Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Dusk—when that dim evening haze began welling up from the earth's surface, I found myself unable to remain motionless any longer. Especially on days when the weather turned crisp and bright, I would grow as restless as a lovesick cat, utterly incapable of remaining cooped up inside the house. As if remnants of daylight lingered thereabouts—and as though searching for them—I would leave home without reason and wander down aimless paths.

—At that time, I was staying in a small town along the Pacific coastline. It wasn’t that I had willingly abandoned that glittering “Tokyo” for this town without a single neon light—but when told by a doctor that I suffered from quite severe neurasthenia, I took the opportunity to temporarily distance myself from Tokyo’s heartbreak, renting a small villa to relocate here. My interactions with Tokyo consisted solely of letters accompanying my living expenses—sent through my aged mother’s hands in the latter part of each month—and my brief replies to them. Though it was a place reachable by train in less than two hours, I deliberately avoided pursuing any further interaction. The thought that somewhere in Tokyo, Nene—(ah, even now I can clearly recall her form whom I once called lover, though this recollection bears not a trace of that peculiar hopefulness one feels when unexpectedly remembering an actress’s face, being instead a maddeningly merciless memory fraught with anguish...)—that very Nene was likely living intimately with her new paramour Kijima Saburō—this thought alone made all of Tokyo seem utterly foul and lascivious to me, a sourness welling up from the depths of my throat.

(I won’t return to Tokyo until I’ve forgotten that…) That was what I had thought. Having resolved thus, I had abandoned Tokyo and come to this desolate coastal town when spring was still young. But the more I tried to forget—the more frantically I struggled—the more vividly I would recall Nene’s body wrapped in soft curves like a silk-floss doll, feeling a stabbing pain pierce through my chest. When dusk fell, the temptation grew particularly acute. Moreover, perhaps because each day felt like a kite with its severed string, when lamplighting time approached I could no longer remain still—driven along by the still-chilly wind down aimless paths, crossing windbreak dunes to wander through detours like a stray dog.

At times I would stride briskly across hardened sand left by the receding tide; other times stand mast-like at water's edge, staring unblinking at the rounded darkening horizon; or feel girlish sentimentality toward the ethereal crimson dyeing Taro Misaki's woods to my right; then eventually collapse onto skeleton-like driftwood, cherishing residual warmth in toes buried beneath sand while listening anew to the tide's monotonous swish-swish.

Now, I wonder—had over a month already passed since coming to this coast, days spent in extreme idleness with my mind refusing to settle? During those twilight strolls, at some indeterminate hour, a man appeared.

The man wore a striped lined kimono with an obi carelessly wrapped around his waist, his thistle-like hair tousled backward by sea winds—whether because of this or not, he was a gaunt man with strikingly prominent cheekbones. Upon reflection, it seems I had noticed that man from my very first walk—apparently he too always strolled along the coast at the same hour as I. In this utterly deserted shoreline, the presence of his staggering figure had imperceptibly come to feel as natural as breathing.

“Oh—”

The first to break the silence was that man. It was an utterly natural utterance, like something one might exchange when unexpectedly encountering a friend from ten years prior. At least, that was how it felt to me. It wasn’t that we were complete strangers—perhaps because we had already been acquainted beforehand. And so, “Oh—”

I too responded smoothly and nodded deeply. But the next words startled me. “Excuse my asking, but you don’t have tuberculosis, do you?” I—

“Huh?” I pressed. “You don’t mean—do I look tubercular to you?” I answered with faint indignation. “Oh, is that so? My deepest apologies... You see, when I observe a young man like yourself wandering this desolate coast at such an hour... I couldn’t help but suspect... Had it been true, I meant to share proven methods from my own experience...” The man spoke with profuse apology.

“It’s not tuberculosis, but an ailment of the heart—the germ called woman...” Masking it as a joke, I rescued him from his discomfort. Perhaps it was because I had long been curious about the man’s somewhat abnormal air, and also because my craving for conversation had inadvertently compelled me to say such things.

“My my, that sounds like the kind of germ you’d want to bring a telescope for rather than a microscope.” “That germ manifests various symptoms, you know—feverishness, wasting away, even having your life taken in the end... As for that disease... I’ve had my own experience with it too.” Having said that, the man made as if to correct his initial blunder, “Ahaha…” He laughed. And then, “That’s why I ended up in this lonely forgotten town too—”

“Ah! So you’re afflicted with the same malady…”

I too found my reservations melting away under his light banter, and before I knew it we were walking side by side along the shore. The sea wind was fiercely strong again today, at times snatching our words away, yet as the sunset finally faded, I resolved to visit his house atop Taro Misaki, yielding to his urging. That was,

“I studied medicine, but now for her sake, I’ve abandoned everything to throw myself into this unpracticed composition work…”

It was these words that had so greatly enticed my curiosity.

II

The man’s house was a solitary dwelling atop Taro Misaki.

To reach there required ascending a perilous narrow path carved into coarse-grained sandstone that wound its way upward; yet upon finally reaching the summit, Sagami Bay lay spread out below in its entirety—had it been daytime, I imagined what a splendid vista it would have made. But now, with the sun already set, under pale twilight's glow, a sea like diluted ink poured across folded silk lay richly pooled, while stars that had oozed forth too soon in the sky began shedding their haziness to glitter brightly.

However, what drew my eye more than that elemental vista was how a magnificent black-lacquered piano—as if it were some sovereign—reigned arrogantly within that small pavilion-like dwelling of merely two rooms (eight-tatami and four-and-a-half-tatami), though how it had been hauled up there defied comprehension.

“Do you cook for yourself—” Eventually, since I noticed no kitchen tools were visible, I asked. “Well, I have three meals a day delivered from a caterer in town... Since this place is so inconvenient, there’s quite the story—I had to promise that delivery boy a monthly commission of three yen. But here, no matter if I bang away at the piano all day or sing at the top of my lungs, there’s not a soul to mind it.”

“Truly, you’ve found yourself an unexpectedly convenient spot here.” And I nodded meaninglessly in agreement, “So, have you composed quite a bit already?”

“Ah, it’s been nearly a year now, but I haven’t even reached the starting point yet.” “Oh, that’s impressive! What is it—a symphony?” “No, no—just popular songs—” Involuntarily dumbstruck, I turned to look at the man’s face.

However, the man spoke with an utterly solemn expression. “Popular songs—they may be popular songs, but mine are no ordinary ones.” “They’re logically calculated songs that absolutely must become hits…” The number of popular songs was truly vast. But as a result, melodies used somewhere else kept popping up in other songs (as you’ve surely noticed yourself)—and this was inevitable! Given the limitations of human vocal range and tempo restrictions, composition—especially for simplistic things like popular songs—must eventually run out of ideas, don’t you agree? That’s why in popular music, melodies that were once hits elsewhere frequently reappeared under the guise of arrangements, or had parts reused, or in extreme cases got recycled wholesale with just the tempo altered to masquerade as something new. “You see now, don’t you? That’s why I decided to copyright every possible melody in every conceivable tempo… So now I’m analyzing all popular songs, trying to deduce and induce their patterns!”

The man, still impassioned, continued his bizarre discourse. “Are you aware that dodoitsu verses resist musical notation? Noh chants too elude transcription—their melodies pass orally through generations, sustaining prolonged ‘ah’ sounds while harboring imperceptible pitch modulations.” “Try playing dodoitsu on the piano and you’ll see—it becomes utterly nonsensical! You can only approximate it superficially, achieving something that merely *sounds plausible if you strain to hear it that way*.” “The root cause lies in pianos being confined to semitones—precisely why I engineered this special quarter-tone piano to capture those elusive melodies...”

While saying so, he suddenly stood up and opened the piano's keyboard. Indeed there lay white keys and black keys and another set painted green, overlapping and arranged as glossily as boxes of Japanese sweets—whether from their unfamiliarity or not, they gave an intensely peculiar impression.

I had been half-dumbstruck since earlier, able to do nothing but blink repeatedly at this madness-tinged fantasy beyond all critique.

Before long, "Well? What do you think?" The man looked up at my face as if peering into it. "I see... I understand perfectly. However—and I mean no disrespect—but aren't your efforts ultimately futile?"

“Futile—.” “You’re saying it’s no good? Why? Why is that?”

He drew his knee closer to me, his eyes gleaming. Whether it was my imagination or not, his knee trembled faintly. "Well, I’m not saying it’s impossible, but I do think it would be extraordinarily difficult. Analyzing and structuring popular songs is quite fascinating, but let me tell you this—what Japan desperately needs now is rubber, methods for producing synthetic rubber. There are many specialists researching it, yet they can’t seem to succeed. They analyze rubber, break it down into its constituent elements, and arrive at a perfect chemical formula dictating how it should be composed." "The formula has already been discovered—so theoretically, one need only synthesize something satisfying it. But chemical formulas can’t express ‘elasticity,’ that vital quality which is rubber’s very lifeblood. What gets successfully synthesized ends up being a worthless imitation—something rubber-like yet devoid of elasticity. Now, if I may be blunt—in your case, can musical notation express ‘timbre’? Unless you maximize that elastic quality called timbre, I hardly think such popular songs could strike from the very core of human hearts."

“Moreover—not just popular songs—I harbor deep suspicions about ‘trends’ themselves. Trends are much like love affairs—they seem utterly peerless in the moment, but how do they hold up when viewed afterward…?”

“You—”

The man violently interrupted my words.

“You—who do you think would sing my compositions? Who do you imagine I’ve abandoned everything and endured this agony for? Her—it’s all for her! She possesses a truly magnificent voice—that ‘elasticity’ you mentioned with synthetic rubber? She has it in abundance… Your fears are completely—”

“The woman I’ve abandoned everything for without regret—her name has been circulating widely lately—is an exceptionally talented stage singer. She’s apparently recorded quite a few tracks too, so you might have heard of her—Akimoto Nene, though she’s still just twenty years old.”

“Huh?!” I was stunned. Truly, at that moment, I became acutely aware that even my own complexion had changed abruptly— That woman Nene—the one who had plunged me into this abyss of despair—was this eccentric’s lover… But if that were so—had she, now cohabiting with Kijima, like me already forgotten this man too? (Nene—like some migratory bird!)

I closed my eyes. And, (Perhaps so.)

I muttered under my breath.

III “What are you so surprised about? Do you know Nene…?” The pitiful man furrowed his brows anxiously and stared intently into my face. “……” I hesitated for a moment, but I realized there was no way to make this man comprehend the reason for my surprise other than telling him the truth. “I was shocked—truly shocked—for I too fell in love with that woman called Nene.” “Huh? With Nene— And how did that go? What did Nene say to you?”

“Heh… Surely you can tell why I’ve come alone to this desolate town to recuperate from neurasthenia.” “I see… So you’ve been heartbroken. How unfortunate—.” “But please don’t take this the wrong way.” “Nene and I had a prior promise, you see...” The man said in a hoarse whisper, forcibly concealing the faint expression of relief that appeared.

But I closed my eyes, “No—Nene got married—” “Huh?!” The man’s shocked voice suddenly rang out by my ear as I kept my eyes closed. It came with a sound like hah hah—intense, ragged breathing. And, fully sensing his disbelief that seemed to say “Surely... this must be a joke,” I—still keeping my eyes shut—shook my head two or three times, “She really did get married—” “That’s why I was heartbroken.” “You may know—she went to a man named Saburō Kijima.”

“Ah, Kijima.” “The manager of Tōyō Theater... he was.”

“That’s right.” “That man—young, wealthy, and holding a prestigious position.” “Regrettably, I couldn’t satisfy Nene until the very end. She’s the sort of woman who’ll spare nothing to be admired and yearned for by crowds.” “Even if Nene were to love a man with all her heart, she’s not the sort who could maintain that love.” “She truly is a beautiful mayfly that emerged from urban foam—Nene merely possessed, more intensely and unabashedly than most women, that desire to be noticed by the greatest number of people during her fleeting youth.”

“Beneath that thick stage makeup of hers—so vividly illuminated by the spotlight—couldn’t one painfully discern that very restlessness? I loved that quality, believing it to be Nene’s unyielding ambition. But no sooner had I done everything possible to establish her in society than she immediately moved on—to that Kijima, manager of the grand theater. That man’s status must have been invaluable for Nene—so naturally, when you consider it, she was drawn to that position’s far greater allure over someone like me. But to my shame, I—left behind—ended up developing neurasthenia—”

Having spoken so volubly and with such apparent enlightenment, I knew I had to force a laugh there—but only managed a slight, convulsive twitch of one cheek. “I see—”

After some time had passed, the man raised his face heavily. Deep vertical wrinkles—unworldly in their intensity—were carved into his forehead. The thin skin stretching from the corners of his eyes to his temples twitched in rhythm with forcibly suppressed breaths, until suddenly, as if remembering himself, he lit a cigarette and inhaled with harsh, rasping drags that rattled in his throat. “So… Nene—Nene has already forgotten me…… I’ve endured a prisoner’s existence for her sake, yet she wouldn’t wait—”

“That two men who loved the same woman—and were both abandoned by her—should meet by chance like this…”

There, the two men—pointlessly— “Heh heh heh…”

The two men burst into laughter together, but it too soon died out.

In the profoundly silent room, beneath a light bulb dangling from the ceiling like a spider, these two pitiful men sat unnaturally facing each other, wordlessly glaring at the tatami seams as they smoked. Within each of their chests, Nene’s figure emerged in various forms only to drift away.

But more than that, I found myself profoundly shaken by this chance encounter—this fateful event. And I began to suspect that even the sound of the wind and the clamor of the tide reaching into this lonely room were somehow bound together by a fateful rhythm. Perhaps because the night had deepened, I felt a bone-chilling cold for an instant and, letting out a heavy sigh, noticed the pillar clock making a dull sound.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave. I truly apologize for intruding so late…”

The words came out hoarsely, accompanied by a cough. "Oh, is that so?" With those words, the man's face—lifted as if suddenly aware—contorted with such murderous intensity that it startled me involuntarily. His bloodshot eyes—beneath that bluish-black skin tinged with feverish flush—seemed to pulse with the surging blood of a demon.

At that moment, I distinctly sensed a chilling, almost demonic aura emanating from him. (Even I—at that time—had briefly considered killing Nene and then myself in one decisive act.) So vividly did the form of this man’s current bloody imaginings appear before me. And though my timid self had ultimately failed to act on such impulses, the very real fear that this madness-tinged man might accomplish what I could not sent my heartbeat thundering wildly in my chest before I knew it.

And I even came to think that this might be the fate binding the three of us who had surrounded Nene.

——However, the man continued in a more composed tone than I had anticipated,

“Oh, I must apologize for keeping you so late—it’s rather inexcusable. Are you retiring for the night—”

He said slowly and laughed bleakly. “Well—I’ve been completely unable to sleep lately—it’s got me at my wit’s end.” I too answered nonchalantly and put a cigarette between my lips. “I see. That must be difficult. I have this medicine here—why don’t you try taking some? It works quite well.” With that, the man took out a business card from the desk drawer and smoothly wrote out a prescription on its back. When I received it and turned it over to look at the front, there was written: “Physician Yukihiko Kasuga.”

I borrowed a flashlight from him, parted through the precarious path, and on my way back to town, stopped by a pharmacy that was still open, “Give me this medicine—”

After saying that— “There’s nothing poisonous in this medicine, right?” I verified, “There isn’t. As a neurasthenic medication, I consider it an excellent prescription.” At those words from the pharmacist, I found myself nodding in realization—that horrifying expression had been directed at Nene alone.

To be fair, I never did touch that medicine in the end, instead settling for buying some Adalin patent medication…

IV

The next day.

Using the flashlight I had borrowed the previous night as an excuse, I went to Kasuga’s house. When I arrived—already past noon—I saw at the kitchen entrance two untouched meals, breakfast and lunch, left alongside an enamel bottle containing miso soup that had long since gone cold.

(Is he out—) I thought he might be out—but contrary to expectations, he emerged promptly at my call. "I must apologize for last night." “No—I should be the one… Please come in.” As I casually moved to step inside, the overwhelming disarray of this house—visible in a single glance—inadvertently brought my feet to a halt. Throughout the entire two-room residence, musical scores and manuscript paper torn to shreds were scattered like the aftermath of a storm—and not only that, even that seemingly expensive jet-black piano had been split cleanly down the middle as if cleaved with a hatchet.

Kasuga squinted as he turned his face away, forcing a pained smile,

“Please, please…” While saying this, he cleared away the discarded sheet music to make a small space for me to sit, but—

“No, it’s quite all right.

“I have some brief business to attend to now, so I’ll come back later… I came to return this. Well then—perhaps in the evening…” After setting down the flashlight, I deliberately averted my eyes from the room as if I hadn’t seen anything and, feigning urgency, hastily began descending the cliff path. Somehow, I felt I alone particularly understood the mental anguish of his year’s worth of efforts being shattered in an instant—an ache in my chest as though witnessing a blood relative’s suffering.

——From that point on, he never appeared during the dusk walks again. Worried about this, I visited his house two or three times, but whether day or night, Kasuga was never there. And before long, even my visits grew less frequent. ——Amidst this, through the gardener managing the villa I was renting, I heard rumors about the eccentric man living alone in a house on Taro Cape—how lately he’d taken to making frequent trips to the neighboring town accessible by bus, diligently frequenting its unlicensed brothel district for reasons unknown.

And so it was that this gossip-starved town’s rumors had come to tell of how the man had grown obsessed with a young unlicensed prostitute there named Hanako, doting on her with childlike affection through calls of “Nenne, Nenne.” I could immediately imagine that “Nenne” was a mispronunciation of “Nene,” but at the same time, I came to feel intensely interested in the woman he called by that name and caressed. (Is she truly a woman like Nene?)

Or,

(Suppose that woman were, by chance, Nene’s sister…) Thinking of that fateful yet coincidental encounter with Kasuga, I found myself utterly unable to suppress such romantic curiosity—fearing recognition by townspeople he knew by sight, I avoided taking the bus and deliberately walked to that unlicensed brothel district to investigate.

It was a quarter at the edge of town, yet it felt like an entirely different world. This was because narrow alleyways like secret passageways crisscrossed beneath the eaves, and with every step, drain planks would clatter as they flipped up, while a peculiar stagnant odor hung in the air—the kind that seemed to pierce one’s chest. And at times, the figures of sallow-skinned young men with parched complexions—hands tucked into their sleeves—slinking nimbly around corners made the surroundings take on an eerie bat-like quality.

For a long time, I wandered through that labyrinthine quarter with my hands tucked in my sleeves, while the faces of women plastered with white makeup were exposed like wares, exuding the cloying sweetness of a fruit stand’s display. However, in the end, I could find neither trace of Kasuga nor any sign of the woman called Hanako. In hindsight, this was only natural—for by the time those rumors had spread, Kasuga had already been cohabiting with that woman in a solitary house on Taro Cape…

Belatedly learning this, I felt some hesitation—and having exhaustively agonized over excuses—it was only after another full week had passed that I finally resolved to visit, overwhelmed by curiosity’s force.

When I climbed up that cliffside path and looked, he—though living with that woman—still appeared to be continuing with catered meals: outside the kitchen entrance lay two scattered place settings, and despite this being the season when warmth had finally arrived, already plump bluebottle flies buzzed about in swarms, his horribly squalid life seemingly laid bare there for all to see. Kasuga lay sprawled out alone in a bleak room devoid of a piano or any other furnishings, having carelessly laid out a grime-stained futon. Drawing closer, whether from my imagination or not, his complexion had faded to an ashen hue, and his parched skin struck me as painfully parched.

“Ah—”

He slowly sat up and showed a smile.

“It’s been a while. Well, please—”

“I hear you’ve gotten married?”

This was the pretext for my visit.

“Marriage?” “Well, we’re just living together now, that’s all.” “This woman too—just like Nene—is someone who’d use me as a stepping stone given half a chance. I know that perfectly well, but…” “Now—” I surveyed the interior of the house—visible in a single glance—once more. “She’s gone shopping to town now.” “You look terribly pale—is something…?” “This?” He stroked his face with his emaciated hand and,

“It must be the illness... I’ve become syphilitic, hehehe.”

“That’s—” I frowned, thinking it must be from that woman Hanako, “Then you must heal quickly—since you graduated from medical school, can’t you administer your own intravenous injections…” “No—I lost all will to cure this sickness long ago.” “Had I still retained that much vigor, I would’ve killed Nene instead—heh heh… She left me not a single memory to cherish, but this woman—she’s given me such indelible recollections… The blooming memories of a passion destined to endure through eternity, to linger even in our descendants…”

I found myself at a loss for words in response to his madness-tinged remarks. (Has Kasuga's mind been afflicted—)

×

Having withdrawn hastily, on my way back along that cliffside path, I passed a woman midway. Since only Kasuga’s house stood at the path’s end, this could be none other than Hanako—the woman who had piqued my interest—yet she diverged starkly from my imaginings. That this syphilitic creature—thick with yellow stage makeup, blue eyeshadow, and lips dripping primary colors like a painted sausage—should be called “Nene” by Kasuga, even in rumor, filled me with visceral discontent. Clicking my tongue endlessly at the professional leer she’d cast during our passing encounter, it seemed miraculous I’d resisted shoving her off the cliff then and returned unscathed.

Yet upon reflection—from that eccentric Kasuga’s perspective—Nene too might simply be that ugly Hanako beautifully packaged, their substance being exactly the same; no, rather, the perception of "beauty" differs between people—he had praised Nene’s voice, yet never once spoke of her lovely appearance in all that time. Kasuga might have been in love with Nene’s voice—and though I never heard it myself, Hanako’s voice might perhaps have been even more beautiful than Nene’s—but to me, unnecessary as it may be, that woman called Hanako was an utterly insufferable article.

(Nene’s sister?—)

Such sweet romanticism had thus been scattered into the void and shattered into oblivion.

Five

The days grew increasingly warmer, and it was a day when wisteria flowers began to bloom here and there. From then on, whenever I thought of Hanako—even the mere thought of her made me nauseous—I never visited Kasuga again. On the seaside veranda, having brought out a deck chair, I kept my eyes closed,

(Should I return to Tokyo—) It was a day when such thoughts would arise. Looking back, why had I ended up facing “that day” there? I found myself regretting why I hadn’t returned to Tokyo before then—but even that must have been because I remained ensnared by the inexplicable magic of what we call fate. It was that Nene’s visage—which had finally begun fading through its double exposure with Hanako—now revived with renewed vividness, while an incident that would stir my heart lay waiting in ambush.

It was afternoon—but still not long past noon. With a clamorous noise as if someone had kicked down the back gate, that gardener came rushing in with an expression that screamed some major incident had occurred.

“There’s been a huge commotion—apparently a car went over the cliff and people got hurt…”

“Oh—someone from Tokyo, eh?” “Well… Apparently, according to what the youngsters are saying, it’s some actress or something named Nene Akimoto…” “What—” I bolted upright with a start.

“Is she dead—?” Without waiting for an answer, I bolted out. When I reached the prefectural road winding below Tarō Misaki, there indeed lay a green new-model coupé—like a discarded toy—tumbled beneath twenty-foot rocky shoals, overturned on its back. What might have been blood or gasoline speckled the stone surfaces with dark stains, while members of a swiftly arrived youth group were dragging out a man from beneath the vehicle.

On the adjacent rock stood Nene—that Nene who seemed even more beautiful than before—rigid as one bereaved, hands clenched tight, salt wind tousling hair from which her hat had flown away, watching the youth group’s efforts with fixed intensity. (Nene isn’t injured—) Barely suppressing the urge to shout “Nene! Nene!”, I stumbled down to the rocky shore—but when I drew near enough to speak, I swallowed the words once more.

And there—Kasuga was present.

“Oh—” I deliberately called out slowly. Nene recognized us with a swift glance and, unsurprisingly, seemed unable to conceal her startled inner turmoil. “……”

She merely nodded in silence. Then she stole a furtive glance at Kasuga's profile. "Are you injured?"

“Are you hurt?” I asked. “Well, I… Oh, I’m not sure…”

She suddenly rushed to the side of the man who had been pulled out from the car. The man lying limp there, with a clot of blood on his temple, was Kijima Saburō. While I was dawdling, Kasuga lifted Kijima, checked his pulse, and— “He’s still stable. If we treat him immediately, he’ll pull through...” “Right, then to the hospital immediately...”

With the taxi that had been promptly hailed, the four of us—Kijima included—hurried to Murata Hospital, the largest in town. Fortunately, Dr. Murata was present at the hospital. After he and Kasuga discussed technical matters using specialized terminology for some time, Kasuga— “Miss Nene, time is of the essence. I’ll provide my blood for the transfusion.”

“Huh? Me too? You’ll take my blood as well…”

Nene seemed utterly flustered by Kasuga’s unexpected chivalrous words rather than reassured. Dr. Murata collected a drop of blood each from Kasuga’s and Nene’s earlobes onto a glass slide without hesitation, performed a simple procedure, then— “Miss Akimoto, yours isn’t compatible. Fortunately Mr. Kasuga’s matches, so we’ll have the transfusion from him…” “Proceed immediately.” Kasuga stated composedly.

Nene stood as if overcome with emotion, her hands clenched tightly against her chest as she watched Kasuga's profile without so much as a twitch of her brows. I stared at Kasuga's blood passing through glass instruments into Kijima's body when suddenly—(Kasuga was syphilitic, but...)—the thought struck me, and I froze in horror. Kasuga was executing his revenge before Nene's very eyes. Into the body of the man who stole Nene from him marched a crimson procession of loathsome microbes—a swarm of detested bacteria migrating through sterile glass channels...

Nene watched this with heartfelt gratitude... Kasuga sat calmly—or rather, with an air of comfort—his eyes closed. That face with its faintly twisted smile bore the same ghastly grin that had made me shudder on that first fateful night of our encounter——. As I stared fixedly, clammy sweat oozed from my clenched palms and armpits. With eyes and head swimming in vertigo from the emotional turmoil, I found myself utterly unable to remain in that room.

All too often, Nene’s grateful eyes flickering before me became utterly unbearable.

×

Kijima, perhaps owing to this timely treatment, rapidly recovered and soon returned to Tokyo. “You’re being too harsh, don’t you think?” “If you’re a doctor too, isn’t this going too far—?”

When we were alone, I confronted Kasuga. “Indeed, he may fall ill, but his life will be saved, won’t it? I have sufficiently fulfilled my duty as a doctor.” “But this is just my imagination—I wonder if Kijima truly needed that transfusion at the time…”

Kasuga turned pale when he heard that. However, after a moment, while shaking his head— “I’ll leave that to your imagination… But you yourself didn’t even have the decency to offer your blood for the transfusion, did you? Nene was grateful to me. And she said through tears—‘Kijima was just a friend—I only went along with his invitation because I wanted to use his status and couldn’t refuse. When he tried to grab my shoulder with one hand while driving, I shook him off—that’s when he messed up the curve and caused the accident.’ Once she finishes her lead role in next month’s performance, she’ll definitely come back to me—believe it or not, it makes no difference. Anyway, this time I mean to cure my illness…”

He whistled a languid tune, then abruptly made both hands dance through the air as though playing a piano before erupting in laughter—ha ha ha ha! “Unbelievable…”

I muttered rebelliously, but the trailing edge of those words faded faintly.

I too had been one of his enemies. This betrayal might indeed be a fact... Vexingly, I found myself enveloped in a mist of half-belief and half-doubt.—

Six

Already, three months had passed since Nene and Kijima had returned to Tokyo.

Though I hadn’t been waiting for Nene to come to Kasuga’s place, his boastful proclamations and derisive laughter from that awkward farewell had lodged themselves in the depths of my ears. As I lingered in this vague stagnation, the season had already turned to one where swarms of vivid red dragonflies went flitting through bright sunlight, skimming over the Yamato-style fence in the front garden. I had never been tormented by such oppressive heat as I was that summer. The summers of passing years were certainly hot, but with their deep blue vaults of sky and pure white cloud peaks—paired with my carefree lifestyle—they should have been a climate I loved—

There seemed to be no word from Nene to Kasuga’s place either. That was something I could easily imagine—had any news come that might please him, that man would have been utterly unable to resist boasting about it to me. Amidst this, I had heard through rumors that Hanako had returned to her old trade, but even though the promised stage performance had long since passed with still no sign of Nene’s shadow, I felt a kind of bewildered anticipation—yet at the same time, an unbearable ironic laughter surged up from the depths of my heart. Rather than Nene coming to Kasuga’s place, it would be more amusing if she stayed with Kijima— That was my true feeling.

Kasuga’s sharp face—which had believed he’d bought Nene’s favor even as he exacted revenge, loudly declaring she would surely return while roaring with laughter—was now thoroughly cursed in my heart with gratifying triumph: *Serves you right!* × ――As autumn deepened, amid the gradually multiplying letters urging my return to the capital, I too found myself growing inclined to the idea. I found myself wanting to breathe that clammy city air again after so long… And then… I wanted to inquire about Nene’s subsequent whereabouts… Thinking this, I immediately resolved to return to the capital.

The day I returned to the capital without informing Kasuga was one of fine, dense fog.

(So it’s already come to this weather…)

While walking along the station platform, just as I muttered that to myself and looked up—something tapped my shoulder.

“Hey there— what’ve you been up to—”

When I turned to look, my former classmate Tomono was standing there, grinning slyly. “It’s been a while—you’ve been working?”

“Yeah.” Tomono leaned back slightly and showed the badge on his chest. There, the Imperial News badge clung—dampened by the fog and dimly mocking my idle life. “You...” “...Came down with an illness, you see—only just now managed to withdraw from the coast... heh heh heh.” “That’s no good—have you lost some weight…”

“Hmm… Shall we have some tea… What work are you doing?” “The Culture and Arts Section… but it’s pretty busy, I tell you.” Tomono said boastfully of being busy. And then we entered the coffee shop in front of the station—now, after ordering coffee—

“What’s Tōyō Theater showing now—” “Well…” Tomono lowered his eyes for just a moment, then smoothly listed the performances. However, Nene’s name was nowhere to be found among them. “What about Nene Akimoto…?” I asked timidly, yet with an involuntarily throbbing heart. “Ah, that… There’s this odd story—it’s an illness, see? The kind you can’t tell people about. They say Tokyo doctors recognize her face too well, so she’s been going under a different name to some small-town practitioner in Saitama Prefecture—or so the rumor goes. Even popular stars have their troubles, eh?”

Tomono expelled those words along with a puff of cigarette smoke and laughed cheerfully. I gulped down my coffee and finally,

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

I nodded. And “Popular stars are mayflies—that’s why they strain to make some grand flutter in their fleeting youth—right?” “So you’re saying she’s already rotted away? Ahahaha…” But I couldn’t laugh. The faint—truly faint—romanticism I had once harbored had already been utterly annihilated. The bacteria cultivated in that lewd sow-like Hanako had left their stories with Kasuga, Kijima, and Nene one by one, and I couldn’t turn my face from the traces they’d stormed through like a tempest.

(Kasuga, you bastard!) I wanted to bellow at the top of my lungs and roam through those fog-cloaked streets glistening with damp lamplight in the dusk. Tomono, seemingly dumbfounded by my sudden change in complexion, hurriedly took his leave.

In the end, that was more comfortable for me as well.

× ...Having wandered who knows where in my profound drunkenness, though the night had long since deepened, I still found myself searching for Nene’s residence in the suburbs as though drawn by some unseen magnetic force. After being mercilessly barked at by guard dogs, when I finally discovered the nameplate marked “Kijima” within the blurred circle cast by an exterior light upon a modernist home that even my night-accustomed eyes found stylish, I was already reduced to mud-like exhaustion—both physically and mentally—from that meaningless endeavor. But of course, I made no attempt to knock on that gate.

And still, like a starving stray dog, I circled round and round the low-fenced house, ears pricked to catch even the faintest sound. For some time now, only a single window had been dimly illuminated through the curtains. Nene was likely there, yet not a single noise emerged. That derisive silence grated on my nerves all the more.... Then suddenly—absolutely suddenly—a violent rush of water from what must have been the house's washroom roared through the surrounding stillness and my straining ears, amplified a hundredfold. The instant it hit me, I hallucinated an enormous "cleaning device" and reeled back against the low whitewashed fence. The fence was clammy with fog's moisture. It felt as dewy as Nene's skin. I jerked my neck downward, pressed my burning cheek against it, and clung to that sodden fence... Simultaneously, I felt an inexplicable smile welling up from within.

All around, a thick fog fell like a light drizzle. And I, recalling with absurdity and resentment the emaciated figure of Kasuga Yukihiko—who even today must be waiting forlornly alone for Nene atop Taro Misaki drenched in waves—simultaneously came to feel a certain liberated ease.