Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kunieda Shiro 1

“Now now Maria, what’s this?” “You needn’t be so resistant.” “It’s not as if I’m completely without manly charm.” “Do as I say, do as I say!”

Judas tried to embrace her as he said this.

Judea's most beautiful courtesan, Mary Magdalene of Magdala, snorted derisively through her nose. “Hmph, what’s this? You don’t even have money.” “Bring me thirty pieces of silver…” “Huh? What did you say?” “Thirty pieces?” “Are you really that expensive?” “Look here—my breasts. See them.” Mary wrenched open her collar. The voluptuous swell of two breasts came into view. Judas felt dizzy, his head spinning.

“Bring them to me—the thirty pieces of silver. …They ought to be worth at least that much.”

“Maria, don’t you forget those words.” …Thirty pieces of silver! “I understand perfectly.”

Judas bolted out of the room.

The one who hurriedly entered through the sliding door was Jacob the leather merchant.

“Come now, Mary—thirty pieces of silver.” “Take it—it’s yours. …In return, you’re mine.”

He jangled the leather purse. “Let me see!” she snapped, snatching it away—but when she glimpsed inside, “So they’re really here—the thirty pieces of silver. …Well then, come here.” She opened the bedroom door with a creak.

The thoroughly satisfied leather merchant slipped out of her bedroom around the time the spring moon climbed to the treetops. Mary wore a crimson nightgown, creating folds between her thighs as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Thirty pieces of silver lay on her lap. "Damn you!" she suddenly shouted.

“Got conned! You Jacob-faced bastard!”

She flung the thirty pieces of silver.

"Maria!" a voice called out at that moment.

“Who’s there?” she said in a courtesan’s voice. “Don’t you know?” “I’m surprised.” “Oh, I know who it is.” “Please come in.”

Her lover, the high priest Caiaphas, entered the bedroom.

“Well, well,” he said. “Looks like a silver deluge to me.” “If you want ’em, take ’em along.” “How generous.” “That stuff real?”

Caiaphas pulled a suspicious face.

2

Over Jesus and the twelve apostles, the spring night hung heavy. The hazy moon of Nisan’s thirteenth night tinged the palm, olive, and fig trees silver-gray. The scent of spiced wood and winter daphne filled the air. The thirteen walked on.

Small birds began to stir in their roost. They must have been startled by the sound of footsteps.

And then came a night wind. A warm, suffocating night wind it was. The Kidron Valley, the Garden of Gethsemane—it swept toward them. It swept toward Jerusalem. The moonlight evoked the coming dawn.

The thirteen faces were pale. And they had taken on a bluish tinge.

Polished-silk spring mist! It lingered hazily before them. Judas Iscariot alone walked behind, lagging by himself. Judas’s betrayal of Jesus was not solely due to being tempted by Mary Magdalene’s beauty. To him, Jesus appeared suspect. Judas had entertained doubts about Jesus for quite some time. To Judas, Jesus appeared arrogant. He found this unbearably unpleasant.

When John the Baptist—the greatest man born of woman—showed due courtesy and sent two messengers, Jesus gave this reply: “The blind can see, the lame can walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf can hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have the gospel preached to them. Blessed are those who come to me.”

At that moment Judas thought: This was an outrageously arrogant statement. What kind of thing was this supposed prophet saying?

But Judas had by no means betrayed Jesus over something like this. It was not out of shallow emotion but for a more profound ideology that he had betrayed Jesus.

“What exactly is God?” Judas set out from here.

"The sole entity that created and governs all living and nonliving things in the universe! Judaism teaches this. And Jesus too teaches this. But was that truly the case?"

3 Judas opposed that doctrine.

"The universe is not being governed at all. All phenomena move about of their own accord. They are born and die of their own accord. God! Such a thing does not exist." The various miracles Jesus performed appeared in Judas’s eyes as nothing more than Arab magic tricks. And to Judas's eyes, these witless fanatics—bewildered, astonished, and awestruck by such childish miracles, clamoring about "Israel's salvation"—along with those patriotic zealots attempting to build a "kingdom of God" by leaning on Jesus's miracles, appeared utterly ridiculous.

On a beautiful small hill overlooking the Sea of Galilee below, when Jesus once again performed his tricks, sending five thousand believers into ecstasy and vanishing by himself amidst their unending cheers, Judas laughed coldly.

When that Jesus preached thus to his followers in the village of Capernaum, Judas was truly enraged. “You seek me because you received bread? But you all—that is not right.” “Do not labor for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life.… God has now given you all the true bread.” “I myself am that bread.” “Those who come to me will not hunger; those who believe in me will not thirst.”

“What nonsense,” Judas thought. “He’s not even a prophet. That guy’s a damned egoist. An utter delusional lunatic. ‘Do not labor for perishable food, but for food that endures to eternal life,’ he says. This is pure delusional fantasy. What exactly is eternal life? Living things must die. Only lifeless matter endures forever. ‘Those who come to me shall not hunger.’ ‘Those who believe in me shall never thirst’—so those who don’t come to you will starve, eh? And those who don’t believe will thirst? The bastard’s nothing but a swindler!”

Judas’s betrayal of Jesus stemmed from this difference in thought.

The thirteen walked on.

The night gradually deepened. The moonlight gradually intensified. The thirteen looked emaciated. They looked as emaciated as mummies. It seemed Judas had sold me out. The Pharisees' pursuers seemed to be closing in nearby. ――Jesus had already perceived. His movements were erratic. There was none of his usual calmness; he stumbled over roots and rocks. And he repeatedly paused to rest. Still, each time he preached.

Passing through a poplar thicket and fording the Kidron stream on foot, they soon arrived at the abandoned garden of Gethsemane. Jesus’s body was trembling. He seemed terribly afraid. “Now you all keep watch.” “…John, Peter, James—come.” “Come with me.” With these words, Jesus proceeded deeper into the garden. “I want to pray alone. You all go back and keep watch.”

He had finally driven even the three away.

Jesus staggered and stumbled as he proceeded alone deeper into the garden.

And there stood a grove. It was a grove of poplars and olive trees. Jesus entered it. Moonlight did not reach there. A silence akin to the Zen meditation of ascetics pervaded the place. Suddenly Jesus flung himself down at the base of a large tree. “If it be possible, please save me! Father, you are almighty.” Was he an idiot, a child, a coward? With such a pitiful voice, Jesus prayed like this.

4

Judas had followed behind. He hid himself in the shadow of a linden tree and peered out from there to observe the situation.

He was completely satisfied. He came to realize that his own action had not been hasty. "That man is Jesus—nothing but Jesus. What kind of prophet is that man?! If he were a prophet, he wouldn’t be begging for help. He should be using his usual miracles to make a swift escape from this danger. But," he pondered. "What if, at the very moment of arrest, he performs some magnificent miracle?" "And if he were to escape this peril?"

He felt a pain in his heart. There's absolutely no way such a thing could happen. But if by some chance it did happen, then perhaps that guy really is a prophet. And if that guy really is a prophet, I’ll surrender cleanly. Be he prophet or con artist, even as a means to confirm which, my selling him out was by no means a bad idea. Dew dripped from the treetops. Poplar flowers scattered down. The choking sound of Jesus’s prayers continued endlessly, on and on.

At last Jesus stood up and returned to where the apostles were.

Wracked by anxiety and exhaustion, the apostles lay using tree roots and rocky outcrops as pillows, sunk in deep slumber. Jesus awakened them one by one. "You must not sleep. Let us pray."

The twelve apostles，excluding Judas，offered prayers anew there.

However, it seemed they were simply too drowsy, for the apostles fell asleep once more. They seemed paralytically, pathologically drowsy.

“Are you sleeping again? What is this!” “Pray lest you fall into temptation.” Jesus spoke with utter loneliness. Then he suddenly cried out: “The hour has come!” “They come!”

He pointed toward the foothills.

Hiding himself in a wild grape thicket, Judas had been observing the situation when he peered through a gap toward the foothills. Through overlapping tree leaves flickered the light of pine torches—those carried by soldiers. At intervals their helmets came into view, gleaming under the torchlight. The clatter of blades reached his ears.

“Yeah, here they come,” Judas said.

Then he hurried off in that direction. When they recognized Judas, the soldiers halted and saluted. At their head was Malchus. He was a servant of High Priest Caiaphas. “Malchus,” Judas said as he approached.

“The kiss will be the signal.” “Don’t mess this up.” “It’s fine.” “It’s fine.” Thereupon, the squad began advancing. From a side path, Judas circled around to the front. “If he’s a con artist he’ll grieve and cower; if he’s a prophet he’ll perform a miracle.” ...It comes down to one of two possibilities. “What an interesting performance.”

Judas was thrilled as he ran.

Malchus and the squad of soldiers came before Jesus and the apostles. The apostles surrounded Jesus. Jesus stared at Malchus, and his eyes blazed like fire. But his demeanor was composed. He was no longer trembling. Dead Sea water! He looked just like that.

At that moment, parting the fig thicket, Judas quickly stepped forward. “Rabbi, are you at ease?!” Judas said. Then he embraced Jesus. Then he planted a sudden kiss on him.

Jesus's face twisted. His face had turned pale blue like amber. His lips and eyelids spasmed. But in the next instant, he returned to his former composure.

He approached the soldiers, and then Jesus asked thus. “Who do you seek?” “Jesus of Nazareth,” Malchus said. “Jesus of Nazareth?” “Then I am he.”

Malchus and the soldiers stepped back.

"Who do you seek?" Again Jesus asked thus.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” Malchus said. “Did I not say that I am he? …You have found me. “…These people have done no wrong.” “Let these people go.”

Having said this, Christ gazed at the apostles and raised his hand as if to say "Go." The apostles knelt on the ground. They pressed their lips to the earth again and again. Then they raised their voices in prayer.

Judas alone remained standing.

5

It was a dramatic spectacle.

But nothing changed anywhere. The moon sank as it was destined to sink. Instead, a cross-shaped star shone. In the distant Mediterranean, waves arched their serpentine backs. In the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River, flying fish skimmed across the water's surface. In Philippi’s tetrarchy, the town of Bethany, Jericho, and Samaria’s small villages lay steeped in peaceful slumber.

In a certain high priest’s garden, a bonfire blazed crimson. The Pharisaic scholars and Sanhedrin council members waited by the bonfire for Christ to be dragged before them.

It was a dramatic spectacle. One of the apostles, Simon Peter, suddenly shouted and leapt up. He drew the sword at his waist. Malchus's ear was severed in that instant, falling like a leaf.

“Peter!” Christ restrained him with a hand and gazed pityingly at the wounded enemy. “It is the cup given by my Father.” He held out both hands. He calmly accepted the ropes. Everyone—each and every one of them—had left. The Mount of Olives grew quiet.

Judas alone remained.

“To not grieve, to not perform miracles—to calmly submit to being bound like one who yearned for death? What in the world was he?” Judas stood utterly astonished. Every calculation he had meticulously laid now lay shattered.

He leaned his body against a poplar tree and gazed at the nearing dawn sky.

He simply couldn't quell his anxiety. The trial of Jesus was conducted that very night.

High Priest Caiaphas asked thus. “Are you truly the Son of God?”

“Yes,” Jesus said majestically. “The Son of Man will sit at the right hand of Power and appear in heaven’s clouds. You will see it.” From the perspective of Judaism as administered by Caiaphas, to proclaim oneself as the Son of God was the utmost blasphemy. That crime indeed warranted death. To carry out a death sentence upon someone, they had to consult Pilate, the governor of the Roman government. The Sanhedrin council members, Pharisees, and High Priest Caiaphas gleefully tormented Jesus until dawn broke.

At last, night passed and morning came. To the residence of Pilate, the Roman governor, Caiaphas and his group led Jesus away.

It was Friday. It was the Passover festival, and the streets teemed with crowds. Inside the house, men and women were making merry.

Pilate was a thoughtful official. However, his heart was weak.

Pilate summoned Jesus alone into the hall,

“Are you the King of the Jews?”

He first asked thus. "My kingdom is not of this world." This was Jesus's reply.

“In any case—are you a king?” “Yes,” Jesus said majestically. “I was born for this purpose. “…that is to say—to preach the truth.” There, Pilate intuited the meaning of “king” as Jesus spoke of it and “kingdom” as Christ defined it.

He went out to the entrance and said.

“This man has no guilt.”

However, the crowd was not delighted. The crowd dragged Jesus outside. They placed a crown of thorns upon his head, draped a purple robe over his shoulders, then raised their voices as one.

“Crucify him! “Crucify him!”

To Calvary Hill outside Jerusalem—there they drove Christ.

Blades of grass covered the entire ground. A grove encircled the hill. Smoke rose from the altar, and the sacrificial young goat was being burned. In the temple, bells were being rung.

Jesus was crucified.

His suffering lasted three hours.

“It is finished,” he said. When his life ended, the temple veil was torn in two, the earth shook, and the tombs broke open.

6

At this time, Judas was walking through the Mount of Olives like a madman.

"He went to his death without fear or sorrow, composed to the end. In any case, he is no ordinary man... Then is that guy a prophet?" Judas did not think so. "That guy is ultimately nothing but a fanatic. He merely believed with fanaticism that he was a prophet." Judas recalled a certain song. That was a song Jesus had loved reciting since his childhood. With utmost sincerity shall He show that path He shall not falter nor be disheartened Until He has steadfastly established His way upon the earth

He was despised and forsaken by people, A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief

“I see,” Judas muttered.

“It’s exactly the kind of song that guy would love. It fits that guy perfectly.” “He was not despised nor forsaken by men.” “He was truly despised and abandoned.” “He shall not falter nor be disheartened” “This too is exactly as it says. He never lost heart until the end. Wait... Then did that man anticipate all this, yet still strive to establish his path with such diligence?” Judas abruptly came to an impasse.

“Even if he wasn’t a prophet, wasn’t he something more than a fanatic—a great man?”

His chest ached. No - these thoughts were dangerous! There were no great men in this world. To think otherwise was prejudice. Living things and dead things - that was all there was. And among living beings - only male and female existed. Female! Woman! "Ah - Mary!" Judas frantically searched his pockets. The thirty pieces of silver lay within.

Mary Magdalene was singing.

“Lord Christ has died, so they say.” “Hmph, serves you right. Now you know how it feels?” “I adored that man at first—washed his feet with perfume, did everything to please him—yet he wouldn’t even glance my way.” “So I took Caiaphas as my lover and made him kill that man.”

“Mary!” Judas burst in. “Thirty pieces of silver! “There! How about that?!”

Judas drew Mary into an embrace.

“Now, now—wait a moment. Let me see.”

She snatched the leather wallet and peered inside— “Oh how pitiful! It’s counterfeit!” “I was duped once myself—hmph, you think I’ll fall for it again?!” “You got these from Caiaphas, didn’t you?” “I sent them to Caiaphas.”

Having spoken up to this point, Mr. Saeki nimbly rose from his chair and retrieved a strikingly foreign-looking leather wallet from his collection shelf.

“Now take a look—this is it, the legendary silver coins of today, I tell you.” He thudded them down onto the table. “When I went to Jerusalem, I bought this at an antique shop—of course it’s not genuine. “They’re the kind you find everywhere, I tell you.” “They’re fakes for swindling wanderers... But isn’t it amusing? Even now, the Jews interpret Christ, Judas, and Mary exactly as I’ve described, you see.” “And they even fabricate these silver coins to sell them with apparent legitimacy.” “You’re no match for the Jews once you cross paths.” “The biggest fool is Christ, the next biggest fool is Judas Iscariot, then comes Miss Mary, and the cleverest ends up being the leather merchant, you see.”

I picked up the silver coins. They were large coins—half an inch thick, two inches wide, and four inches long—so heavy they felt weighty in the hand. And they shone with an intensely beautiful color, as if they had been minted just yesterday. “They’re terribly heavy, don’t you think?”

I exclaimed in surprise to Mr. Saeki. “Were Jewish ancient coins really this terribly heavy?” “Well, I couldn’t say about that.” “But Japanese Tenpō coins were also quite large and heavy, you know.” “…But isn’t the crest interesting?”

It was indeed an interesting crest. “What do you think—doesn’t my story make good material for a novel?” “Yes, it certainly does make for great material.” Though I said this, I found being told such things unpleasant. This was because when most people recognized someone as a novelist, they invariably brought up a story and then demanded that it be written. I had grown sick of it.

That said, this story did indeed seem to have merit worth writing. For it vividly manifested idol destruction, subversion of values, atheism, and nihilist philosophy. Of course, if I were to write it, I would naturally have to make Judas Iscariot the protagonist.

7

“By all means, you must write it—I strongly recommend it.”

Mr. Jun’ichirou Saeki, who was both a traveler and collector, said: “Therefore I shall lend you these coins.” “Even merely examining their crests could prove an intriguing pastime.” “Take not just one—carry all thirty.” “Truthfully I depart on another journey tomorrow or next day—these will lie unused.” “Their loss would prove inconvenient yet they’re not easily lost—though called lending I desire their safekeeping so hesitate not.” “...That said their weight—you’d scarcely bear them homeward.” “Let me summon a hired car.”

In truth, I was interested in both the coins themselves and the crests upon them. Moreover, even were I to weave it into a story, having some tangible reference like those coins seemed extremely convenient for conveying authenticity.

I decided to borrow them without reservation.

In the meantime, a taxi arrived.

Mr. Saeki put the coins into the leather wallet and then brought them into the taxi for me. “When I return from my trip, I shall send you a letter. "No—I shall pay you a visit. Observing a literary man’s household does hold some interest for me—though to say such a thing may be terribly rude, I suppose.”

Mr. Saeki said this at the entrance. The taxi soon began to move.

“Goodbye,” I said, removing my hat. “Goodbye,” Mr. Saeki said with a smile.

But to me, that smile seemed profoundly eerie.

Nagoya’s night view was beautiful. My taxi drove past Tsuruma Park Zoo.

8

My taxi drove away.

The park was shrouded in winter mist.

Exiting the park brought us into the town. The town's lights were also shrouded in winter mist. Nishi Ward, Kodamacho, Nagoya City; Address 223; a two-story duplex with newly built latticework construction—that was my residence.

The taxi arrived there approximately twenty-five minutes later.

My wife Kumeko was awake. "You're late, aren't you?" she said reproachfully. She clasped me tightly. Then pressed her cheek to mine. This was her custom. She handled me like a child.

I entered the second-floor study.

“Hey, I’ll show you something good.” “You see, these are Judean silver coins.”

I took out the silver coins from the wallet.

"My, they’re awfully big, aren’t they?" She burst into cheerful laughter. Her teeth were crooked. Her upper front teeth had been extracted, and all the rest were dentures. When she laughed, her dentures showed. That displeased me. But those eyes were lovely. From the outer corner toward the inner corner, about a third of an inch inward, her lower eyelid sagged. However, it wasn’t that the outer corners of her eyes drooped. The outer corners were perfectly ordinary. Only that part sagged. That made her eyes appear intensely endearing in a modern way. Those were a child’s eyes. Every other part of her had matured, yet only there—as if those eyes had never developed at all—they remained a child’s, making for such endearing eyes. As long as those eyes remained those eyes, her purity could be trusted.

She laughed cheerfully with those eyes.

At that point, I explained. “Let me tell you, these are outrageous counterfeit coins. “Shining bright like silver, right? “But they’re not silver. “They’re stuffed with lead or something, I tell you. “Borrowed ’em from a friend, see? “Planning to craft a story around these. “Now look at these crests!”

The crests were all different. All thirty coins bore distinct crests. Laurel leaves rendered in relief encircled each coin's edge, framing a stamped portrait. The portraits varied. I picked up one and examined it. Stamped upon the coin was Christ's unmistakable visage—long hair cascading to his shoulders, sorrowful yet noble features. I picked up another coin and examined it. There appeared a bald old man with sunken eyes and thin pressed lips—the very incarnation of willpower. It was unmistakably Apostle Peter. I picked up another coin and examined it. A poet-like figure with flame-swirled hair gazed skyward through meditative eyes, sensual lips slightly parted within laurel leaves. It was unmistakably the Author of Revelation. I picked up another coin and examined it. Stamped upon it was a round-faced, beardless apostle with narrow eyes radiating peace. It was unmistakably Philip, who first preached in Samaria. I picked up another coin and examined it. A gaunt, wrinkled face—so emaciated it might suggest lethargy—stared back. Apostle James, shamelessly slain by King Herod's murderous blade—it was unmistakably his portrait.

I picked up another coin and examined it. It too had a portrait stamped on it.

“Hmm, this one’s Judas Iscariot.”

I could immediately tell. It was so distinctive. At first glance, it was an ugly visage. But upon closer inspection, it became a countenance of fearsome distinction. First, the crown was bald; however, from both ears to the nape stretched hair. In other words, the hair formed a ring around the head's posterior. This appeared unpleasant initially. Yet from another angle, this was the sage's visage of wisdom—something utterly unridiculable. The forehead was unnaturally narrow. This too repelled at first sight. It bore the mark of a congenital criminal. But equally, it resembled Socrates' brow—the kind seen in those morbid geniuses. Both eyes protruded alarmingly. They jutted out so severely that one feared they might be pierced by branch tips—such was their protrusion. Yet even this gaze recalled Socrates'. An exceedingly intellectual gaze it was. The nose—what they call a pug nose. The lips swelled thick and full. Both seemed to manifest formidable willpower.

High cheekbones that displayed rebelliousness in full measure; wrinkles covering his face that perfectly mirrored profound spiritual anguish—I will never compromise! A jaw that seemed to voice this declaration, and a neck thick with combativeness like a bull’s. What shrouded the entire countenance was a skeptical melancholy. “I don’t believe in a single damn thing!” It was a face that seemed to proclaim this.

9 "I see," I thought to myself.

"When judged by traditional aesthetics, this is precisely an unaesthetic face. It would not appeal to women or children. But this very face—isn’t this the true face of a human?"

I compared it with Christ’s portrait. It was a truly striking contrast. Faith, meekness, love, endurance—these were the characteristics that overflowed in Christ’s portrait. The whole was slender and beautiful, classically harmonious. It was remarkably weak in strength. Nihilism, rage, hatred, defiance—these were the characteristics suffused throughout Judas’ portrait. The whole was brutishly thick and rough-hewn, a modernist deformity. The strength was terrifyingly intense. “These are two extremes; they should not coexist. They were never meant to be master and disciple. It is only natural they should clash. Even Christ could not reign over Judas. Even Judas could not reign over Christ. They each have their own domains. So, those who wish to go to Christ may go and find peace. So, those who wish to go to Judas may go and grasp something. But those who go to Christ will undoubtedly be castrated. They will undoubtedly develop a slave mentality. Instead, they will undoubtedly be able to find peace. But those who go to Judas will undoubtedly be driven by a revolutionary spirit.

And they will undoubtedly be persecuted by society. They will never obtain peace in their lifetime.

By comparing Christ and Judas, I found myself growing somewhat meditative.

I examined each emblem one by one. As a result, I was able to painstakingly select portraits of the Twelve Apostles and Jesus Christ from among those thirty coins. Still seventeen coins remained. Each and every one had a portrait struck on it. That too I was soon able to ascertain.

Moses, Abraham, Job, Solomon, David, Samson, Joshua, Samuel, Elijah, and others—all portraits of prominent figures from the Old Testament. This was because there were signatures written in Western characters so minuscule beneath the portraits that they seemed barely present. “If these were ancient Judean coins, the signatures should be in Judean script.” “Yet they’re signed in English.” “This single discrepancy alone proves these silver coins are counterfeit.”

I muttered involuntarily.

“No,” my wife said at that moment. “Huh?” I looked up. Absorbed in studying the emblems, I had forgotten all about her.

“Did you say something?”

She did not respond. There was something strange about her expression. Her eyes were glued to the silver coins. Her eyes were burning with feverish intensity. Her cheeks were flushed with a sickly redness. Suddenly she looked at me. Her eyes were filled with doubt. “You,” she said reproachfully. “From whom did you borrow these?” “Such strange and eerie things?” “You say it’s eerie?” “Why do you say that?” With what could only be called a dumbfounded feeling, I had no choice but to ask again.

"They're counterfeit coins. From ancient Judea." “Hey, you,” she said. “From whom did you borrow them? “Please do tell me.” “Come on, right away.”

It was a voice straining toward solemnity. A voice ill-suited to her. "It's a man named Saeki." "Saeki Jun'ichirou."

Somehow, I grew uneasy.

"He's a splendid gentleman—a collector." “Saeki Jun’ichirou? That name doesn’t ring a bell.” “After all, there wasn’t anyone by that name among your friends, was there?”

I was suddenly fed up.

"She’s sniffed out something again, that damn sharp-eyed brat! But this time, tough luck—I don’t feel the slightest shred of guilt." This is what I thought.

And I snapped. "He's a friend I'm about to newly enter into my name register."

“Hey, you,” she said. “How and where did you become friends?” “It was in the park. “At Tsuruma Park, you know.”

“When?” she pressed. Her voice was reproachful.

I nearly felt resentment. But I held back. Because what I saw on her face was not anxiety but even sorrow.

“This afternoon. “On my way back from the hospital, you know.” ……She looked terribly worried. It would be too cruel to make dear Totsu worry. Alright then—I’ll tell her everything in detail.”

I was a patient of Basedow’s disease. I had to visit the hospital once every week to undergo rather strong X-ray radiation treatments. On those round trips, I would pass through the park. Tsuruma Park was a fine park, better maintained than Hibiya. Sitting on a Roha bench and lighting up my favorite La Labia had been my habit since summer.

Deep in winter, mid-January, with a cold wind gusting wildly about, I remained unable to break this habit—there I leaned against the Roha bench once more that day, lighting a La Labia.

10

At that moment, a distinguished gentleman of about forty-five or six in a fur coat sat down beside me and leisurely lit a cigar. “Excuse my impertinence, but might you be an artist?” The gentleman abruptly spoke. “No,” I said curtly. As a matter of personal preference, I not only disliked but detested being asked about my occupation and age. And so, being approached by strangers in that manner was another thing I disliked as a matter of personal preference.

The gentleman slowly took out a business card case from his coat’s inner pocket. After bowing courteously, he presented his business card. “My name is Saeki. “I recently returned from Europe.”

This attitude of his became increasingly disagreeable to me. So what if he’d returned from Europe! I nearly spat venom in my heart. Yet what stopped me was that this Mr. Saeki’s courtesy—in the truest sense—bore no trace of affectation.

I too handed over my business card. “Oh! So you are Mr. Ichijou. “I have long been acquainted with your esteemed name. “Indeed, I believe I have encountered your works before. “No—I recognized you as an artist from the very first. “That is why I ventured to address you. “There exists an unmistakable pattern among artists of true caliber, you understand.” This observation struck true. Artists did possess such patterns. Though not particularly flattering ones. “This is most presumptuous of me, but should it not inconvenience you unduly—might I entreat you to visit my humble abode presently? “There is something I should greatly desire to show you—an object I believe would capture your interest. “You see, I am something of a connoisseur—my pursuits in this field have taken me far abroad. “I have assembled no small collection of curiosities. “My residence lies just beyond the park. “Yes—in ××-chō precisely. “Pray do not stand on ceremony. “The privilege of having an artist of your discernment examine them— “Far surpasses any appraisal from common antiquarians. “For collecting fulfills not only personal inclination—but equally requires the validation of discerning eyes and learned critique—this being among its foremost purposes.”

Mr. Saeki Jun'ichirou said such things.

His manner was courteous, flawless, and charming—a way of speaking that made refusal nearly impossible. So I decided to go. Thus, what I was shown were the legendary Thirty Pieces of Silver.

11 When she heard my story, my wife grew even more anxious.

“So that’s why you borrowed them, then.” “Oh, you impossible man!”

She clattered downstairs. The sound of a drawer being pulled out echoed.

She returned to the study. “Go on, compare them and see.”

She threw down the ring. “See, isn’t this platinum?” The ring was undoubtedly platinum. Because it was platinum, she had treasured it like a prized possession, keeping it hidden deep away. I compared the two. Thirty Pieces of Silver and the ring.

I was struck by an odd chill. The two were exactly the same.

“Hey—this is the same!” “Not counterfeit coins—platinum.”

This size… this weight…

“Thirty in number.” “Well? What do you intend to do with this money?” “Ah, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Hey, call a taxi!”

I was afraid to go alone. Or rather, it was my wife who felt uneasy about leaving this indecisive fool of a husband to handle things alone.

And so we rode in the car together. My hands and hers pressed down on the leather pouch. I found myself compelled to think deeply.

This had to be some kind of mistake. Otherwise, it was a conspiracy. Please let it not be a conspiracy. Even setting myself aside, someone as seemingly astute as Mr. Saeki couldn’t possibly fail to distinguish counterfeit coins from platinum. He knew and lent them to me. But someone of his cunning wouldn’t lend out such a thing for nothing. Converted into cash—how many tens of thousands of yen would they amount to? How could that bastard have lent me this?! But the fact remained that he had—there’d better be a damn good reason—

Our taxi drove on. She did not speak. It was past midnight. What a winter fog enveloped this town. At last, the taxi reached the park. The taxi cut through the park. The taxi made it to XX District. I had to return these preposterous counterfeit coins immediately!

“Stop!” I barked. The taxi slowed down, then came to a stop. “Which house?! Where’s Mr. Saeki’s house?” My wife whispered to me. I peered out through the window.

“Look,” I said, swallowing hard. “That mansion with the red police lanterns flickering.” My wife too seemed to swallow. The driver moved to open the door.

“Wait,” I rasped, stopping him. I pushed aside the window curtain. My wife’s hair at her temple brushed against my cheek. The imposing main gate of the Saeki residence had been thrown wide open to both sides. Red-striped lanterns darted about here and there. The onlookers who had formed a wide circle were silently watching. From the gate’s roof toward the sky, a pine tree jutted up sharply. At a distant intersection in the town, the last train passed through. A piercing silence hung thick in the air.

“Hey driver, turn us around.”

—And so, the taxi turned around. She said nothing. Her shoulder trembled unpleasantly warm near her arm. I felt like delivering some parting shot. "The hush before an arrest operation." "Did he say he was going on a trip?" "So it was prison after all." "Saeki-kun—what a witty remark." Of course, he had said it internally.

12

The next day's newspaper was filled with sensational articles. I will limit myself to listing only the main headlines. International Grand Swindler Saeki Jun'ichirou Apprehended

Of course, it was printed in special-sized type. That he had staged organized fraud for over a decade across Europe, America, the South Seas, China, and the Near East; that even Japan’s renowned wealthy gentlemen numbered among his victims; that having infiltrated Nagoya several months prior, judicial authorities had mobilized to search for him; that someone’s anonymous tip the previous night had finally revealed his whereabouts; that during the house search only counterfeit antiques were found—nothing of monetary value; that his student lodgers and maids were newly hired and unaware of his activities; that he had only recently relocated to his XX District mansion and not yet initiated neighborly interactions; and finally—under a separate headline—that he likely had ties to an international conspiratorial secret society: all this was recorded across three columns.

My wife and I exchanged glances. We didn't know what to do. Bringing what were undoubtedly thirty platinum coins to file a report with the police would have been the proper course of action to take, but being suspected as an accomplice for doing so, subjected to various nuisance interrogations, and having it written about in newspapers was utterly unbearable. On the other hand, keeping them stored away would constitute what's called concealment of stolen goods; if discovered, that would inevitably lead to criminal charges.

"Hey, what should we do?" "Well..." she pondered deeply. "Reporting it would be proper." "Hmm," I mused intently.

“If they start prying too stubbornly into things, I’ve got this tendency to fly into a rage, you know.” “Besides, you must be terribly busy.” “Yeah, I’m swamped.” “Being disturbed is what troubles me most.” “This is such a crucial time right now.” “It stifles my precious imagination.” “That would be most troubling.”

She pondered earnestly.

Like most artists, I was neurotic on one hand and bold on the other. On yet another front, I was a wit, while on another, remarkably indolent. Since being seized by this fateful illness, its severity had intensified. As a characteristic of this illness, my mind was always agitated.

But there were times I wanted to bless my illness. It was because "imagination" would come racing in. By nature, I was a man of imagination. I never lacked for imagination. Since falling ill, its volume seemed only to have increased. Etheric architecture taking shape in the void! Swarms of electrons tearing through them! Such visions became "visible" to me. Yet I was not yet a medium. But that would come sooner or later. Tidings from the afterlife—communications from the netherworld—the pleas of spirits—I would come to know even these.

There were times when I suffered while writing. It was because imaginings came chasing after me in relentless succession. They wouldn’t even grant me the leisure to transcribe them into words on manuscript paper. At such times I flopped down to sleep. Suppressing my violently pounding heart, I waited for the imaginings to race past. I would walk through town, stop, lean against a utility pole, and jot down the visions surging up onto scraps of tissue paper.

One night, a fantasy welled up. Unfortunately, I did not have any tissue paper. I wrote on a shop’s wooden wall with a fountain pen. There were even times when I would go out the next morning and copy them down. Before long, I might end up attaching paper to passersby’s backs and writing there. I was filled with creative energy. I loathed having it destroyed by something so trivial.

Suddenly, my wife laughed unnervingly. It was a bone-chilling laugh. Then she began mocking me. "No wonder, coming from you. That kimono dealer who frequents So-and-so's place—when he boasted about making a quick profit and came flaunting a platinum wristwatch, didn't you sneer 'What fine luster for nickel!'? Yet when it came to my watch—though as nickel it's unparalleled, more costly than any gold timepiece—didn't you make this grand fuss about 'What magnificent platinum!'?" "Not knowing whether it's platinum or silver isn't strange in the least, is it?"

13

“What nonsense, you fool!” I roared.

“What’s the point of you saying such things?” But she laughed all the more, and mocked me all the more. “You’ve been tricked.” “Well, it can only be seen that way.” “But why such a fraud?” "But why would this master con artist Saeki have needed to resort to such an absurd fraud?" "It’s not even profitable." "In fact, it causes a tremendous loss instead." "There's more beneath the surface here." “It can’t possibly be seen that way.” "How dreadful. What ever shall we do?" “Do return them! Right this instant.”

“You fool!” I roared again. “You want me to haul these to jail and hand them back?” “So you can’t lay hands on them yourself then?”

Abruptly, she grew calm. “Please entrust it to me.” “So, what do you intend to do?” “Do you wish to hear that? Then you may do so yourself.”

She turned sarcastic again. "Isn’t that precisely the case, if you won’t entrust a single thing to me?"

"But I can't lay a hand on it." “Please do write your manuscript.”

It was a melodic tone. "And just don't think about anything." "Please do immerse yourself in your work." "You're an adorable little fool." "Expecting systematic competence—that's simply impossible, I tell you." "Please do trust me."

I entrusted it to her. I decided not to think about anything. Now, to work! Now, to creation! Imagination, drive me forth!

The year turned, and the new year dawned.

My wife's demeanor had begun to change. She and I had been a couple who came together through romantic love. She had loved me. But now she no longer did. “Hey there, you little fool.” “Hey there, Dimples.”

This had been her pet name for me. By now, she had put an end to them. She had been remarkably vivacious. She would frequently unleash preposterous witticisms, each time delighting me immensely. “Look here, isn’t Becky-chan making a hand pillow?”

She often said things like this. Becky was the name of our pet dog. The name she had given the dog came from Baby Becky, the child prodigy film actress. She used the term "hand pillow" to describe how our dog slept with its head resting on its paw. This might seem like an ordinary expression. Yet when she said it, the scene would spring vividly to life. Not of a dog but of a human child—it seemed as if an utterly adorable girl named Becky lay there charmingly using her hand as a pillow in her sleep.

However, by now she had stopped saying such things. When I tried to go for a walk, she would invariably stop me. Standing upright, she would embrace me, press her slightly protruding forehead tightly against mine, widen her eyes like an owl, and puff out her cheeks as if to intimidate, “That’s fine. Go ahead.” With these words, she finally released me. But she stopped doing even that.

She had been a woman who liked to cry.

One morning I washed my face and went to the living room with cold hands. There she was putting on makeup. Her chest was pale and beautiful. I pressed my cold fingertips against her skin. She claimed it felt sad and began to cry—an exquisitely beautiful way of crying. Of course it was fabricated coquetry. That suited her perfectly. But she stopped doing even that. She had been a woman adept at laughter. Skilled in laughing with feigned artlessness. When she laughed—clever as she was—she transformed into an ignorant, innocent woman. That indeed must be called a blessing for any man. For in an instant, it healed all troubles. But she stopped doing even that.

She was a mysterious woman. She had a clairvoyant quality. After downing two or three glasses of whiskey—I was once a heavy drinker who could drain a whole sho of sake without difficulty—when I quietly opened the lattice gate, she would invariably say: "You're in high spirits—how unlike you." …Sometimes I would go to banquet halls for social engagements and return home nonchalantly, and despite being separated by three ken, "You awful Dimples—you kissed her. "A young beautiful geisha. "There's powder on your collar."

…But by now, she had stopped saying such things as well.

No matter what I did outside, she no longer paid any mind. What in the world had happened? What had changed her? She had liked the rounded chignon. At some point she had changed it to a princess-style chignon.

She had been a woman who liked to stay at home. However, these days she kept wanting to go outdoors even when there was no reason. A startling discovery came to light. In a remarkably short span of time, she had become miraculously beautiful and miraculously noble.

“Off to the Bishou Club or something, I suppose? Could it be you’ve found yourself a lover? When a woman takes a lover, she suddenly becomes beautiful—that’s how it goes.”

My heart ached. I couldn’t help but grow depressed.

14

A shocking discovery came to light. One night I returned home from outside. She was in my study. She was smoking a thin cigarette. On the finger of her left hand that supported the cigarette, a large diamond gleamed. “What about that ring?” I said. It was a ring I didn’t recognize. She wordlessly extended her finger. She stared fixedly at the diamond. Her eyes held a look of savoring that dazzling steely-blue radiance. The cigarette stood upright between two fingers, purple smoke rising from it. A single strand coiled around the diamond. Light and smoke! An exquisite harmony! What aristocratic taste! Her sculpture-like face! Her lips seemed on the verge of parting. The Mona Lisa’s smile? That’s not it! The courtesan Mary Magdalene’s laugh!

I was vanquished in an instant.

Several days later, a complete set of garments arrived from Matsuzakaya. They were expensive garments. The obi! The metal fittings! They were expensive. They were garments that should never have been ordered. They were garments I didn’t recognize.

So I pleaded.

"Tell me, what's happened?"

She merely smiled. With that same Mary-like smile.

"Hey!" I grew fierce. "You disposed of them—the stolen goods!"

“You,” she said like water. “Stolen goods, you say? “What vulgar language.” “You sold them! “The platinum!” “You,” she repeated.

“We had an agreement, did we not? Not to ask questions.”

She looked down at me. She was the very image of a noblewoman.

The curtain rose on the final act.

I was walking along Entonji Street. It was a night of heavy fog. A car came up from behind.

“You idiot!” barked the driver. I had nearly been run over. I turned back in fury. The window curtain was open. A gentleman and a lady were riding in it. I recognized the lady. That was my wife. She too seemed to recognize me. She showed her dentures between her lips. The gentleman too looked familiar to me. He was a first-rate gentleman-merchant of the city. I knew him from newspapers and magazines. An elderly man past sixty, he was a renowned old gentleman famous throughout society for his boundless vigor and lechery.

My head spun dizzily. But I did not lunge forward. I hunched my shoulders, arched my back, and hung my face low toward the ground. Like a beaten dog, I staggered unsteadily sideways and tried to cling to something. Something cold touched my hand. It was the entrance door. I was sucked inward. Directly in front stood a person. A narrow forehead, bulging eyes, a throat like a bull’s, protruding cheekbones—it was Judas Iscariot.

It was a coffee shop. It was a mirror. I had been reflected there. Jesus Christ cursed it. Mary Magdalene cursed it. Judas Iscariot cursed it. Each in a different sense. And now I curse. Detestable Thirty Pieces of Silver!

When people are robbed of their faith, they become atheists overnight.

When people are betrayed in love, they become nihilistic thinkers overnight. Such was Judas's fate.

As my own philosophy, I had harbored within my heart Judas's atheism and nihilistic thought. Now I had to possess them as emotions.

Now, I was Judas. Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me!

I had come to seek salvation.

But salvation was nowhere to be found.

There is one!

Christ!

Judas Iscariot who sold Christ must have sought Christ again after selling Him!

15

This might truly be the final act.

That night I was in the park. I had wandered there. I sat alone on the Roha-dai bench where I had met the conman. A tepid night wind carried a suffocating floral scent—it was spring orchid season. The fountain had already fallen asleep. The music hall stood dark. It wasn't a Sunday evening. The park held no one. Silence and desolation reigned. The night had grown deep. The moon hung caught in the sky. Mist wandered among the trees. Shadows of things lingered faintly visible.

Both my mind and body had been worn down until there was nothing left to wear down. I had written nothing for a long time. My daydreams had vanished completely. The illness had progressed severely. Heart palpitations, trembling fingertips—I was exactly like a stroke patient. My eyesight had deteriorated terribly. And thus I had developed severe astigmatism. I could not focus on anything for more than five minutes at a time. I blinked incessantly with a rapid flutter. The insides of my eyelids had chapped raw.

No one came to care for me.

Mother! Mother! I had become completely estranged from my family home. That too had begun with my marriage to her. Kōgen Shinano! That family home there! I must die without meeting anyone. "One more breath now. Just a fingertip. Just give me a nudge from behind. I can fall into death's abyss."

I lifted both my knees onto the Roha-dai bench. I pressed my forehead against my knees. I curled into a small, tight ball. "One more breath now. Just a fingertip." At that moment came the sound of a car.

I reflexively leapt up.

From the direction of the hospital, a car came driving this way. It crossed before my eyes. A gentleman and a lady were riding in it. The lady was my wife. The gentleman was not that gentleman. He was a gentleman of even worse repute. He was the owner of the department store. He was the gentleman who had been written up in the newspapers for keeping a mistress. The car’s interior was bathed in a peach-colored glow. Soft cushions, fragrant perfume—the two of them must surely be happy. They were leaning in close, deep in conversation. It passed by in an instant. Moonlight dripped upon the car roof. Dew threatened to drip in languid trails. The city sky was red. A horn sounded from that direction.

"Enough," I said to myself.

For the final push had come. Beyond the flower bed was a grove. It was the grove I had set my sights on. I pushed through into it.

"Judas too must have hanged himself and died." I had to select a tree. The trees were all young. I placed my hand on one of the trees. I pressed my forehead against the trunk. It was chillingly cold. And it was remarkably smooth. A hush fell, and my heart grew still. Peace returned to my heart. "This tree looks brittle. It might break."

I touched my hand to another tree.

At that moment, something brushed against me. Someone restrained my shoulder. I turned around calmly. A man was standing. He was wearing a hunting cap on his head. He wore straw sandals on his feet.

In my more robust days, I had worked as a newspaper reporter. This man was a detective. I was able to intuit this.

“What’s wrong?” the man said. “……” “Staying silent won’t make things clear.”

There was no mistaking that it was a detective’s voice, yet there was no threatening edge to it. “You mustn’t do anything rash.” Rather, his voice held an admonishing tone. “You don’t strike me as an uneducated man, but...”

The detective looked at my feet. “Where do you live, huh?” “Nishi Ward, Kodama-cho.” “So what’s your line of work anyway?”

I did not respond. “Ah well, no need to say if you don’t want to. Go on home.”

The detective started to turn his back. “Do I have such a thing as a home?” “What?!” The detective spun around. “Didn’t you say you live in Kodama-cho?!” “There is a house… but there’s no home.”

The detective stared for a while. “Hah! You’re drunk… Your wife’s waiting at home… Quit spouting nonsense and get going.” “Wife,” I shrugged. “My wife got in a car and left.” 16

The detective paused to consider. “Hmph, this one’s a lunatic… If you want to die, go ahead and croak wherever you please.” “But this is my jurisdiction… Go hang yourself somewhere else.” “My wife got into a car and left.” “Just now.” “With a gentleman.” “This is strange,” the detective said. “So you know that woman?” “She’s the whore I’m after.” “That’s my wife.” I was driven by something. Damn it! Let me shock this bastard!

“You, that guy’s a conman. That guy committed fraud with platinum… Of course you know—Saeki Jun’ichirou, the great conman—that’s his partner in crime.” The detective listened intently. “Go arrest him. It’ll make your career.”

The detective tensed up abruptly. But his demeanor immediately turned mocking. "How could a beauty like that ever become the wife of a madman like you?" "Enough now—go on home."

A sturdy hand thrust out and seized my arm.

“You got any money?” “Yeah,” I nodded for show.

“Tell me how much you’ve got.” “It’s in my sleeve—a drawstring purse. How should I know how much there is?” The detective released his grip on my arm. “I’ll check it. Show me.”

I took out the drawstring purse from my sleeve. “That’s five yen. That’s a red coin. That’s ten sen. That’s five yen. Still more here—that’s ten yen.”

“Alright, alright,” the detective nodded. “That’s more than enough, isn’t it?” “Walk on. I’ll see you there.” “What a damn nuisance you are.”

He grabbed my arm again. He pulled me toward town. I felt an odd exhilaration. And then I launched into an endless tirade.

“You fool, Detective—that woman’s a con artist. She’s hiding thirty platinum coins—must’ve spent one or two by now. They’re enormous pieces of platinum. They must weigh about fifty momme (190 grams). A single coin’s worth three thousand yen. There are thirty of them in total. They’re Saeki’s—the great conman. I was the first to borrow them. That guy took them! Ow! That hurts! Don’t yank so hard! It ain’t a lie—it’s the truth! You damn fool! Go on and grab him! You fell for it—it’s a scam! I knew I’d be arrested. I’m a man of letters, a novelist! That’s what he was after! He spun some bullshit story, riled up my curiosity, then dumped that thing on me! An old scam—an old one indeed! When he gets outta jail, that guy’ll come collect them!”

"He’d found a good hiding spot, see." "It’s the truth—believe me!" "Search my house—they must be somewhere... That’s the wretchedness of women." My vision swam dizzily. Yeah—once you get your hands on platinum... "She’d completely changed…"

The detective smirked knowingly. When we left the park, the town spread before us. At the right corner stood a rental car office.

“Hey, taxi!” the detective called out. “Right away!” the driver responded, coming running.

“Take this man.” Immediately, the car was pulled out. I was shoved into it. “He’s got money—it’s fine. Dump him off in Nakamura or somewhere. Let him spend the night at the pleasure quarters.” Having said this, the detective laughed cheerfully. It was an exceedingly good-natured laugh. The car roared into motion.

She lived her life. I lived my life. Family life was destroyed. But we still lived together. She grew ever more beautiful. She became beautiful beyond approach. And so she attained splendid nobility.

“Your Ladyship, what manner of person exactly are you?”

She had become the kind of woman who seemed to want to say this.

She had finally reached the place she was meant to go.

I became engrossed in debauchery. Drink! Women! Crashing out!

I once stayed somewhere for three days. On the evening of the fourth day, I returned.

And there, a rental notice had been posted. "The bird has fled!" I said.

“Lady Ophelia! Lady Ophelia! Off you go to a nunnery or somewhere!” Shakespeare’s pallor floated into view. “A nunnery? As if! It’s paradise!” “Mary Magdalene flew to paradise!”

I tried to laugh out loud. But instead, my entire body shuddered. "But the planned action—" I tried to turn around. “Dear God—just one coin! Alright, I’ll become a beggar!”

“Hey,” came a voice at that moment.

A small man stood beside him.

"Heh heh," I rubbed my hands together. “Masterrr, do you require something?”

I began practicing how to be a beggar.

17 “Are you the master here?”

The well-dressed gentleman said. “Oh yes, oh yes, indeed—back in the day. “Now I’m just an out-of-work layabout, sir.”

The gentleman smiled. “A message from your wife.” “A suitable house has been found—so she moved there yesterday—I’m told.” “Therefore I’ve come to escort you.”

“Exactly what manner of person are you, sir?” “Hey, I’m a taxi driver.”

“Get in now! You moron!”

The sound of falling things in the city

Not rain but fallen leaves In bright azure gas lamps What wanders are lingering moths. O decadent poet Verlaine—only you! Those who know! The breath of autumn, the heart of fallen leaves, the soul of a moth left alone in death.

My taxi was speeding. The street trees were spilling their leaves. People were armored in their coats. They hunched their necks against the cold. Winter had walked right up to us. Winter stood clad in bridal white.

"I’ve suffered so long." I crouched on the cushion and thought.

“Can’t you just show me mercy already?”

I firmly closed my eyes. "If not, then bury me. Fallen leaves would be good—magnolia leaves." My taxi raced onward. "If only I could weep." Hesitantly opening my eyes, I peered outside. It was a bustling thoroughfare. Winter garments filled the display windows. A woman stood gazing at them. The hairs at her nape bristled as if chilled. We passed an immense structure. This could only be Meiji Bank. A couple descended toward some basement. Likely seeking coffee in some cafeteria. Another colossal building rose ahead. The former Ito Textile Store. The taxi veered right there. The streets grew bleaker. We sped through Ōtsu Town. I shut my eyes once more.

I arrived before an imposing mansion. I had to get out of the car. An imposing gate stood. A slate-paneled wall was hung.

The driver bowed formally. “We have arrived at the residence.”

I wordlessly looked up at the nameplate. It read "Ikkyō-an." I opened the small side gate and entered. The distance to the entrance must have been eight ken. Smooth stone paving stretched across the ground. Dew had settled moistly. Tall pine hedges stood guard. “Three hundred yen for rent!” I muttered as if in delirium.

I stood before the entrance.

And then, the shoji swished open.

"My wife? No—an unfamiliar woman knelt with hands pressed to the floor in formal deference. ‘Welcome home, Master.’ The woman wore her hair in a Shimada chignon. ‘...And you are?’ I asked. The sound of the departing taxi reached us. ‘I am the maid.’ I brusquely stepped up into the entryway."

“Yeah.” “By the way, Yamagami?”

Immediately to the left was a reception room. That door was open. That was a Western-style reception room. "Well, she is resting." "Is the Countess asleep?"

I entered the reception room. I was drawn in by some force. I recognized that reception room.

It was Mr. Saeki Jun'ichirou’s reception room.

18

From then on, we lived in that house.

She continued to go out. As if it were her daily routine. She applied her makeup with meticulous care. As if it were her daily routine.

Every morning she washed her face with milk. She paid particular attention to her nails. There was sound reason for this. Even were every other part flawless, a single spot on her nails would preclude recognition as an aristocratic lady.

She tended to the hair around her ears. The hair around her ears was always pink. This lent her a youthful appearance. She paid meticulous attention to her heels. She maintained their roundness, smoothness, and petal-like hue. She attended to her ear canals and nostrils.

But her complexion was pale. That too was due to her preference. A florid complexion would have risked her being mistaken for a country bumpkin. A metropolitan noblewoman must have a pale face to be considered intriguing. Apparently she seemed to use blue cosmetic powder from France or thereabouts. Her hips had become noticeably smaller. And then her waist became slender. Her posture had grown increasingly commanding.

Her skin had taken on a pearlescent luster. It was a seemingly cold luster.

Her skin texture had grown fine like silk.

It must have been smooth. But I couldn't touch it. She was the one refusing it. I had to worship from a distance.

Moreover, that arrangement was, in a certain sense, a blessing for me as well. It was because if I were to carelessly brush against her and my hand slipped, causing her to fall, it would be troublesome. “Ah, Western attire suits her.” One day I mused profoundly. It was by no means a sarcastic compliment.

That concern proved unnecessary.

The next day, the Western attire was delivered. It was pearl-colored, matching her complexion.

She tried to go out wearing it. She glanced at my face. She ostentatiously tapped her eyelids twice. It was an imperious gaze. I bent at the waist in a fluster. I had tried to lift the hem of her garment. Like an overly diligent page.

That consideration proved unnecessary.

For the Western-style dresses currently in fashion had no long hemlines to speak of. The skirts were cut so short you could see the wearer's thighs.

Occasionally she would say to me: “Be refined.” “Refined.” “And you too must be refined.” So I said to myself.

"This woman hasn't fully transformed yet. Exactly! A nobleman's wife she is! 'Be refined, be refined! Your Ladyship and My Lord must also deign to become refined!' She'd have to say something like this or it wouldn't take root." This concern too proved unnecessary. She truly began using courtly language from the very next day. She no longer appeared counterfeit. Even her naturally prominent forehead had somehow become less noticeable.

Even the clumsily fitted dentures somehow became less noticeable. She must have exchanged them with someone else’s properly aligned teeth. Her height was tall. It appeared even taller. There was no sign of her walking on tiptoes. ——It must have been due to improved posture. She indulged in gourmet meals every day. Western cuisine! Western cuisine! Greasy food! Of course she urged gourmet food upon me as well. I didn’t eat much.

She changed clothes multiple times a day. Moreover, she changed them with proper formality. This too was a noblewoman's custom.

And then she urged that upon me as well.

I cried out thus in my heart. "The traitor’s wife urges her husband, trying to make him the same traitor!" "It’s Lady Macbeth’s state of mind!" And then I felt it—the anguished state of mind of Macbeth. She consistently went out alone. No matter what happened, she never attempted to walk out together with me. She seemed intent on concealing the fact that she had a husband.

The household furnishings were renewed. Ebony craftsmanship! Marquetry craftsmanship!

The gardener came to tend to the garden. The sound of shears filled the garden.

The carpenter came to tend to the rooms. The sound of planes filled the rooms. The mansion gradually grew more magnificent. That's right—if the temple complex isn't grand, the Buddha statue won't gain any value.

One evening, an automobile arrived.

She went out in Western clothing.

I followed her to the entrance. Just like that familiar page. The automobile was a large private vehicle. Inside the automobile sat a gentleman. He stroked his beard and laughed. He was the famous mayor of this city.

Ah, so he came to invite her. She must be heading to a hotel or some such place. A soirée, huh? Splendid... I'll just pick at some pork in the student room. But what in the world was happening? She never stayed out even a single night.

No matter how late it was, she returned.

"There’s no need for restraint. ‘Stay over already.’" I declared inwardly.

Most noblewomen occasionally stay over with gentlemen. That too must be part of their cultivation. Why on earth should I be angry? Nor could I sustain my anger. First of all, haven’t you skillfully trained yourself over time to absolutely never make me angry?

19

It was a certain day in early winter.

I rolled onto the study sofa and, swathed in the plush felt while being enveloped by its softness, was thinking aimless thoughts.

She was out that day as well. Truly, the word "she" was the perfect word for her. She and I were strangers. ……Should have been referred to in the third person. "Materially, I am satiated. Spiritually, I am hungry. This is my current life. It’s an oddly crippled life, huh?"

I stroked the felt all around.

"The softness of this fur—a Korean tiger pelt—didn't look cheap at all. When we lived in Kodama-cho, this was an item we couldn't even allow ourselves to fantasize about. I was enveloped in its plush softness. Now then—me. 'Am I happy, huh?'"

There, I answered myself.

"The sad thing is, I'm not happy."

I looked at the wall in front of me. Though certainly a minor piece, the genuine Matisse—not a reproduction—was set in a fitting frame and hung in just the right position.

"Was this a painting she had bought? Or was it one she'd swiped from some gentleman-merchant's museum as payment for her charms? A genuine Matisse—silver-gray frame, flawlessly hung, its composition exquisitely balanced. Truly she possessed an aesthetic eye now. But in her former self—that version who might yearn for Matisse—such delicate discernment seemed never to have existed at all. Remarkable progress she'd made—not that this should surprise anyone. After all...she was a countess now."

I once again said to myself. “Very well—she is a countess. That I absolutely must acknowledge. Now here’s the problem—if she’s a countess, then I, being her husband, must naturally be a count. Me—shall I accept being a count?”

I replied to myself.

"No, this burden weighs too heavily on me. In the end, I won't take it on. Why do you ask? Let me explain. This is how it stands. If there were a deep mudswamp blanketed with rainbows and jewels and perfume—things of that sort—wouldn't anyone loathe living there? Unless you're a wriggler, mind you. But to remain a Count, I'd have to dwell in precisely that place. Because my present existence is none other than that mudswamp life."

It wasn't a particularly clever metaphor. "Well, putting that aside—if she's a Countess, why has she not hired a cook?" I began thinking such things. "Two maids, one live-in student—five people total makes for a meager household." "Madam, you must hire someone by all means." "Then I would order up a menu called 'Peaceful Sleep,' would I not?"

I could not even obtain peaceful sleep. "Help me, please! Help me, please!" I was still seeking salvation.

Is there something that will save me? If there is one, it’s he! Christ! But in what form would a modern Christ appear? I had gradually grown cynical. I had gradually become resigned. But I was always being threatened.

"He's a conman, not a murderer. Once he serves his sentence—five or ten years—he'll undoubtedly be released. He'll come to take them—the Thirty Pieces of Silver! What should I do? I can't return them! She will have used them up by then."

But when human beings were driven to their uttermost depths, they became possessed by reactive courage.

One day I said to myself. "There’s no need to seek Christ. Relying on others’ power is a coward’s tactic. I should handle my own affairs."

And so I decided to do it.

Then I said, "Farewell." I hadn't said it directly to her. I had said it to the mudswamp life itself.

And so I carried out that "Farewell." It didn’t require much courage. It was carried out quite simply.

Without taking anything, I ran away from home and took up lodging at a cheap boarding house near the castle.

To a small room where I could see the castle's moat, stone walls, and pine trees, I settled myself.

It was a fog-shrouded midwinter. "Whether she is surprised or not is none of my concern. Whether she searches or not. It is none of my concern. At any rate, I abandoned her. For me, it was a great leap."

Strangely, a certain peace had returned to my heart. It was a peace that only those who had suffered terribly could perceive. "Perhaps I can create something."

And so I took up the pen and tried. I could write effortlessly and fluently. Thought and emotion were unified. Disparate elements coalesced. Even imaginings welled up.

"If I make just a little effort, I might return to my former self... As long as I can write, that’s all I need."

There were anxieties in life. However, if the manuscripts sold, it seemed I could at least pay the lodging fees.

"I've had my fill of extravagant living. Therefore I have no desire for it. This is a tremendous blessing—I'll suppress each desire one by one and live an extremely simple life."

20

I had managed to suppress my sexual desires too. For her sake, I had long endured forced abstinence. Before I knew it, this restraint had become second nature. To put it plainly, I had also grown thoroughly weary of women. "I must forget her!"

This didn’t seem difficult either. However, I had to rely on the help of effort and the passage of time. It could fairly be called a kind of peace.

My solitary life flowed quietly on like this, and my body gradually recovered. My nerves gradually grew stronger. I seemed likely to become even healthier than I had been before the incident. I maintained a disciplined life. I woke up early and went to bed early. Once I grew accustomed to it, I even found interest in that. I even resolved to eat the meager boarding house meals three times daily. Once I grew accustomed to it, I even found it delicious. I stealthily took walks around town. At most, I would stop by a coffee shop. I gave up both alcohol and tobacco. And at coffee shops, I drank soda water.

"I was a literal Puritan."

I began reading the Bible. It appeared completely different from before. These words seeped into my being.

“Blessed are the poor.” “Blessed are those who mourn.” “Blessed are the meek.” “Blessed are the merciful.” “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

“How strange,” I said. “Had it been me before the incident, I would have dismissed them as servile, emasculating words with a laugh—but now I cannot take them as such.”

“There’s nothing strange about it,” I said. “The thoughts of Christ—who suffered and agonized—cannot be understood by those who have not suffered.”

And still I spoke.

"This is an ordinary interpretation. But isn't ordinary good enough?" I felt a kind of spiritual ecstasy.

"I will not be easily shaken."

I had even come to think this way.

And that was true.

One morning I was in my room, brewing and drinking black tea.

There was a newspaper before me. An article caught my eye. "Saeki Jun'ichirou is released. The reason was insufficient evidence."

I was not shaken. However, "She must have been so shocked," I thought, as a feeling of pity for her stirred within me.

And I muttered. "She..." "May she navigate this well."

It was neither sarcasm nor anything of the sort. I had wished it from the bottom of my heart. Feelings of hatred toward her had vanished from me before I knew it. Contrary to that, feelings of compassion had begun to take root in my heart.

The next day I took a walk. It was a cloudy day in early February, and the town had few people out. I walked toward the park. The park was empty too. In the flower beds too, no flowers were blooming. Only a few winter roses shivered their petals in the cold.

I sat down on the Rohadai bench. It was the Rohadai bench where I had met Mr. Saeki. The concert hall stood before me, and the naked columns appeared gray.

Then, someone made a move to stealthily sit down beside me. A whiff of cigar smoke hit me. I was vaguely thinking. “I see you’ve lost some weight.” I heard such a voice. I turned my face that way. A gentleman was smiling. He was wearing a fur coat. That was Mr. Saeki Jun'ichirou. “It’s been a while,” I said. I was not shaken. I simply stared fixedly at him. Mr. Saeki had not changed. His oily, ruddy face looked as healthy as ever. He did not look like someone who had endured a life under indefinite detention and such.

“I have just come from meeting your wife.”

he said with his ever-courteous demeanor. “I’m just returning from that now.”

“Ah, is that so?”

“I hear you’ve been away from home lately.” “Yes,” I said with a smile. Abruptly, Mr. Saeki fell silent. He stared fixedly toward the grove. A figure appeared from that direction. That was a strapping foreigner.

Suddenly, Mr. Saeki stood up. Then he said in a terribly rapid manner. 21

“I am in a terrible hurry. “I shall not belabor the details. “Your wife will explain everything in due course. “……Now then—regarding those Thirty Pieces of Silver. I had come here to retrieve them. “However, upon meeting your wife, my plans have changed. “……I have resolved to bestow them. “No—not upon you. “I presented them to your wife. “……Your wife is exceedingly beautiful. “And she is exceedingly bold. “How might I phrase this? “In any event, I have been thoroughly routed. “Though I have encountered numerous ladies, never before have I had the honor of meeting one such as your wife. “……Therefore, I must inform you— “You need not concern yourself in the slightest. “Thirty Pieces of Silver and I have severed all connection as of this day. “Those now belong to you both. “Even should you have suffered hardships for that money until now, I must insist such efforts become henceforth unnecessary. “……Truly, she is a most remarkable lady. “……This time without fail, I shall depart from the country of Japan.”

“Fare thee well.” “Fare thee well.”

He left Rohadai and strode off toward town. And then, two foreigners walked off as if following after him.

They hid behind the fountain.

I did not leave Rohadai. But I muttered.

Let me go bless her. Still I did not leave Rohadai. A fortune had entered her pocket. That was not why I meant to go. ...But I needed to see for myself.

I crossed the park. I emerged into town. Then I crossed the tram tracks. Thus I stood before her house. I entered the gate and approached the entrance.

“There was no need to request an audience”—and I proceeded upstairs.

The door to the study was open.

Her eyes opened wide in a daze—her face bearing a peculiar expression as though beholding a dream in broad daylight—turned toward the window as she sat on the chaise longue.

I entered the study. I sat down beside her. I remained silent for a while. Silence took possession of the room.

I could not remain silent. I solemnly asked her.

“Tell me.” “Please, go on.” “Can I really believe that man’s words?” “I’ve met that man.”

But she remained silent. She merely shifted limply. She seemed utterly exhausted. I solemnly asked once more. "That valuable platinum has become yours, hasn't it? Can I truly believe that?" Then she nodded. Then she took my hand. Her hands were burning. They trembled violently. Her throat emitted a sound. She seemed to have swallowed hard. I quietly released her hand, exited through the study, and stepped out to the entrance.

I really shouldn't have come. This house—

I stepped out through the gate.

"She had deteriorated further... Her mind was thrown into disarray from joy. If that were to transfer over, it would be unbearable."

I decided to continue living at the boarding house.

It was the next day.

Casually, I looked at the evening paper.

"Saeki Jun'ichirou Brutally Killed. In a car. ……Cause unknown." There was an article written like this.

"The case had deteriorated somewhat," I noted.

I shuddered involuntarily.

"Could this be her doing?"

Suddenly, I thought this.

"There was something suspicious about Mr. Saeki’s words from yesterday. That much valuable platinum—there was no way he would part with it so readily. Though he had said he would give it over initially, perhaps he reconsidered, grew reluctant about losing it, and went to take it back?" I turned this over logically in my mind.

"In order to retrieve the Thirty Pieces of Silver, Mr. Saeki visits her." "She tries not to return it." "Inevitably, conflict occurs." "If that escalates, it becomes a violent crime." "Given her nature, she might well do it." The next day’s newspaper was eagerly awaited. But the next day’s newspaper made no mention of the perpetrator.

“Then perhaps it wasn’t her?” I felt somewhat relieved. "May she find peace." Even so, I remained concerned. For two or three days, I scrutinized the newspapers. Both the cause and perpetrator remained unclear. There was nothing written about that matter. Before long, the article disappeared from the newspapers. “To use the popular expression—the case has entered the labyrinth.” “……But that’s perfectly fine.” This too was by no means sarcasm. If she were the perpetrator, then I—having lived with her—would inevitably be drawn into the vortex, and my current peaceful life would undoubtedly be destroyed. That was not my wish. And above all else—she was my wife. That misfortune had befallen that woman was painful for me.

It was better that the case had entered the labyrinth.

Peaceful days flowed by. But ten days was all they lasted.

The following advertisement appeared in the newspaper.

“Notice to the Owner of the Thirty Pieces of Silver: Send to the XX Newspaper Company by mail. A reward of 10,000 yen will be given.”

22

“This is strange,” I said. “When it comes to the owner of the Thirty Pieces of Silver, there could be no one else but her.” “The only person who could claim them was Mr. Saeki Jun'ichirou.” But Mr. Saeki had been killed. “Who could be making such demands?” I found myself awaiting each newspaper delivery.

In the newspaper that arrived a few days later, a similar advertisement had been placed.

"Notice to Owner of Thirty Pieces of Silver: Send Thirty Pieces of Silver by mail. A reward of 20,000 yen will be given." "The reward had doubled."

My interest grew.