or perhaps an international spy…”

“Hey, Kansuke. Elections especially attract attention. And there’s surveillance—surveillance for election law violations. Those watchful eyes aren’t limited to just election violations. Do you really think there are criminals who’d go out of their way to exploit strictly monitored elections? However, well, since you’ve set your sights so high, consider this a learning experience. Give it a shot.”

He had lent me the car out of pity.
If something didn’t happen, I wouldn’t be able to face my colleagues.

Mitsutaka's truck entered the red-light district.
At the crossroads of the Prostitution District, he began his speech.
“Got him!”
Kankichi's heart leapt.

Giving speeches to prostitutes was nothing but a futile effort. Generally speaking, prostitutes tend to move around frequently; many lack transfer certificates, and most of them don't have voting rights. Even if they did have voting rights, there's no reason they'd go out of their way to come vote. If they were to come vote, since it's an area with local bosses, you'd have to assume all votes are collectively decided beforehand. For someone without connections to those local bosses to give speeches there would be futile. Even someone completely inexperienced in elections should understand that much.

“Why was he giving a speech there?”

There had to be a reason for that.
Kankichi hid the car and edged closer to observe.

Mitsutaka bowed ceremoniously to all four directions as usual before launching into his opposition-to-rearmament spiel.
In this red-light district where soldiers were known to be prime customers—prices lately set with them in mind—what sense did it make to oppose military buildup to those whose livelihoods depended on war?
Not that this seemed relevant anyway—there was nobody listening.
With nothing out of place that might draw attention, anything unusual would’ve been glaringly obvious.
While nothing transpired on Mitsutaka’s end, Kankichi found himself thoroughly occupied.

“Hey there.”
“Want some fun?”

“I’m working right now.”

“What’re you up to? A gangster? You?”

“It’s a stakeout.”

“Even though I’m right here. Well, I won’t stand for this!”

They grabbed his hands and feet, forcibly dragging him along. He desperately shook them off and leapt away. At the next hiding spot, he would get caught again. No matter where he hid, they would inevitably catch him. As a result, his surveillance proved thoroughly inadequate—yet through his limited observation, Mitsutaka’s speech concluded without any incident whatsoever.

The next place the truck stopped was a famous cherry blossom viewing spot.
Blessed with clear, warm weather, the cherry blossom viewing was in full swing.
Mitsutaka’s speech began right in the thick of it all, causing quite a stir.

He had no idea how to adjust his approach to different locations.
Even in the deserted Prostitution District he would ritualistically bow to all four directions, making his speeches grow ever more formulaic.

"I am Mitsutaka Yoshitarō, who has declared candidacy on this occasion—Mitsutaka Yoshitarō, that is."
"Please examine my face closely."
"This is Mitsutaka Yoshitarō."

As he began his usual routine, even the initially indifferent hanami-goers burst out laughing, forming an unexpectedly large crowd—a welcome sight—but since they were all drunk, the heckling grew raucous.
Jeers flew in from all directions—even into spaces where heckling had no place—creating a roaring commotion.
The most raucous heckler was a drunkard wearing a toy topknot.
However, upon closer inspection, he realized this was the ill-featured forty-year-old man who had come to answer the door and given a foolish laugh when Kankichi visited Mitsutaka the other night.
"So that’s it—he’s a plant."

Indeed, he truly had the makings of a plant. The man who had gone ahead to the cherry blossom spot and disguised himself as a drunkard seemed perfectly cast for his role. However, the candidate appeared genuinely inebriated, doing nothing but hurl jeers and heckles, utterly lacking any planted remarks one might expect. Yet perhaps this timing proved apt—had proper planted lines been delivered amidst that drunken crowd swelling like a dark mountain, it would have rendered the spectacle not only more ridiculous but downright pitiful. At any rate, even as they roared with laughter at him, keeping them entertained remained paramount.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly ask that your precious votes be cast for Mitsutaka Yoshitarō—Mitsutaka Yoshitarō!”

As he concluded his speech with that shout, raucous laughter and scattered applause arose.

“Alright!
Don’t worry.
I’ll handle it.”

“By the way, what ward is this here?”

Jeers and cheers flew about to such an extent.

Mitsutaka’s truck passed hesitantly through the cherry blossom crowd and stopped.
Then Mitsutaka removed his candidate sash and, surrounded by campaign staffers, returned to the cherry blossom throng.
And they too began a round of drinking beneath the blossoms.

“A candidate holding a cherry blossom party? Never heard of such a thing.”
“This guy’s getting weirder by the minute.”

Kankichi stared in disbelief.
He’d brought a lunch box himself, but no sake bottles.
Naturally.
He was here to work.
Yet Mr. Mitsutaka’s crew had properly prepared multiple one-liter bottles.
Given they’d even stationed advance plants here, those bottles were clearly meant for this very drinking session.

"The plans seemed properly organized,"
"Then there might be an even more elaborate scheme in place."
"This was getting really interesting."

Kankichi thought that another covert participant would join the secret drinking party.

However, the one who eventually arrived was none other than that ill-featured plant.
And before long, the entire group seemed to have gotten completely drunk.
They started fighting among themselves.

Because Kankichi had been deliberately monitoring from a distance without revealing himself, he couldn't determine what had started the fight.
A brawl had suddenly erupted.
One of those involved was the plant.
From what he could see, it was the plant who had been struck.
The one who threw the punch turned out to be a campaign staff member, not Mitsutaka.
By the time Kankichi rushed over, a crowd had already formed.
The scuffle had ended.
The plant was dusting himself off and preparing to leave.
Once more came that shrill laugh.

One person was being held by comrades and was crying.
The one crying was Mitsutaka.
Mitsutaka was led away to the truck, held from both sides.
It seemed no one realized that the crying man was the candidate who had delivered the speech.
The fights weren’t limited to there alone, and the crying men likely weren’t just him either.
A riot of drunken revelers was swirling there in disarray, caught between festivity and chaos.

Mitsutaka's group left by truck.
The plant did not appear there.

Mitsutaka's truck returned straight home.
Since they were too drunk to give campaign speeches，it seemed this day would end here.
When Mitsutaka was taken away crying，Kankichi had intuitively sensed this was the end；stomping right up behind to hear what he was wailing about，he found the man’s cries so heartrending yet cathartic that they could have turned people’s navels inside out.

“Ah, misery!
“Ah…”

He flailed his limbs wildly like a spoiled child and wailed again.

“Don’t let go of me!
“Ah, misery!
“Ah…”

And then he was loaded into the truck.

“Hmm.”

Kankichi involuntarily groaned as he realized his defeat.

“I have nothing more to say.”
That he then plunged into frantic drinking goes without saying.

★

The next day, quite late, as he was passing by on his way to work, Mitsutaka’s truck was just then loading him up and, seen off by his family on the roadside, about to depart.
The woman presumed to be his wife was surprisingly young, seemingly kind, and somewhat cute.
She was carrying a baby on her back.

“Daddy, do your best!” she said, having the baby wave its hand.
The truck drove away.

When he saw this, Kankichi’s heart changed with a surge.
Miren raised its head.

"That's right! The task of hearing Mrs. Pochapocha's story still remained. How careless of me! A reporter’s legs must pursue every story across the land without rest."

Thereupon, Kankichi approached Mrs. Pochapocha and obtained permission for a brief questioning.

“Yesterday, your husband returned home drunk, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Though he doesn’t usually drink.”

“Ah.”
“He doesn’t usually drink?”

“He started drinking occasionally around when the election began.”
“But he’s never gotten that drunk before.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.
“Maybe it’s the election that’s bad?”
“This candidacy business… isn’t it?”

“Are you against the candidacy, Mrs.?”
“In other places, it doesn’t seem to be the case, but…”

“That’s different for households like yours where they actually get elected.”
“Our household just ends up spending a fortune, so it’s utterly absurd.”
“Running for election while drinking himself into a frenzy like that is downright bizarre, isn’t it?”

“Is that frantic drinking?”

“I should think so.”
“Even I feel like drinking myself into a frenzy.”

“Why did he run for candidacy?”

“That’s exactly what I want to know.”

“Is there something you wish to say?”
“Especially when he gets drunk from frantic drinking—”

“He absolutely won’t say a thing.”
“Once he sets his mind to something, contrary to his gentle appearance, he becomes stubborn no matter what.”
“There must be some reason, but he won’t open up to me about it.”

The wife’s voice grew choked up.
However, for Kankichi, this was a triumph.
There really was something to this after all.
A secret even from his wife.
Frantic drinking from before the defeat.
If this isn’t suspicious, then what in the world could possibly be?
But I mustn’t rush to achieve results.
Since the wife doesn’t know the secret, I shouldn’t rush into unnecessary questioning; first, I need to secure her trust.

“That must be worrying.
“But given that Mr. Yoshitarō must also be in a desperate situation, you should strive to comfort and encourage him as much as possible.”

“I’m doing my best with that intention. And working behind the scenes to get at least one more vote.”

“Gah!”
“You mustn’t do that.”
“If you work behind the scenes like this, it’s an election law violation.”

The fact that she maintained such a calm expression even after being told this was likely due to living a life so utterly naive about the ways of the world that even the term "election law violation" felt alien to her. Or perhaps she simply lacked proper education. She appeared to be a kind-hearted woman, but one who rarely read newspapers. Thereupon, when Kankichi took the trouble to explain about election law violations, it seemed only his kindness registered, for she smiled cheerfully,

“Thank you. But all I’m doing behind the scenes is praying to God.”

Her face remained utterly calm.

He went to the newspaper office and reported to the section chief.

“Why did it turn into a fight?”

“I don’t know why, but I suppose that planted bastard wasn’t faithful to his job, so he must’ve been slapped across the face.”
“He’s the type who starts swinging when drunk.”

“Then there’s nothing strange about any of it, is there?”

“Even if he hasn’t revealed the secret behind his candidacy to his wife?”

“Idiot.”
“There’s no secret to begin with.”

“I see.”

“Still, this might make for an article.”

The cherry blossom-drinking candidate.
“Try writing that.”

“Please stop this.”
“I didn’t waste a whole day just to write something like that.”

“Just you wait and see, damn it!”

“Hmm. Still not giving up, are you?”

“No way I’d give up. When Inari Kansuke’s sixth sense—the one that’s been fixed on this—misses its mark—”

“There’s plenty!”

“Exactly!”

Kankichi slipped into a pachinko parlor and vented his frustration for half a day.

Kankichi had a habit of keeping meticulous memos.
Owing to the tenet that a social affairs reporter’s eyes must let nothing escape notice, whenever free time presented itself, he would take these out to sharpen his perceptive faculties.

“This is it!”
“How do you like that!”

In his memo were written: "Gloomy eyes - the sole glimpse he ever showed of his true self." This had to be definitive proof! Now that he'd seized upon those eyes... Yet nothing of consequence had occurred since then.

"After all, that fight must be part of this strangeness.
Even those speeches in the Prostitution District aren't some stunt your average person could manage.
Looking at it this way, isn't everything odd?
Alright!
I'll visit Mrs. Pochapocha every morning.
There's something plumply cute about her.
Pretty sharp idea for daily visits, this."

He attached a flimsy pretext to trivial matters and resolved not to forget his morning visits to Mrs. Pochapocha on his commute.
All while using caramels he'd scored at pachinko as little gifts.

Through such circumstances, he had grown close enough with Mrs. Pochapocha to speak quite frankly, but the secret behind his candidacy only grew fainter in proportion.
This was because, as they grew closer, Mrs. Pochapocha no longer showed any signs of worry.

“If my husband becomes a Diet member, what will I do?
“A Diet member’s wife...”
because she had started blurting out puzzling and outlandish things.

What an utter fool this woman is.

Kankichi had steeled his resolve, yet finding her a cute woman, his daily visits devolved into an undisciplined state where their purpose shifted to a different sort of enjoyment.

Eventually, the election ended.
Mitsutaka Yoshitarō received 132 votes.
Exceeding one hundred votes was commendable.
It indeed came to an uneventful close.

What happened then was the headless corpse incident discovered beneath an elementary school.
That elementary school was located directly behind Mitsutaka Woodworks.
The owner of the corpse could not be identified.

★

Kankichi couldn't shake this peculiar sense of foreboding that arose with the incident. For some reason, he felt this must be connected to Mitsutaka. Mitsutaka Woodworks had resumed operations, but upon closer inspection, that ill-featured planted heckler was nowhere to be seen. The corpse was beginning to bloat, though they estimated it had been dead roughly two weeks - killed exactly during cherry blossom season. Now that he thought of it, Kankichi hadn't seen the planted heckler since the hanami viewing. Of course, he'd only been making brief visits to the empty house after Mitsutaka's truck departed since then, which also meant fewer chances to encounter campaign workers.

However, if that planted heckler was missing, you’d expect someone to have raised a fuss by now—yet there was nothing of the sort.
Kankichi casually stopped by Mitsutaka Woodworks and asked a young man working there.

“Haven’t your employees decreased since the election?”

“They haven’t gone down at all.
It’s exactly the same as before.”

“Isn’t there a guy around forty with a nasty face missing?”
“Around forty? That must be the boss here.”
“He’s not the boss.”
“Are there even any craftsmen around forty here? They’re all much younger ones.”
“Wasn’t he there during the election?”
“During the election, the workshop was closed.”
“He was doing election work, I tell you.”

“During elections, all sorts of people come to help.”

“During the cherry blossom viewing speech, there was that planted heckler, wasn’t there?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Election talk isn’t fucking interesting at all.”
“Cut it out.”

He had gotten angry.
There was no sign he was deliberately hiding anything, but overall he seemed reluctant to discuss the election.
However, this appeared to stem from how the election had concluded with that ill-reputed vote count.
Whenever election talk arose, there seemed to be a kind of resentful bitterness brewing among them - as if they were being scorned.

Now his only recourse was to extract information from Mrs. Pochapocha—but with the election over, even requesting a meeting felt like groping in the dark for leads, leaving him unable to summon the courage to cross her threshold. On his day off, after lying in wait along the main street for half a day, he finally managed to intercept her when she ventured out shopping.

“During the election, I lent something to one of Mr. Mitsutaka’s campaign workers—that person, isn’t he around anymore?”

“If they’re campaign workers, they should all be here.”
“Because they’re employees.”

“But he’s not here.”

“That can’t be right.
No one has quit.”

“He’s a man around forty, you know.
He’s the man who answered the door when I first came to your house.”

“Was there such a person?”

“He was here. There was a man who let out a madman-like guffaw, wasn’t there?”

“Yes, yes.”
“Ah, Mr. Emura.”
“That person is not an employee.”
“He is not one of ours.”
“He was not even a campaign worker.”
“There were times when he occasionally came to help, but he stole money and has not come back since.”

“Did he steal your household’s money?”

“Yes.
About 100,000 yen in election funds.
Since it’s election-related, and it’d harm our reputation now, we haven’t made it public.
What an awful person.”

“When did he steal it?”

“I don’t remember clearly.
Once you lend to that person, he won’t return it. Since we’ll handle it ourselves, please try telling my husband.”

“It’s nothing that serious—I just saw your face and felt like asking a quick question.
What kind of person is he, really?
He was a man with an unpleasant face, wasn’t he?”

“He seems to be an old acquaintance.”
“From before our marriage.”
“I don’t know exactly what kind of acquaintance he was, but he’s a bad sort.”
“Friends from when I didn’t know my husband—I can’t help feeling distrustful toward them all. It’s just unpleasant.”
“Now even my husband seems untrustworthy to me—all because of that man.”

“Was he truly such a disagreeable man?”

“It’s simply my intuition.”
“But everyone in our household—the employees too—disliked Mr. Emura.”
“I’m certain it was Mr. Emura who goaded my husband into running for office.”

“But he wasn’t even an election strategist or campaign manager, was he?”

“That’s because bad people don’t want to show themselves in public, you see. In the end, he siphoned off the money and ran away.”

“But it’s only 100,000 yen, right?”

“But that’s a huge amount of money, isn’t it?”

“In the grand scheme of election expenses, it’s peanuts.”
“You must’ve spent a million or two million yen yourselves, right?”

Their silence—perhaps out of fear of election violations—was indeed commendable.

“It’s not that I particularly want the things I lent back, but I’d like to have the opportunity to meet your husband once.”

“That’s a good idea. Even if it’s something someone else did, if there’s any connection, he’s the type who’ll handle it properly.”

After deliberately waiting three or four days, Kankichi visited Mitsutaka after dinner, relaxed in a yukata.

As soon as Mitsutaka saw him, he said, “I hear Emura borrowed something from you and hasn’t returned it.”

“No, that’s already settled.”
“On the contrary, I hear you’re the one who suffered terrible damage.”

“No.”
“This too falls under election expenses.”
“If I consider it that way, there’s no issue.”
“I don’t even want to recall anything about the election anymore.”

Mrs. Pochapocha took it over,

“We burned everything used in the election four or five days ago.
“Since the young shop workers were all flustered, they ended up burning this and that in a great commotion.
“They even burned up the East tables used at the election office with great gusto.
“Since there’s an excess of things in this house, it’s also because we don’t mind burning them up, you see.”

Kankichi was startled.
It goes without saying that turning the traces of a crime into smoke is the surest method of elimination.

However, four or five days ago—that had been far too much time to have passed.
It had been nearly ten days since someone’s corpse was discovered.
If they wanted to hide a crime, they should’ve burned it sooner.
When he looked around the room, the books by Akutagawa and Dazai were no longer visible, leaving only rather common magazines.

“Does he no longer read Akutagawa and Dazai?”
When he asked this, Mrs. Pochapocha responded,

“Those were burned up too, you see.”

Mitsutaka uttered a hollow, feeble laugh.
It must have been a bitter smile.

“Strange books are better off not existing.”
“Books he never even reads normally.”
“Was it only during the election that he read them?”

“He’d gotten obsessed with them even before the election—novels by people who’d killed themselves, you know.”
“They weren’t interesting at all.”
“But still, I wanted to read those books myself later.”
“Ah, misery!”

“Ah, misery?”

“It’s Jean Valjean, you see. I’d heard about that book through stories even before I was married, you know.”

Kankichi’s voice trailed off, and he could no longer speak.

“Ah, misery!”
Wasn’t that the line Mitsutaka had cried out when drunk?
Whether he retained no memory of his drunken episode or not, he remained as composed as ever, wearing only a faint wry smile.

"That line from back then seemed to have deep significance."
Realizing this, Kankichi was overcome with an overwhelming urge. He hastily took his leave, rushed back home, and opened his notes.

★

The line from that time, according to the notes, read:

“Ah, misery! Ah…”

Mitsutaka cries.
also states:

“Don’t let go of me! Ah, misery! Ah…”

Mitsutaka flailed his limbs, struggled, and cried again.
It was written.
That was all.

Based on this alone, there didn’t seem to be any particular significance. He had knowledge of shorthand, so his verbatim notes should be accurate.

“Something’s off,” he thought. “Why on earth would he read Jean Valjean? How does that connect to Akutagawa and Dazai’s novels? Mrs. Pochapocha called them novels by suicide victims—but are all of them like that?”

Looking at the notes, Mitsutaka had reportedly singled out Kitamura Tōkoku as particularly obscure.
Upon investigating, he found that this too was one of the literary figures who had committed suicide in the early years of the Meiji era.
He was even considered the progenitor of suicidal literary figures.

However, Victor Hugo—author of Les Misérables—was not someone who had committed suicide. According to the encyclopedia, he was a politician who had even served as France’s Prime Minister and was a literary giant.

"Is this the source of his political fervor?"
However, neither Victor Hugo nor Jean Valjean had appeared in the candidate’s election speeches.
Neither Akutagawa nor Dazai had appeared.
There were no literary expressions.
"There wasn't even a single word he learned from those books."
But still, it was strange.
That he had cried out "Ah, misery!" while weeping didn’t strike one as mere drunken rambling.
For a man who usually only read popular magazines to suddenly take up Les Misérables, Akutagawa, and Dazai was no trivial matter.
As for Kitamura Tōkoku from the Iwanami Bunko series, even the newspaper reporter Kankichi had barely known his name and been unaware that he too was a suicide—such was this literary figure lost to the past.
Without some significant reason, Mitsutaka wouldn’t have gathered those books.

"I wonder if there's some consistent commonality between these Eastern and Western literary works."
"If I could figure that out, it might solve the mystery—but my knowledge of literature is too shallow."
"That's right."
"I should consult Dr. Kosei."

Dr. Kosei was not actually a doctor but an oddly self-important know-it-all—a private detective around the same age as him, still in his late twenties.
Two or three years prior, he had made a name for himself as a punk by effortlessly solving the unprecedented bizarre Discontinuous Murder Case before breakfast.

“That punk seems to get lucky hits more often than you’d think. I should go consult him.”

So Kankichi rushed to his childhood friend’s detective agency.

★

Dr. Kosei listened attentively to Kankichi's account, asked frequent questions, and eagerly examined the notes.

Gradually, he began to get carried away.

“Your note-taking talent is truly remarkable.
“You’ll go far someday.
“Might even become the king of reporters.
“But since the culprit remains free, best curb those sleuthing tendencies for your own sake.
“Do feel free to borrow my genius.
“I’ll even add a concluding line to your notes.
“In the culprit’s own name.”

Kankichi was offended.
Every time he met this punk, his chest churned.
Having finally reconfirmed the numerous solemn chapters of that past history, he realized—Damn it!—he shouldn’t have come.

“Give me back my notes.
I’m leaving now.”

“It won’t be too late even after having me write in the concluding line, you know.”
“It’s your chance for a promotion, after all.”
“There’s a gold envelope within these notes, but with just your abilities alone, it isn’t enough.”
Dr. Kosei pressed down firmly on the notes with his hand to prevent them from being taken back,

“You should’ve at least read Kitamura Tōkoku.”
“If you had known they were three literary figures who all committed suicide, your attention would have been more keenly focused.”
“There are other writers who committed suicide as well.”
“More recent examples include Makino Shin’ichi and Tanaka Hidemitsu.”
“However, those books were not in his possession.”
“Probably because they weren’t available in Iwanami Bunko editions and he couldn’t get his hands on them.”
“Since he knew everything from Kitamura to Dazai, he must have known all the other writers who committed suicide.”
“Because until some reason arose, he hadn’t known a single name of any writers who had committed suicide.”
“As evidence that he knows nothing of literature, he calls Dazai’s books laughable works—absurd books.”
“Therefore, these aren’t books he came to read by following some literary path, but rather names he learned all at once due to some reason.”
“Therefore, the meaning behind that grouping should be clear.”
“Namely: suicide.”
“Probably, he himself developed a desire to commit suicide, which led him to want to read books by suicidal authors—don’t you think?”

“Quit your pretentious snooping.”

“Excuse me. Your reporter’s intuition was precisely on target. Your arrow had struck true, but unfortunately, you couldn’t see the mark yourself. It’s akin to a master’s shuriken felling unseen foes in the dark—a flashy technique that’s all splash and no substance. Yet absurd as it seems, I appear to have mastered discerning such targets. Just as there was reason behind his reading suicidal authors, needless to say there was purpose in his perusing ‘Ah, Misery’ [Les Misérables] too. And your suspicion proved accurate. When Mitsutaka wailed ‘Ah, misery!’ through his tears, wasn’t he laying his secret bare for all to see?”

“Quit your bullshitting. He’s just saying ‘Ah, Misery’ [Les Misérables], isn’t he?”

“He’s saying ‘Don’t let go! Ah, Misery [Les Misérables]!’”

Dr. Kosei grinned slyly.

“So what?”

“Recall your own notes. Mr. Mitsutaka said ‘Don’t let go!’ while flailing his limbs about. That shouting is a tad illogical, don’t you think? If he hadn’t wanted to be let go, he should have clung on. However, why would he be flailing his limbs and making movements as if trying to break free from someone’s shoulders?”

"My ears, my shorthand—they're absolutely accurate."

"My ears—my shorthand—are precise, wouldn't you agree? A gentleman mustn't lose his usual composure."

“Give me back my notes.”

“Your notes are absolutely accurate.”
“It’s just that the interpretation of the sound was different.”
“It wasn’t ‘Don’t let go!’—it had to be interpreted as ‘Don’t tell the secret! Ah, misery! Ah…’”

Kankichi reeled as if struck by a club.
When he instinctively began to stand up, Dr. Kosei smirked and stopped him,

“It’s still too early.
“Calm down.
“Calm down.
“Mr. Mitsutaka has been telling us from the very beginning of his election speeches that he is Jean Valjean.
“There—look at the memo.
“Are you ready?
“‘I, Mitsutaka Yoshitarō, have declared my candidacy on this occasion.’
“‘This is Mitsutaka Yoshitarō.’
“‘Please take a good look at this face.’
“‘This is Mitsutaka Yoshitarō.’
“And so on.
“In other words—besides proclaiming himself as Mitsutaka Yoshitarō—he’s desperately crying out that he bears someone else’s face too.
“That someone is Jean Valjean.
“Namely—Jean Valjean, the former identity of Mayor Madeleine.
“In other words—someone who was Mr. Mitsutaka Yoshitarō’s former self.
“That might be a convict.
“Like Jean Valjean—he might be an escapee.
“And that partner from back then was probably Emura—a man with a sinister face.”

“Why are you shouting?”

“Expecting me to explain that isn’t how a newspaper reporter should operate. However, it was probably out of desperation. There must have been a time when he thought of committing suicide. However, judging from his decision to run in the election, perhaps he acted out of desperation. It might be desperation—like he’s declaring, ‘Let anyone who knows my face come forward!’ Around that time, he seemed to have started drinking frantically, so perhaps that’s what happened. And so he began recklessly pouring his painstakingly amassed wealth into the election campaign. If someone were to have their fortune drained by Emura’s pestering, they might think, ‘Rather than that, I’ll expose my face to the public and ruin my fortune on my own terms—serves you right!’ Don’t you somehow understand that feeling? But of course, his true feelings are that he doesn’t want his former identity revealed, and he certainly doesn’t want to ruin his fortune. Therefore—‘Please take a gooood look at this face.’ Even as he delivers these frantic speeches, when drunk, he cries, ‘Ah, misery! Don’t tell them!’ Even if Mr. Mitsutaka ultimately killed Emura... Say, don’t you want a nice monetary gift?”

Dr. Kosei released his hand from atop the memo while laughing. That face, however, gradually grew serious. Kankichi nodded as if responding to that face. He then took the memo and put it into his pocket.

A few days later, Mr. Mitsutaka Yoshitarō turned himself in, accompanied by Kankichi.
After that, it should be added that this became Kankichi’s exclusive scoop and earned him a monetary reward.

Dr. Kosei’s deduction was nearly perfect.
Mr. Mitsutaka and Emura were convicts who had escaped from a Hokkaido prison amid the chaos following the end of the war.