Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Dusk—when that faint evening mist would begin welling up from the earth, I found myself unable to remain still.

Especially on days when the weather turned crisp and bright, I would grow as restless as a lovelorn cat, utterly unable to remain cooped up inside. As if the lingering remnants of daytime still clung to that area, I would leave home without reason and wander down aimless paths, as though searching for them.

―At that time, I was in a small town along the Pacific coastline. I had not willingly abandoned that glittering "Tokyo" for this town without a single neon light, but when a doctor pronounced it severe nervous breakdown, I deemed it better to temporarily distance myself from heartbreak-stained Tokyo—renting a small villa and moving here. My dealings with Tokyo consisted solely of letters accompanied by living expenses—sent through my aged mother’s hands at each month’s end—and my brief replies to them. By train, it was a mere two hours away, yet I deliberately avoided any further dealings. The mere thought that somewhere in Tokyo, Nene—ah, even now I can vividly recall her form, that woman I once called my lover (though this recollection bears not a shred of the peculiar anticipation one feels when idly picturing an actress’s face, but rather a frenzied yet merciless memory laced with anguish…)—that very Nene was likely living in intimacy with her new paramour, Kijima Saburō, would render all of Tokyo revoltingly defiled and lascivious in my mind, something sour rising up in the back of my throat.

(Until I forget that, I shall not return to Tokyo...)

I had been thinking that. Having thought that, I abandoned Tokyo and came to this desolate coastal town in early spring. But the more I tried to forget—the more anxiously I struggled—the more I would recall that body of Nene's, wrapped in soft curves like a silk-floss doll, and feel a sharp pain stabbing through my chest. When dusk fell, that temptation would grow particularly fierce.

Moreover, perhaps because each day felt like a kite with its string severed, come dusk I could no longer remain still—driven out by lingering daylight’s remnants, I would let the still-chilly wind buffet me along aimless paths, crossing windbreak dunes to wander detours like a stray dog. At times I would stride briskly across the hardened sand left by the receding tide; other times stand mast-like upon the shore, gazing unblinking at the swelling back of the darkening horizon; or feel maidenly sentimentality toward the faint crimson staining Taro Misaki’s woods to my right; then finally collapse exhausted upon skeleton-like driftwood, cherishing the lingering warmth in my toes buried in sand while listening anew to the monotonous tide’s swish-swish rhythm.

Well now—it must have been around when I had spent a little over a month in such utter idleness, days of restless spirit since coming to this coast. During those twilight walks, at some indefinite hour, a man began to appear. The man wore a striped lined kimono with his obi carelessly wrapped around him, his hair—like tangled mugwort—tousled by the sea wind, which perhaps accentuated his gaunt face with its prominent cheekbones. Upon reflection, however, it seemed I had actually noticed that man from the very first day of my walks; appearing always to stroll along the coast at the same hour as I, his staggering figure on this utterly deserted shore had come to feel so natural that I’d unconsciously grown accustomed to his presence.

“Oh—”

The first to speak was the man. It was an utterly natural remark, like one exchanged when unexpectedly encountering a friend known for ten years. At any rate, that was how it felt to me. It wasn’t exactly our first meeting—perhaps because we’d been acquainted beforehand—. And so— “Oh—”

I also replied smoothly and nodded my head. But the next words surprised me.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you suffering from tuberculosis?” I— “Huh?” I pressed, “Surely—do I look consumptive to you?” I retorted with some indignation.

I answered with some indignation.

“Oh, I see—my apologies…” “You see… when a young man like yourself comes wandering this desolate coast at such an hour, I couldn’t help but think so… Had it been true, I meant to share an effective remedy I’d experienced myself…” The man spoke with deep contrition. “Not tuberculosis—but an ailment of the chest. The bacteria called woman…” With this jest, I rescued him from embarrassment. This was likely because I’d long been curious about the abnormal atmosphere he carried, and partly because my craving for conversation had unwittingly drawn out those words.

“Well now, that sounds like a germ you’d want to examine with a telescope rather than a microscope.” “That germ manifests various symptoms—fever, wasting away, even having your life taken in the end... As for that disease... I’ve had my own experience with it too.” Saying this, the man amended his initial slip of the tongue with “Ahahaha…”

he laughed. And then, “That’s why I too ended up in this lonely forgotten town—” “Ah, so we share the same affliction… you too…” I too, disarmed by his light tone, found my reservations melting away until before I knew it we were walking side by side along the shore. The sea wind was quite strong again today, and at times our words were blown away, but as the sunset finally faded, I resolved to accept his invitation and visit his house atop Taro Misaki. It was,

“I was in medicine, but now for her sake, I’ve thrown everything aside to devote myself to composing—something I’m utterly unpracticed in…” It was those very words that had so fiercely stoked my curiosity.

Two The man’s house was a solitary dwelling perched atop Taro Misaki. To reach that place required ascending a precarious narrow path—carved into coarse sandstone—that wound its way upward; yet upon finally climbing to the top and looking out, Sagami Bay lay spread out below in its entirety. Had it been daytime, I thought, what a magnificent view it would have made. But now, with the sun already set, the sea—resembling diluted ink flowing across its creased surface—lay placidly filled within the faint light, while stars that had already seeped into the sky began to glitter brightly, gradually shedding their muted glow.

However, more than that magnificent view, what caught my eye was how a single grand piano with a splendid jet-black luster—having somehow been brought up into this small cottage-like dwelling with just two rooms of eight-tatami and four-and-a-half-tatami—reigned like a sovereign, exuding imperious grandeur. “Do you cook for yourself—” Eventually, since I couldn’t see any kitchenware at all, I decided to ask.

“No—I have meals delivered three times a day from a town caterer… Though given how out-of-the-way this place is, I had to promise that delivery boy a three-yen-a-month commission. But up here, I don’t have to mind anything—whether I bang on the piano all day or belt out songs at full volume.”

“You’ve found quite the clever setup here.”

And with that, I gave a meaningless nod of agreement, "So, have you composed quite a bit already?"

“No—nearly a year has passed, yet I still haven’t even reached the starting point.” “My, that’s remarkable. What is it—a symphony?”

“No, no—it’s just a popular song—” Involuntarily struck speechless, I turned to look at the man’s face.

However, the man said with an utterly serious expression. “It’s a popular song—a popular song, but mine isn’t some run-of-the-mill hit.” “A song that must inevitably be a hit—one logically derived through calculation…” The number of popular songs is indeed vast. “But as a result, melodies used somewhere else often appear in other songs (I’m sure you’ve already noticed this)—and they should, for if human voices have their limits and tempos their constraints, then composition itself, especially for something as melodically simplistic as popular songs, will soon exhaust its stock of ideas. That’s why in popular music, melodies that were once hits elsewhere frequently resurface under the guise of arrangements, or parts of them get reused—or in extreme cases, they’re employed as-is or with just the tempo altered to masquerade as something new.” “You see what I mean? That’s why I decided to copyright every possible melody in every possible tempo… So now I’m analyzing, deducing, and inducing all existing popular songs.”

The man continued his bizarre tale with undiminished fervor. "Do you know dodoitsu folk songs can't be transcribed? Noh chants too—they're melodies passed from ear to ear, sustaining the same 'a' sound while containing subtle pitch variations." "So try playing a dodoitsu on the piano—it becomes utterly nonsensical. If you listen expecting that interpretation, you might perceive it as such, but that's the furthest extent of reproduction possible." "The root cause lies in pianos only having semitones—that's why I specially built this piano capable of quarter tones to capture those nuanced melodies..."

While saying this, he abruptly stood up and opened the piano lid. Sure enough, there lay white keys, black keys, and yet another set painted green—overlapping and arranged in glossy rows like rectangular confectionery boxes. Whether from their unfamiliarity or inherent strangeness, they created an intensely bizarre spectacle. From the very beginning, I had been half-dumbfounded by this madness-laced fantasy that defied all critique, reduced to nothing but rapid blinking. Before long,

“Well? What do you think?” The man looked up at my face as if peering into it. “I see… I understand well enough. But if I may say so—isn’t all your effort ultimately futile?” “Futile—” “So you’re saying it’s pointless—why? Why?” With eyes gleaming, he drew his knees closer to me. Those knees—or was it my imagination?—trembled faintly. “I’m not saying it’s pointless. But I do believe it would prove exceedingly difficult.” “The analysis and structuring of popular songs is fascinating work, but consider this—what Japan desperately needs now is rubber, specifically methods for producing synthetic rubber. I hear countless researchers specialize in this field yet make little progress. They analyze rubber, break it down into constituent elements, and discover a perfect chemical formula dictating its necessary formation.” “That formula has already been discovered—so one need only synthesize something satisfying it. Yet a chemical formula cannot express ‘elasticity’—it fails to capture rubber’s very lifeblood. When successfully synthesized per this formula, the result may resemble rubber superficially but remains a worthless thing devoid of elasticity. Now—if I may ask—can sheet music express ‘timbre’? Unless that ‘elasticity of timbre’ is maximized, I cannot imagine your popular song striking people’s hearts to their core.”

“Moreover, not limited to popular songs, I harbor deep suspicions toward the very concept of ‘trends’—trends are precisely like love: in the moment, they seem supreme and unparalleled, but how do they appear in hindsight…”

“You”

The man violently interrupted my words. "You—but who do you think would sing the songs I compose? Who do you imagine I—I’ve abandoned everything and endured this torment for? Her—it’s for her! She possesses a truly magnificent voice—that very ‘elasticity’ you mentioned in your synthetic rubber analogy—she has it in abundance… Your fears are entirely groundless—"

“The woman I’ve abandoned everything for without regret—her name has been circulating widely lately—is an exceptionally talented stage singer. She’s even recorded quite a few tracks, so you might know her—Akimoto Nene, a twenty-year-old woman.” “What?!” I was stunned. Truly, in that moment, I became acutely aware of my own face paling in an instant— That woman Nene—the one who had cast me into this abyss of despair—being this crank’s lover…

But if that were the case—had she, now living with Kijima, also forgotten this man just as I had?

*(Nene—like a migratory bird!)*

I closed my eyes. And then, (Perhaps that was how it was)

I muttered under my breath.

Three “What startled you? Do you… know Nene?”

The pitiful man furrowed his brows uneasily and peered intently into my face. “……”

After hesitating for a while, I concluded there was no way to make this man grasp my shock’s meaning except by telling him the truth. “I was shocked—truly shocked—to find I too had fallen for that woman Nene.” “Huh? With Nene—” “So? What happened?” “What did Nene say to you?” “Heh heh heh... You should understand well enough from my coming alone to this desolate town to nurse a nervous breakdown.”

“I see—so you’ve had your heart broken. That’s unfortunate—” "But please don’t think badly of me." “Because Nene and I had a promise from before…”

The man said in a hoarse whisper, forcing down the faint look of relief that had surfaced.

But I closed my eyes, “No—Nene got married—” “What?!” The man’s shocked voice suddenly sounded near my ear, my eyes still shut tight. It was accompanied by an intense, huffing sound of breathing.

And sensing his disbelief—as if he wanted to protest, "No… you must be joking"—I kept my eyes shut tight and shook my head several times, “She’s married—truly—” “That’s why I had my heart broken.” “You may know—she went to a man named Kijima Saburō.”

“Ah, Kijima. Manager of Toyo Theater… he was.”

“That’s right. Young, wealthy, and holding a good position—that man. Unfortunately, I couldn’t satisfy Nene to the end—she’s the kind of woman who spares nothing to be yearned for and adored by multitudes. Even if Nene truly loves a man deep in her heart, she’s the kind of woman who cannot maintain it. She truly is a beautiful mayfly that emerged from the city’s froth—Nene, that is. In her scant span of youth, she simply possessed—to an extreme and blatant degree—that desire all women harbor: to be noticed by the greatest number of people.”

“Beneath that thick greasepaint of hers—lit by garish spotlights—couldn’t you see that restlessness festering like an open wound? I mistook that feeling for Nene’s unbreakable ambition and loved her for it. But the moment I’d done everything humanly possible to thrust her into the limelight, she fluttered off again—straight into the arms of that theater manager Kijima and his grand playhouse. His position must’ve seemed infinitely more useful to her than anything I could provide. When you think about it rationally, how could she resist being drawn to that glittering pedestal? Yet here’s the shameful truth—while she soared higher, I remained grounded, left to crumble into this nervous wreck you see before you—”

Unintentionally verbose, as though having attained some profound realization, I who had spoken thus knew I ought to force a laugh here—yet only one cheek spasmed into a twisted semblance of it. “I see—”

After some time passed, the man heavily raised his face. His forehead bore deep vertical furrows of violent anguish—grooves so profound they seemed otherworldly—and as he struggled to suppress his breathing, the thin skin stretching from the corners of his eyes to his temples twitched spasmodically. Then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he lit a cigarette and inhaled with harsh, rapid puffs that rattled in his throat. “I see… So Nene has—Nene has already forgotten me… I’ve endured a prisoner-like existence for her sake, but she wouldn’t wait for me,

“That we two—who loved the same woman and were abandoned by her—should meet by chance like this…” There, the two of us meaninglessly— “Heh heh…”

We laughed together—but even that soon died out. In the deathly still room, beneath a light bulb dangling spider-like from the ceiling, these two pitiful men sat unnaturally facing each other—silently glaring at the tatami’s woven patterns as they smoked their cigarettes.

Within each of our hearts, Nene's figure surfaced in various forms only to drift away. But it wasn't just that—I was profoundly struck by this fateful encounter, this chance meeting that seemed ordained. And I began to suspect that even the wind's whispers penetrating this desolate room and the tide's relentless roar were somehow bound by a rhythm of destiny. Perhaps because night had fully descended, I felt a chill that set my bones trembling—and as I released a leaden sigh, my ears caught the dull tolling of the pillar clock.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave—I’ve truly imposed on you for far too long…”

He said hoarsely through his throat, accompanied by a cough. “Oh, is that so?” As he spoke these words, the man—as if suddenly becoming aware—raised his face, now contorted with such murderous intensity that one instinctively recoiled. Those bloodshot eyes beneath bluish-black skin faintly flushed red gave the impression of demonic blood coursing relentlessly beneath the surface. At that moment, I distinctly sensed a shudder-inducing aura of malice surrounding him. (After all, even I had once contemplated killing Nene outright and dying myself.)

And so, the ghastly imaginings this man must now be harboring appeared vividly before me. And again, though my weak-willed self had ultimately been unable to act on it, the plausible fear that this madness-tinged man might just carry it out caused my heartbeat to thud wildly against my chest. And it even occurred to me that this might be the fate binding the three of us who had surrounded Nene.

But the man spoke in a calmer tone than I had expected,

“Ah, I must apologize for keeping you so late. Are you retiring for the night—”

He said slowly and laughed lonesomely. “No—it’s just that lately I can’t sleep at all. I’m at my wit’s end.”

I also answered nonchalantly and put a cigarette between my lips again. “I see, that’s troubling. I have this medication here—why don’t you try taking some? It works quite well.” With that, the man took a business card from the desk drawer and wrote out a prescription on its back with fluid strokes. When I received it and turned it over to look at the front, there was written: “Doctor, Kasuga Yukihiko.” I borrowed a flashlight from him and, parting through the precarious path while returning to town, stopped by one pharmacy that was still open,

“Give me this medicine—” Having said that,

“There isn’t anything poisonous in this medicine, right?” I confirmed. “There is none. As a medication for nervous breakdown, I consider it an excellent prescription.” At those words from the pharmacist, I found myself nodding as I wondered whether that chilling expression had been meant for Nene alone.

However, in the end, I never touched that medicine, instead settling for buying over-the-counter Adalin...

IV

The next day. I went to Kasuga’s house under the pretext of returning the flashlight I had borrowed and taken home the previous night. Though I arrived well past noon, at the kitchen entrance I saw an enamel bottle holding miso soup that had long gone cold, alongside two untouched meals—breakfast and lunch—left exactly as they were.

(I wonder if he’s out…)

I thought he might be out… but contrary to my expectations, he came out right away in response to my voice. “I must apologize for last night.”

“No, if anything, I should be the one… Please come up.” I casually tried to step up, but the sheer disarray inside this house—visible at a single glance—made me freeze mid-step. In the entirety of the two-room parlor, sheet music and staff paper torn to shreds lay scattered like the aftermath of a storm—and not only that, even that seemingly expensive jet-black piano had been split clean through the middle as if struck by a hatchet and broken into two.

Kasuga turned his face outward with a squinting expression and gave a wry smile, “Please, please…”

As he said this he pushed aside discarded sheet music scraps to clear a small space for me but "No it's quite all right." "I have some brief business now so I'll come back later... I only came to return this anyway—perhaps this evening..."

I put down the flashlight and, deliberately averting my eyes from the parlor as though I hadn’t seen a thing, began hastily descending the cliff with feigned busyness. Somehow, I felt as though I alone could keenly comprehend the anguish of his year-long efforts being shattered in an instant—a chest-piercing pain akin to witnessing a blood relative’s suffering. After that, he never showed up for our dusk walks. Worried about this, I visited his house two or three times, but whether day or night, Kasuga was never there. And before I knew it, my visits too had dwindled away.

Amidst this, I heard a rumor from the gardener managing the villa I was renting: that the eccentric man living in the solitary house at Tarōmisaki—for reasons unknown—had recently been making frequent trips by bus to the neighboring town, zealously frequenting its brothel. And so it came through the town’s gossip-starved rumors that this man had grown infatuated with a young prostitute there named Hanako, doting on her with childlike affection—calling her “Nenne, Nenne” and such.

I immediately imagined that this "Nenne" was likely a mispronunciation of "Nene." But at the same time, I found myself growing intensely interested in this woman he called Nene and caressed. _Could she really be a woman like Nene?_

*(Or,)*

(Suppose that woman was, by chance, Nene’s sister…)

When I thought of that coincidental yet fateful encounter with Kasuga, such romantic curiosity finally became unbearable. Fearing acquaintances in town, I deliberately avoided taking the bus and instead walked all the way to that brothel district to investigate. It was a quarter at the edge of town, yet it felt like a completely different world. The reason was that narrow alley-like paths crisscrossed beneath the eaves, and with each step, the wooden planks over ditches would clatter and flip up, while a peculiar stagnant stench hung in the air, seeping into the chest in some inexplicable way. And at times, you might momentarily mistake for bats the figures of young men with pale dry skin—hands tucked into sleeves—as they slipped deftly around corners.

I wandered for a long time through that maze-like quarter, hands still tucked into my sleeves; the faces of women coated in white lead powder were laid bare with a fragrance like that of a fruit stand’s display. However, in the end, I could find no trace of Kasuga or the woman called Hanako. In hindsight, this was only natural—for by the time that rumor had spread, Kasuga had already been cohabiting with that woman in an isolated house at Tarōmisaki…

Belatedly learning of this, I felt some hesitation; and though I agonized over every possible pretext, it was only after another full week had passed that I finally succumbed to curiosity’s force and resolved to visit. When I reached the top of that cliffside path and looked, it appeared that even while living with that woman, he was still continuing to rely on catered meals; outside the kitchen entrance lay two people’s worth of dishes scattered from meals, and despite this being a time when one might think warmth had finally arrived, already there were bloated bluebottle flies buzzing up with a drone—his wretchedly squalid life seemed cast out there for all to see.

Kasuga lay sprawled out alone on a grime-stained futon in a stark room devoid of even a piano. When I approached and looked closer—perhaps it was my imagination—his complexion had faded to an ashen hue, his parched skin even seemed painfully dry. “Ah—” He slowly rose and offered a smile.

“It’s been a while. Now, please…” “I hear you’ve gotten married?” This was the pretext for my visit.

“Marriage?” “No—it’s just that we’re together now, that’s all.” “This woman too—just like Nene—is someone who’d use me as a stepping stone if given the chance. I know that, but…” “Now—”

I surveyed the interior of the house—visible at a single glance—once more. “She’s gone to town shopping 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, heh heh heh.”

“That—” I furrowed my brows, thinking *it must have come from the woman named Hanako*, “Then you must heal quickly. Since you graduated from medical school, can’t you give yourself an intravenous injection…” “Oh no—any will to cure this disease vanished from me long ago.” “If I still possessed that much vigor, I’d have gone and killed Nene instead, heh heh heh… She left me not a single memory to cherish, but this woman—she’s given me such indelible ones. The blossom of passionate love’s memories—ones that’ll outlast eternity, linger through generations…”

I forgot to reply to his madness-tinged words. (Perhaps Kasuga’s mind had been overtaken—) ×

Having left in haste, on my way back through that narrow cliffside path, I passed a woman halfway along the route. Since Kasuga’s house was the only one at the path’s end, there could be no doubt this woman was Hanako—the one who had piqued my interest—yet she diverged far too drastically from what I had imagined. That this syphilitic woman—garish with yellow greasepaint makeup, blue eyeshadow, and lips dripping primary colors like some painted sausage despite the broad daylight—should be called “Nene” even in rumor by Kasuga was something I could not help but feel intensely dissatisfied about. Clicking my tongue endlessly as I recalled that professional yet lewd sidelong glance exchanged the moment we passed each other, I even came to think—how on earth had I managed not to shove her off the cliff then and return safely?

Yet when I considered it—from that eccentric Kasuga's perspective—Nene might simply be that ugly Hanako beautifully packaged, their substance exactly the same. No—the very perception of "beauty" differs between people. He had praised Nene's voice, but never once had he mentioned her lovely appearance. Kasuga might have been in love with Nene's voice, and though I'd never heard it myself, it struck me that Hanako's voice might even surpass Nene's—yet—and perhaps this was irrelevant—that woman Hanako struck me as utterly insufferable.

(Nene’s sister?—) Such sweet romanticism thus scattered like poppy seeds into the void and was ephemerally shattered.

V

The days grew steadily warmer, and it was on one such day that the wisteria flowers began to bloom—a bloom or two at first.

After that, just the thought of Hanako—so nauseating it made my stomach churn—left me never visiting Kasuga again.

To the veranda facing the sea, I brought out a deck chair and closed my eyes, remaining so—

(Should I return to Tokyo—)

It was a day when such thoughts would arise.

Looking back, why did I end up facing "that day" there? I lamented why I hadn’t returned to Tokyo before that—but even that, no doubt, was because I remained ensnared by the inexplicable sorcery called fate. It was that Nene’s visage—which had finally begun to fade through its double exposure with Hanako—now revived with visceral intensity, heralding an incident that would stir turmoil in my breast.

It was afternoon—yet still not long past midday.

With a clamorous noise as if someone were kicking down the back gate, that gardener came flying in with a face that declared some major incident.

“Right now, there’s a huge commotion—they say a car fell off the cliff and there are injured people…”

“Oh—someone from Tokyo, eh?” “Well… According to what the young folks are saying, they say it’s some actress called Akimoto Nene or something like that…” “What—”

I jumped up with a start.

“Is she dead—”

Without waiting to hear the reply, I rushed out. When I reached the prefectural road winding below Taro Misaki, there indeed lay a green-painted new-model coupe—like a toy—that had rolled down beneath a rocky shore some six meters high. It lay overturned on its back, blood or gasoline splattered here and there across the stone surfaces, while youth group members who had hurried there were already dragging a man out from under the car.

There, atop a nearby rock, stood Nene—Nene who seemed even more beautiful than before—rigid as though bereft of her senses, hands clenched, hair whose hat had flown off fluttering in the salt-laden wind, fixedly watching the youth group at work.

(Nene wasn’t injured—) I finally suppressed the urge to shout “Nene! Nene!” and scrambled down to the rocky shore—but when I drew near enough to call out, I choked back the words once more. There was Kasuga. “Oh—”

I deliberately spoke slowly. Nene noticed us with a swift glance and, true to form, seemed unable to conceal her startled agitation.

“……” She merely nodded silently. And then stole a furtive glance at Kasuga’s profile. “Are you hurt?” I asked. “Well, I... Oh, I wonder.”

She suddenly rushed over to the side of the man who had been pulled from the car. The man lying there limp, with a clot of blood on his temple, was Kijima Saburō. While I was dawdling, Kasuga lifted Kijima up and checked his pulse,

“He’s stable. If we treat him immediately, he’ll pull through…”

“Right—then let’s get him to the hospital immediately…” With the taxi that had been promptly summoned, Kijima and the four of us hurried to the town’s largest Murata Hospital. Fortunately, Mr. Murata was present at the hospital, and after discussing something in technical terms with Kasuga for a while, Kasuga— “Nene, every moment counts. I’ll provide my blood for the transfusion.” “Huh? Me too—take my blood as well…”

Nene seemed utterly flustered by Kasuga’s unanticipated chivalrous words—contrary to expectations.

Mr. Murata, without hesitation, collected a drop of blood from Kasuga and Nene’s earlobes onto glass slides, performed a simple test, and then— “Ms. Akimoto, yours doesn’t match—fortunately Mr. Kasuga’s does, so we’ll use his blood for the transfusion—” “Let’s begin at once.” Kasuga stated composedly. Nene, as if overwhelmed by emotion, kept her hands tightly clenched at her chest and watched Kasuga’s profile without so much as a twitch of her brow.

I kept staring as Kasuga’s blood passed through various glass instruments and was sent into Kijima’s body, when suddenly— (Kasuga had syphilis, but—)

The thought struck me—and at the same moment, I was appalled. Kasuga was now executing his revenge right before Nene’s eyes. Into the body of the man who had stolen Nene from him, a detested swarm of bacteria was now marching in a crimson procession... Nene was watching it with heartfelt gratitude... Kasuga, calmly—or rather, appearing quite comfortable—closed his eyes.

And that face—twisted slightly into a smile—bore the same ghastly grin that had made me shudder on the night of our first encounter, a smile imbued with an eerie, almost spectral intensity—. As I stared fixedly, clammy sweat oozed from my clenched palms and underarms; with eyes and head swimming in vertigo from the turmoil within, I found myself utterly unable to remain in that room. All too often, Nene’s grateful eyes flickering before me became unbearable.

×

Kijima, perhaps due to this timely treatment, rapidly recovered and soon returned to Tokyo. “You’re being a bit 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. “True, he may contract an illness, but his life will be saved, won’t it? I’ve done more than enough as a doctor.” “But—this may just be my imagination—did Kijima really need that transfusion at the time…”

Kasuga’s complexion abruptly changed when he heard that. However, after a moment, shaking his head, “I’ll leave that to your imagination… But you yourself never even offered to provide a transfusion out of obligation…” “Nene was grateful to me, you know.” “And she said, tearfully—that Kijima was nothing more than a friend; that she had only come on the drive because she couldn’t refuse his invitation while trying to exploit his status; but when Kijima grabbed her shoulder with one hand while driving with the other, she shook him off—and the moment she did, he failed to navigate the curve, causing all that to happen.” “And once she finishes her leading role in the performance at the end of next month, she’ll definitely come back to me.—Whether you believe that or not makes no difference, but at any rate, this time I intend to cure my illness…”

He whistled a slow tune, then suddenly began flailing both hands in the air like playing an invisible piano, erupting into manic laughter—ahahaha! I can't believe it... I muttered defiantly, though my voice trailed off faintly.

I muttered defiantly, but the words trailed off faintly.

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

VI

Already, three months had passed since Nene and Kijima returned to Tokyo. It wasn't that I had been waiting for Nene to come to Kasuga's place—but as Kasuga's awkward parting declarations and raucous laughter clung stubbornly in my ears' depths through days of vague inertia, summer had ripened into a season where swarms of crimson dragonflies now darted through blazing sunlight, their wings brushing against Yamato fences fronting coastal homes.

I had never been tormented by such oppressive heat as I was that summer. The summers of years past had certainly been hot ones, but with their deep blue firmament and peaks of pure white clouds—combined with my unburdened lifestyle—they should have been weather I loved— There seemed to be no word from Nene reaching Kasuga’s place either. That was easy enough to imagine—for had any news come that might please him, that man would have found it utterly impossible not to boast of it to me.

Amidst all this, I heard rumors that Hanako had resumed her trade at her old establishment—yet though the performance she’d promised had long since come and gone, with still no shadow of Nene visible even now, I felt something like a sense of futile waiting. But at the same time, an unbearable ironic laughter welled up from the depths of my heart. Rather than coming to Kasuga’s place, Nene might as well have stayed at Kijima’s—that would have been more interesting—. That was my true feeling.

Even as he exacted revenge, Kasuga's sharp face—that face which had believed it bought Nene's favor, which had loudly vowed she would surely return while bellowing laughter—was now being thoroughly cursed within me with vicious satisfaction: serves you right.

×

As autumn deepened and the letters urging my return to the capital grew increasingly frequent, I, too, gradually came around to the idea. I found myself wanting to breathe that cloying city air again after so long. ……And then…… I wanted to find out about Nene’s current situation…… Once that thought took hold, I immediately resolved to return to the capital.

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

(Already, the weather had turned like this...) As I walked along the station platform, muttering that to myself and happened to look up, something tapped my shoulder. “Hey, what brings you here—” When I turned to look, there stood Tomo—my old classmate—grinning slyly.

“It’s been a while—have you been working?”

“Yeah.”

Tomo turned slightly and showed the badge on his chest. There, the Teikoku Newspaper’s company emblem clung—dampened by the fog, dull, as if mocking my idle existence.

“You’re—” “...I fell ill, you see. Just now managed to leave the coast behind... Heh heh heh...” “That’s no good—have you lost some weight...” “Is that so... Why don’t we have some tea... What kind of work are you doing now?” “The arts section... but it’s pretty hectic.” Tomo said, as if boasting about being busy. And then, entering the station-front coffee shop, now, after ordering coffee— “What’s Toyo Theater doing now—”

“Hmm…”

Tomo briefly lowered his eyes, then smoothly listed off the performances. However, among them, Nene’s name was nowhere to be found.

“What about Akimoto Nene…?” I asked timidly yet unable to suppress the pounding in my chest. “Ah, her… There’s this strange story—it’s an illness, you see. The kind you can’t really tell people about. Word has it Tokyo doctors already know her face, so she’s been going under a different name to some small clinic in Saitama—that’s the rumor. Even popular figures have their hardships too, huh.”

Tomo exhaled that along with cigarette smoke, then laughed cheerfully. I gulped down the coffee and finally,

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” I nodded. And

“Those popular types are mayflies—so in their brief youth, they desperately try to make grand wingbeats… don’t you think?” “So you mean she’s already rotted away? Ahahaha…”

But I couldn’t laugh.

The faint—truly faint—romanticism I had once harbored had now been utterly obliterated. The bacteria cultivated by that lewd sow-like Hanako—leaving behind stories with Kasuga, Kijima, and Nene one by one as they ravaged like a storm—left traces I couldn’t help but turn my face inward from. (Kasuga, you bastard!) I wanted to bellow at the top of my lungs, to roam through those fog-filled streets at dusk where glistening lights seeped into the mist.

At my sudden pallor, Tomo seemed momentarily stunned before hastily taking his leave. After all, that way was easier for me too.

×

……Where and how I walked—thoroughly drunk out of my mind—though night was already deep, still I sought Nene’s residence in the suburbs as though pulled by invisible magnetism. After being barked at relentlessly by guard dogs, when I finally discovered the “Kijima” nameplate within the blurred circle cast by an outdoor light on what even my night-adjusted eyes could discern as an elegant culture house, I was utterly exhausted both mentally and physically, like mud from that meaningless task. But of course, I did not try to knock on that gate.

And still—like a hungry stray dog—I circled round and round that house with its low fence, ears pricked to catch even the faintest sound. All this time, only one window remained dimly lit through the curtains. Nene was likely there, yet not a single sound emerged. That mocking silence only further agitated my nerves…. And then—suddenly, utterly suddenly—a ferocious rush of water from what seemed to be the house’s bathroom, magnified tenfold by the surrounding silence and my pricked ears, resounded thunderously. The moment I—hallucinating some colossal “cleansing apparatus”—reeled back and leaned against the low white-painted fence. The fence was sodden with clinging moisture from the fog. And it was dewy like Nene’s skin. I jerked my head down there, pressed my hot cheek against it, and clung to the sodden fence… At the same time, I strangely began to feel a smile welling up.

Across the surroundings, a thick fog was falling like a fine drizzle.

And I—recalling with bitter absurdity and resentment Kasuga Yukihiko’s emaciated figure, likely still waiting forlornly alone for Nene today atop Tarō Misaki drenched by waves—began to feel a strange sense of liberation, an almost facile ease.