Pathway to Japanese Literature

By the fourth year since the war’s end, demobilization celebrations had begun to feel out of season, yet perhaps owing to Yamakawa Hanayo’s unexpected return, an assortment of faces had gathered. They had come—Mr. Izawa, former consul to French Indochina serving as host; Akiko, his wife who had been Yamakawa’s student; Suda, Bachelor of Science; Kasahara Chūbee of the Morikawa Group soon departing for Lyon to resume trade; Mr. Iwagaki, the painter who had interpreted Malay for defense counsel at Singapore’s war crimes tribunal—yet past the appointed hour, Yamakawa himself remained absent.

Mr. Izawa had been talking with Mr. Kasahara on the sofa by the window about his days as a consul when, announcing he had something special for them to hear, he produced an antique record with a sky-blue label. “Tett Skhippa’s ‘Butterfly’.” “Those who were in Paris back then must have unforgettable memories.”

A faint singing voice began to seep through the orchestral ensemble, like threads of sound being drawn out. Skhippa's Habanera - with its delicate technique and passion undulating beautifully - served as proof that no amount of showy vocal polish could compensate for an impoverished vocal delivery devoid of humanity, all while drawing its listeners' hearts into profound rapture. When the song ended and aperitifs were served, Kasahara, “Back then, when Toyosawa Dajō came to Paris and heard this, he pointed out it had the flair of Kappo or Ogie - but when the art of singing reaches this level, there ceases to be any East or West.” “I must’ve heard it dozens of times myself, but while listening, I’d somehow forget it was a Western song.”

he said. Then Iwagaki, who had been nearby, spoke up as if suddenly remembering. “This Habanera just reminded me—among those tried at the Batavia war crimes tribunal was a Japanese man they called ‘Butterfly,’ immensely popular with young Filipina girls.”

Suda asked in a disinterested tone.

“What did he do?” “The massacre of eight hundred non-combatants at Pulo University in Manila, the slaughter of infants at Calampano in Laguna, the Vasco atrocities in Patanes… He must have been involved in one of those. That’s why they kept dragging him to court. But at the critical moment, five or even ten young female witnesses would appear, present counterevidence, and get him acquitted.” “That’s Tanjirou. He was quite something.” Kasahara interjected.

“So he got away with it?” “He was that sort of man, but in the end, they had to draw the final curtain. He managed to escape in the Philippines, but when a Spanish mestiza girl exposed his involvement in the Palembang massacre on Sumatra, they finally hanged him in Batavia Prison. When they removed the hood, ‘Butterfly’ turned out to be a surprisingly ordinary man—yet those he saved were young girls, and those he killed were also young girls… It felt like examining the meticulously drawn details of a war painting, leaving one with a complex impression.”

They were not idly indulging in such conversation. In truth, they were all growing increasingly irritated. It had turned eight, but he still hadn’t arrived.

When their efforts to fill the empty time with aimless conversation were beginning to wear thin, Suda addressed Ms. Akiko through a yawn,

“Things have grown rather suspicious… Was it truly Yamakawa you saw at Shiseido, Ms. Akiko?” he remarked pointlessly.

“Suspicious? In what way suspicious?” “There’s no reason that guy should’ve come back alive from the war. No matter how you look at it, it’s illogical. Isn’t that from Ms. Akiko’s confessional novel? Isn’t it that you started praying out of desperately wanting to meet Yamakawa?” “Incense of resurrection? Surely not.” Ms. Akiko brushed it off smoothly. “It wasn’t just me who was surprised, you know. Mr. Yamakawa, wearing an ash-gray double-breasted suit or something of the sort, suddenly and soundlessly entered the garden without warning, so Elder Sister Tsuneko clung to the veranda pillar in surprise and became completely unable to move, she said.”

About five days ago, when Ms. Akiko stopped by Shiseido on her way back from shopping, at a table by the bronze handrail in the gallery where she always went, Yamakawa Hanayo was drinking coffee just as he always had. So she went to his side, “Professor Yamakawa, the other day...” she had greeted him, but between the day they had sent Yamakawa—wearing his red tasuki—off through the military gate and this very day lay six mercilessly long years encompassing both war and postwar periods, making her “the other day” greeting utterly incongruous.

“Six years—one would expect some sort of change like aging or weight loss—yet there was absolutely none of that．With the same face as his departure day and eyes downcast modestly… So I ended up saying something foolish．When I noticed it gave me this eerie feeling．” “I didn’t even think it was a ghost but… Ah—it made me think I must be dreaming…”

Yamakawa enlisted on a drizzly, chilly morning. Tsuneko, the elder sister with upturned eyes, wore a layered greatcoat of blanket fabric and held an umbrella over Yamakawa—who had pulled his muffler up to his nose—while naggingly admonishing him as one would a child: about attending to this and that, not forgetting to take his Neo-Lever tablets, and other such matters.

Japanese cultural history would surely devote a page to this madness: an authoritative Christian family, desperate to raise their only male heir, resorted to provincial superstition by bestowing upon him the feminine name Hanayo. Through the sacrifices and devotion of his mother and two sisters, Yamakawa Hanayo barely achieved ordinary development.

As a result, Tsuneko, the elder sister, ultimately missed her marriageable age, but from birth until thirty, Yamakawa’s daily life resembled that of a sanatorium—he drank no unboiled water and ate nothing from outside. At unavoidable parties and such, one of his sisters became famous for bringing along a thermos filled with distilled water. Even after becoming a teacher at Gakushuin’s girls’ division, whenever unpleasant or difficult matters arose, his mother and sisters took care of everything, allowing Yamakawa to hide behind his household and the women, doing as he pleased according to his own ways. Even for something as simple as washing his face, his toothpaste was fixed as Dumalet’s “Colgate” semi-paste and his soap as Morinow’s “Veru.” When these became unavailable in Tokyo, his sister would make a special trip to Kuhn & Komor in Kobe to purchase them.

Military training was something they never even considered. For his short-term active duty service period, they pulled strings with a relative who was a military surgeon general, allowing him to spend his days reading books in the hospital ward without performing a single day of actual duty, thereby creating a special exception that commissioned him as a reserve second lieutenant. For war and the military, there were few men as harmful and useless; for Yamakawa, nothing could be more ill-suited to his nature than war itself.

Among the students of the girls’ division, about ten who had particularly favored Yamakawa lined up at the military gate holding paper national flags instead of bouquets—a scene both pitiable and comical that left them wiping away tears and stifling laughter in complete disarray. “Professor Yamakawa, if you were caught in the rain even once, you’d melt away completely, wouldn’t you?” One person voiced their thoughts through tearful laughter.

Without the protection of his mother and sisters, he could not survive a single day. Yamakawa—who would catch a cold immediately if even the water from washing his face dripped onto his instep, like a mimosa—would surely collapse from pneumonia or some such ailment long before enemy bullets could claim him, were he exposed to foreign lands’ savage storms for ten consecutive days. As they gazed upon Yamakawa’s slender white face—its only beauty lying in the eyes, now covered in goosebumps from shivering in the chilly dawn drizzle—a cruel conviction welled up within them: this man would surely never return alive. After he offered an ordinary greeting and disappeared into the military grounds, all memory of Yamakawa died within their hearts.

None of them had held such futile hopes as expecting to see Yamakawa alive. In such a place, had one suddenly encountered Yamakawa, even if it weren’t Ms. Akiko, they would have exclaimed “Ah!” and taken a step back. They fully understood this “unpleasant feeling.”

When they called Yamakawa’s house, they were told he had left two hours earlier. With no prospect of waiting, they began, and as it neared nine and grew late, Yamakawa appeared with an unblemished face. Yamakawa looked around the seats with a bashful smile, unsure where to sit—which had finally driven Suda to irritation—when he suddenly hurled: “Those ill-mannered enough to arrive this late after being invited shall remain humbly in the lowest seat until forgiveness is granted.”

True to his refined upbringing, he offered an apology without a trace of shame and took the lowest seat, but upon noticing the crystal decanter on the dining table,

“This is wine, isn’t it? May I have a glass?” “A baby drinking alcohol? Don’t shock us too much.” “I picked it up in the military... It’s a secret from Mother and my sisters, though.” Yamakawa swirled the glass, making the cut-crystal facets sparkle as he gazed at the wine’s color like appraising a gemstone. After inhaling its aroma and taking a sip: “This is Larose, isn’t it? Quite good.” He said with an affected connoisseur’s nod.

“He drinks like a first-rate connoisseur.” “Where did he learn that?” “It’s not as if he went to Europe for the war.” “What a strange one.”

said Iwagaki. Kasahara was staring intently at Yamakawa’s face, but

“Yamakawa—they say he’d been away at war for six whole years—hasn’t changed a bit.” “There’s nowhere on him that looks like it’s been battered.” Kasahara said with exasperation.

His white skin—like bleached silk stretched taut—showed no trace of sunburn anywhere, while his delicate hands retained their slender form, still appearing sensitive. The luster of his eyes remained unchanged, his voice as well. Even setting aside the war, how had he maintained his former demeanor without being eroded by time? That alone seemed inexplicable. “There’s this friend of mine—no sooner had he reached the front than he deserted, then reappeared at leisure only after confirming the abolition of court-martials and wartime penal codes... What branch even was he? How does one keep such a deathly pale face?”

“Anti-aircraft artillery unit… We saw fierce combat, but luck was on our side.” “The surrender came at Kaimana in New Guinea, but we’d fled so deep into the interior that we remained unaware of the war’s end for two whole years.” “In that primeval forest where sunlight never reached—with nothing to eat…” “I’d like to say that sounds harrowing, but no matter how I look at it, your face belongs to someone who’s been feasting and living comfortably.” “Someone once said distinctions between good and bad taste depend solely on latitude.” “Shift your perspective, and you could say I’d been enjoying remarkable cuisine.”

“What the hell’s this ‘latitude difference’?”

"In Africa and Arabia they say monkeys are considered supreme delicacies—but we subsisted solely on orangutans." "When leftover ape arms and palms lay scattered about like that... I felt guilt akin to having cannibalized human flesh." "There’s an account in Appelius’ Borneo travelogue about capturing live orangutans—those beasts must be damnably hard to catch." "How’d a lumbering oaf like Yamakawa manage such feats?"

“Even so, I killed a great many... Durian—a tropical fruit with a pungent odor like cheese—is a favorite of orangutans. When it ripens, they emerge from the depths of the jungle in groups of fifty or a hundred.” “First, we’d cut down surrounding trees to isolate those where the monkeys perched, forming a wide circle that gradually tightened... Then soldiers crawled beneath and struck the trunks with hatchets.” “When they realized our intent, they’d thrash the branches wildly—but soon enough, the tree would crash down with a thud.” “The mother ape would confront us clutching her baby, only to be blinded, netted, and thrown to the ground……then we’d thrust bayonets deep beneath her breast.” “She’d pull her children close with one hand while plucking grass with the other, stuffing it into her chest wound.” “Then she’d sniff her bloodied hand with despair……her death throes bore a terrifying resemblance to a human’s.” “Few hunts so threaten one’s conscience… Those apes were intelligent and courteous—at times even moral.” “We humans became uncivilized brutes—filthy creatures with darting eyes, fighting savagely over a single gannemo leaf…… Our cruelty toward them defied description.” “Watching this, I felt an odd reversal—not humans killing apes, but apes killing humans.” “This wasn’t about others.” “With monkey blood drying on my face as I cooked their flesh into stew, even I couldn’t believe myself human.” “Day by day, I saw myself becoming more beast than man—knew even survival would never let me rejoin human society. That awareness drove me near madness.”

Apparently still agitated, the normally taciturn Yamakawa—uncharacteristically—gave prolonged voice to the thoughts weighing on his mind before claiming fatigue and returning home alone.

II

When the Tokyo Trials entered their final arguments phase and the Yokohama Trials ran parallel to them as the prisoner-of-war section’s debates commenced, on the way back from an early morning golf game in Atsugi, someone happened to think of visiting Yamakawa’s place—where his younger sister Keiko came out to greet them,

“My brother is currently attending to his duties,” she said with a laugh. Come to think of it, it was Sunday—the day for the Yamakawa household’s home worship. As they waited on the veranda smoking a cigarette, from beyond the brushwood fence came the sound of his elder sister Tsuneko conversing with the gardener. “Since we can’t leave the pond area in such disarray either, I thought if you were going to plant something eventually… For low-growing cultivars—tessen, uzura ume, asebi, doudan, sazanka—that sort of thing.” “For accents by the stepping stones, we have red-spotted Kirishima azaleas that would be perfectly suited.”

“What about flowers… Given that they’ve all been uprooted already, I suppose we could try replanting them, but it would be futile.”

Yamakawa’s deceased father—a flower enthusiast akin to Lord Akimasa of Hyakka Village—had planted asters along the pond’s edge and mounted a decaying wooden plaque inscribed “Shion’en” (Aster Garden) on the central gate’s shield. It was not Shion’en. Because it had to be read in biblical fashion as the “Garden of Zion,” Yamakawa’s garden might have shown crystallized faith even in its flowers themselves—yet on summer mornings where hydrangeas and Rosa multiflora once swayed in the breeze, not a trace of anything flower-like remained, only rough foliage raging wildly in disheveled profusion.

“They’ve really made a mess of it.”

"Oh, you hadn't heard yet?" "My brother declared gardens with flowers vulgar and had them all uprooted." There existed people who disliked flower gardens, but to claim a garden with flowers was vulgar—no such notion held water. Observing the garden's disarray—its rhythm somehow askew—you could discern the disorder in Yamakawa's mind, and it grew eerie. "Has the worship not concluded yet? The 'duties'?"

“My brother sets a large washbasin under the bathroom faucet, lathers soap bubbles, and washes his hands multiple times a day with a sponge… That’s what he calls his ‘duties’… When he first returned, he’d leave the bathroom flooded all day doing laundry.” “He’d even pull out handkerchiefs that weren’t dirty and scrub them until the fabric wore thin… That part seems to have subsided, but the handwashing—it’s still going strong…”

That washing one’s hands multiple times a day, bathing excessively, or compulsively doing laundry stemmed from an unconscious manifestation of the desire to cleanse oneself of sin’s impurity—driven by some form of guilt—was something anyone who had read popular books on psychoanalysis would know. “This isn’t normal.” “Is there anything else odd about him?” “It’s simply that he finds everything filthy.” “The other day when Ms. Tsuneko barely touched his foot, he abruptly stood up and went to wash it in the bath... On the day he returned home, he stripped off every stitch of clothing he’d arrived in right there at the garden entrance—completely naked—made the maid spray him down with a watering hose for a full hour, even doused things like his notebook with kerosene and burned each page... Only after all that did he finally deign to enter the house.”

He bowed his head, stroking his cheek as he lost himself in thought,

“Come here for a moment,”

With that, she led [the visitor] up the wide staircase beside the entrance and into Hanayo’s bedroom.

“Please take a look under the bed.” Peering inside, they found Bourbon whiskey, Gilbey’s gin, and Suntory empty bottles crammed haphazardly—enough to leave one appalled at the quantity consumed. “He’s been doing this without ever letting it show around us.” “Each morning he appears to labor desperately to mask the alcohol’s scent… Not one drinker has ever existed in the Yamakawa lineage—if Mother and my sisters discovered this, they’d be devastated… You mustn’t breathe a word to anyone that I showed you these things.” “Should anyone learn I revealed Yamakawa’s private affairs, it would spell catastrophe… Shall we descend? His observances should be concluding soon.”

When they returned to the veranda, Yamakawa entered with a casual air. He turned toward the window—sniffing his hand near his nose or picking at his cuticles—but when his younger sister stood to leave, “What were you up to today?” he fixed him with a probing gaze. “Earlier, you went up to my bedroom with Keiko, didn’t you… No need to make that face… I’ll confess only to you—in the military, I developed terrible dipsomania.”

“What do you mean by that?” “Have I gone mad with drink?” “It’s a notch above regular alcoholism.” When I start feeling temptation, I can’t think of anything except alcohol. My heart pounds and my vision goes completely dark. What a mess.

“Military corruption exists in every country, I suppose.” “There are those like Tanaka who returned saddled with syphilis and turned senile immediately.” “If it’s at that level, that’s still manageable.” “That you’ve become able to drink might count as progress… But I hear you keep washing your hands obsessively, muttering ‘dirty, dirty.’” “That’s far more suspicious.” “Handwashing is a virtuous habit.” “Did Keiko tell you that?” “What a fool she is.”

“But when one hears you had all the garden flowers uprooted, anyone would be taken aback.” “Why don’t you have Dr. Hashimoto from psychiatry examine you?” “He does analysis too—he’ll find what’s causing your shock.” “I don’t know if it’s shock or something, but I absolutely refuse to let others inspect my mind.” “They say war neurosis can be scarier than you’d think, you know.” “If you think something’s off, you’d better get it treated quickly.”

"There's nothing strange about it. In the South, Kayu Mera and flame trees—those poisonously vivid red flowers bloomed everywhere. But after returning, whenever I saw red flowers in the garden, those unpleasant Southern images would float before my eyes... It became unbearable. If I'd mentioned it was about the red color, my mother and sisters would've worried. So I told them gardens with flowers were vulgar—just some irresponsible excuse. But I didn't have to go that far," he said, like a man rationalizing his actions.

He was deliberately complicating his explanation; however—unfortunately for him—they weren’t naive enough to be dazzled by such transparent artifice. Yamakawa clearly harbored some secret torment he wished to keep hidden, yet his habit of preemptively offering unnecessary justifications made his contradictory statements so muddled that they only served to deepen others’ suspicions. This faltering in logic—from a man neither unintelligent nor lacking life direction—could only be explained as mental collapse, leaving no room for alternative interpretations.

“Was it Shiki’s verse that went, ‘The buds clamor as they envelop the great temple’? When living in places like Karuizawa—surrounded by fresh greenery for half a month—one develops an unbearable craving to see red. Letting nothing but leaves run wild… How can you remain so composed?”

Yamakawa had been gazing at the uneven patches of fresh greenery in the garden, but upon leaning his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes, he began rubbing his eyelids vigorously with his fingertips.

“A garden without flowers is indeed exhausting... Tsumura has come proposing to sell the garden trees to fill the property tax gap, but I’m still considering what to do about it.” “Is Tsumura Utarō’s father?” “That’s right… Though Tsumura’s place must have decent items, facing his father weighs on me… When I once went to give my demobilization greetings and spoke of Tsumura’s Sumatra days, he wept—it left me quite helpless.”

“That can’t be pleasant for you.” “You survived and returned as a soldier, while they say the son who went as a civil administrator ended up dead.”

Tsumura Utarō had been with Suda, Yamakawa, and others from First Middle School all the way through Tokyo University. While working in the High Section of the Police Bureau, he had been recruited as a civil administrator and sent to Sumatra. Though officially listed as having died of illness while interned in a camp after the war's end, accounts from those later repatriated from Sumatra suggested the truth was different—rather than illness, he had apparently been implicated in a war criminal case and hanged.

“What exactly was Tsumura doing in Sumatra?” “He became Chief Secretary and swaggered about his marble-built official residence... Sitting cross-legged on the sofa in just his yukata while guzzling terrible palm wine, he’d declare, ‘I’m the king here.’” “The Chief Administrator suppresses the local rulers, and the Chief Secretary suppresses the Chief Administrator—so I’m practically the King of Kings here… What a shameless display of self-importance.” “That clever fellow had completely deteriorated.”

“Since he’s not the type to die of illness, he was executed as rumored, right?” “I think so.” “The Chief Administrator there must have brutalized the natives quite severely, so Tsumura may have been caught up in it through his connections.”

“Don’t you know? I thought you knew all along.” “I heard he was sent to Cipinang Prison in Batavia, but soon after, my unit transferred to New Guinea... At that time, Mr. Iwagaki was interpreting for the defense team, so he might know better.” “What about Tsumura’s old man?” “He must’ve heard the rumors—probably has some inkling. They say he’s turned sullen, drinking nothing but alcohol. The reason he’s selling off the garden trees seems less about property taxes and more about preparing to move to the countryside.”

As he spoke these things, he seemed to reach a decision and lumbered up from his chair.

“Maybe I’ll just look… try taking a look. What do you say? It’s right nearby—shall we go see together?”

Taking the gardener along, the three of them went to Tsumura’s nearby annex, where an elegant old man who looked like the patriarch of a long-established downtown shop emerged from a sukiya-style detached house with sagging verandas, dressed in a wrapped headband and white tabi socks.

“Ah, Mr. Yamakawa… There’s nothing of much worth here, but please do take a look.”

Stepping on the stepping stones arranged to form a path, and tying palm-fiber ropes around garden trees marked for purchase as they went toward the property boundary, they found within an iron-barred cage by the fence a young monkey—about two years old—its body caked with dried mud and straw scraps, sitting restlessly with one knee raised. Yamakawa stopped in his tracks and cast a fleeting glance—perhaps recalling how he had killed and eaten monkeys in the jungle—making a face so visibly disgusted that even strangers would have noticed, yet with his usual timidity,

“There’s an orangutan here,” he said to divert attention from his discomfort. “Orangutans and gorillas had never been kept in Japanese zoos.” “That one was apparently scheduled to return to the mainland about three months before the war ended—they sent it ahead on a fuel depot ship meant for Mr. Tojo. When the fuel depot told me to collect some arrived luggage, I went to check... Imagine my surprise when this fellow emerged.”

The young orangutan stood up while scratching its chest area, grabbed onto the iron bars and stared intently at Yamakawa; then extending its long-haired arm, it placed a hand on Yamakawa’s shoulder as if making a sociable gesture. Tsumura seemed surprised, “Oh, it appears this one recognizes Mr. Yamakawa,” he said cheerfully. Yamakawa forced a wry smile, “I thought it looked just like the one Tsumura kept in Sumatra—and indeed it was.”

he muttered as if to explain. The young orangutan—perhaps trying to catch Yamakawa’s attention—was making a racket by shrieking and shaking its cage, but soon wrapped a scrap of rope around its neck, opened its peony-like red mouth in a trumpet-like manner, and let out a cooing cry.

“What could be the matter?” “It doesn’t usually do things like this.” “When we were in Sumatra, he used to imitate Tsumura-kun and was quite an amusing fellow.” “It does act up sometimes, so taking care of it must be quite a hassle.” “Until this spring—I was completely occupied with caring for my youngest child—but after their death… I simply couldn’t manage.” “Moreover, I lack the knack for raising such creatures, so to be honest, I’m quite at a loss with this burden.”

“Why don’t you send it to Ueno?”

“When I considered sending it to Ueno, they lacked proper facilities, so I was hoping you could keep it a while longer—that’s the situation…”

He looked thoroughly at his wit’s end. Yamakawa appeared to be contemplating something, but

“Shall I look after it until we send it to Ueno? Since it seems to have grown accustomed to me.” “If only that were possible.”

Before they could leave, the young gardener hauled in the monkey’s cage on a handcart as if chasing after them. “My, that was quick.” After taking the young monkey out of its cage and leading it to the second-floor living room, Yamakawa had the maid bring dried apricots. “Since I owe the orangutan quite a debt, I’ll take care of it for a while as atonement.”

The young monkey sat on the windowsill, scratching its head and fidgeting restlessly while gazing longingly at the plate of dried apricots, but after wrapping the nearby curtain cord around its neck, it leapt up nimbly in a dancing motion.

“What a creepy creature.” “What’s it trying to imitate?” “The place where Tsumura was stationed was a sweltering backwater whose only virtue was oozing petroleum—a place where there was nothing better than drinking heavily and napping. So Tsumura would fly into rages unsheathing his sword—chasing maids around or hurling soup plates—utter lunacy… And this one grew increasingly wild too—lunging at maids or looping ropes around passersby’s necks—it rampaged without restraint.” “That’s it imitating Jongos getting strangled and flailing about in panic.”

While saying such things, he irritably looked toward the orangutan. "In the old days, it would have stretched out its simian arms to snatch anything within reach, but having apparently endured hardship, it now seems convinced it must perform some trick to obtain food." "Indeed, it appears to have grown calmer." The young orangutan, as if having completed its role, jumped onto the table and sat with one knee raised. It took one dried apricot and handed it to Yamakawa, then took another for itself, meticulously brushed off the dust, and began eating with an air of seasoned maturity.

III

Yamakawa seemed to be spending perfectly rounded days—like a greenhouse melon ripened to fullness—shut away within his family’s shell as of old, or rather, within himself; but around that time, there were those who claimed to have seen him walking through the burnt ruins of Ochanomizu with a young girl of mixed heritage.

One might think that teaching at the Girls’ Division of Gakushuin—attending to princesses—would be a pleasant job, but that was a miscalculation; there were few schools as difficult to handle as this one. It was also notorious for its students’ lack of respect toward teachers—they unabashedly conducted background checks, declaring things like “Mr. Such-and-such was a retainer of Count So-and-so” or “Mr. So-and-so once served as a study companion for Marquis Such-and-such”—while the teachers could neither reprimand them nor do anything but bow and concede the accusations were true. The parents, for their part, would make bold declarations in front of servants and children—remarks like how the new headmaster was an upstart minor noble or an old aristocrat who’d risen from baron to Yatto viscount—thereby inciting their own children. The prewar students of the Girls’ Division were generally sly and jealous, affecting composure while being terribly precocious—in corridors and such places, they would sometimes deliver brazen touches to young teachers as they passed by.

Yamakawa had been translucent as a silkworm larva until around age five; during his boyhood, he bore an albino-like pallor, but by the time he graduated university, he had transformed into a Narcissus-like effeminate gentle man. When Yamakawa was assigned as the Girls’ Division’s English teacher, the female students initially resented his womanly name “Hanayo” and promptly began bullying him collectively. Yet his sentimental demeanor—marked by extreme timidity, frailty, and glistening long eyelashes that cast delicate shadows over his eyes—evoked sympathy and protective instincts. Far from tormenting him, they instead began lavishing him with excessive pity, exclaiming “Poor thing!” as they doted on him relentlessly.

Yamakawa’s aversion to socializing, his scrupulousness, and his wariness toward people partly reflected his family’s temperament, but in truth, nothing proved more troublesome than the conflicts born from his female students’ excessive zeal—for above all else, he feared the eruption of disputes. Yamakawa’s face was the honest sort common among nervous men, rendering his emotions utterly transparent. Fraternity and equality were fundamentally irreconcilable; one could not gaze upon fifty-odd faces with flawless equality, precisely as they were. Thus during classroom hours—despite needing no visual aid—he wore lightly tinted spectacles to diffuse his gaze ambiguously, deploying this intricate self-preservation tactic, and succeeded in never once disturbing the waters.

Not only war and romance—anything intense or strange was invariably Yamakawa’s enemy. Even in matters of love, one could not conceive of Yamakawa without the backdrop of lineage, family standing, tranquil domesticity, tasteful salons, refined conversation, and measured etiquette. That such a man would go wandering through burnt ruins with some mixed-blood girl of unknown pedigree—there could be no possibility. Upon hearing it, they simply laughed it off lightly, but before long Suda began claiming he had seen the two of them on the platform at Tsuchiura Station along the Joban Line. This was no casual dalliance—they said the girl had thrown both arms around Yamakawa’s neck, whispered something as though on the verge of death, caressed his cheek, and kissed him; a scene of clinging intensity that defied description as either ghastly allure or tragic beauty, unbearable to behold directly.

“I hear there’s some dormitory in Tsuchiura where dozens of Indonesian and Dutch-descent girls who chased after Japanese from Java and Sumatra are living together—she might be one of that group.” “If that’s true, then Yamakawa’s life history has gained quite the prestige.”

Suda took on an appearance of anger. “He puts on an honest face, but that Yamakawa guy might be a hypocrite. The other day, he came to my lab spouting plausible-sounding reasons just to mock me… He said the young orangutan he’s raising shows remarkable responses to Japanese and asked if there were other such cases… But according to reports from the Soviet Sukhumi Primatology Research Center and Dr. Köhler’s ape research garden—where they study great ape behavior—orangutans can fully comprehend two European languages. English and Celtic dialects… it possesses no aptitude for Dutch or Dai either. Of course, there’s no way it could understand Japanese of all things. So I told him… It’s not that the monkey understands Japanese—isn’t it more that you’ve gained the ability to speak monkey language as punishment for eating them? If that were true, it’d be a rather frightening story…… The Yamakawa guy left with a sullen look, but anyway, it’s a bit strange. Yamakawa certainly harbors darkness. His true feelings are trying to say something, but Yamakawa is suppressing them. I could sense that struggle… Even that story about the monkey on the demobilization celebration night—that’s complete fiction. There are absolutely no orangutans in New Guinea. If there were such things as durian, I would have encountered them. Even a grade schooler knows this much. If you’re trying to make fools of us, I could understand that—but even then, why bother telling such pointless lies? I kept quiet, but that night, I wasn’t too cheerful.”

When considering things like compulsive handwashing and a preoccupation with red hues, one could not help but conjure certain images. Whatever secrets Yamakawa might hold were entirely his own affair—he bore no obligation to confess them—yet why he would speak of such needless things as killing monkeys that didn’t exist or having blood-soaked hands remained beyond understanding.

When Suda left, Iwagaki Nankō arrived. Around the same time as Izawa, he had been a clerk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in London, but inspired by Yoshio Makino, he threw himself into the path of painting, abandoning his diplomatic future to join the ranks of impoverished artists in Paris. On his return journey to Japan, captivated by southern landscapes in Singapore and Haiphong, he drifted carefree for nearly twenty years—starting from Malaya through Java, Sumatra, and the Philippines—having his paintings purchased at rubber plantations and sisal cultivation areas operated by Japanese nationals. A justice advocate and a good man, he had been caring for war criminals and repatriated compatriots in Singapore at the war's end; now, having been persuaded to hold a solo exhibition of the paintings he had accumulated in the South, he appeared busy.

“Has the venue been settled?” “I finally managed to squeeze us into the Nichifutsu Gallery, but then I suddenly got cold feet.”

“When are you holding it?”

“At the earliest, it would be early February… So today, I’ve come with a small request.” “De Vigo was a wealthy man who ran a large sugar factory on Negros Island in the Philippines, but his eldest daughter Lina followed Yamakawa here and is now in Tokyo.”

“I had discussed it with Suda as well, but I had heard rumors about such a person existing.” “The rumors are true, then.”

“Despite being a battalion adjutant, Yamakawa carried himself like a leader of the pro-Philippines faction—that’s why intellectuals and upper-class households welcomed him so warmly.” “Tsumura Utarō, known as Mariposa, and others came and went from the De Vigo residence as if they were family, but De Vigo was suspected of commanding guerrillas on Negros Island, and his entire clan—over forty people—were massacred down to the last soul by the military police.” “Was this ‘Butterfly’ you’d spoken of before referring to Tsumura?”

“That’s right… Yamakawa had been transferred to Nantike on Panay Island about a month prior, but Lina survived because she followed him there… From then on, she trailed along each time his assignment changed, and by the war’s end, they were reportedly cohabiting in Sumatra.” Since Yamakawa’s claim about having been to New Guinea was false, he was demobilized shortly after the war ended. As for Lina, having trusted Yamakawa’s vow of love, she joined over a hundred Javanese war brides to reach Japan, then slipped out of the Tanabe dormitory in Kobe and came alone to Tokyo. Yamakawa kept making vague excuses about his mother and sisters, never fulfilling his promises, so when Lina went to meet his mother, she was told, “Should you wish to return home, we will cover your travel expenses,” and handed five thousand yen.

“At the current exchange rate—eleven dollars and some change… So I don’t know where they expect her to return to—Ms. Lina finds herself in circumstances where she can’t go back even if she wanted.” “On Negros Island—they harbor implacable resentment toward Japanese people in general—anyone showing pro-Japanese leanings gets shot dead—no matter who… Ms. Lina abandoned her country and hometown to devote herself to Yamakawa—but that’s plain betrayal now—if she returned—she’d lose her life.” “In the midst of such adversity—autumn arrived and suddenly turned cold—unaccustomed to the climate—she fell ill and collapsed.” “She’s now in a charity bed in Mitaka—but it’s a scene of misery beyond description.”

With that, he slumped dejectedly.

“At the bride dormitory in Tsuchiura, there’s a daughter of an acquaintance of mine who came from Java.” “It was merely an introduced relationship, but unable to overlook it, when I went to confront Yamakawa, he admitted they had indeed cohabited but stated he’d never promised things would remain unchanged forever.” “A brazen reply—that he’d made clear from the start one might grow bored, so he couldn’t promise anything about the future… And you can’t possibly be unaware of Ms. Lina’s circumstances.” “‘You might find that acceptable,’ I argued, ‘but to abandon someone here without any guarantee just because you’ve grown bored—they couldn’t endure it!’ Yet he retorted with that rotten logic of ‘If you pity her so, why don’t you handle it yourself?’—leaving the conversation utterly fruitless.”

“In the Yamakawa family’s constitution, if it’s for their own household’s peace and happiness, demanding any amount of sacrifice from others is perfectly permissible.” “They rigidly safeguard their own way of life while refusing to acknowledge anything beyond it.” “When circumstances turn unfavorable, they’ll even haul out moral maxims and refuse to yield an inch.” “The Yamakawa family’s laws are inherently selfish and nonsensical—hardly adversaries someone like you could hope to oppose.” “The very act of confronting them over such matters reeks of childishness.”

As he listened to such talk - unreasonably angered - he lost all sense of his cigarette’s taste.

IV

From Mitaka Station, they followed along the embankment. A fast-flowing river ran between both banks thick with mixed trees. The large trees on the embankment were chestnuts and cherries, some still retaining their leaves. Except for the bamboo grass and pines, all had turned autumn colors; the gradations of red, yellow, and crimson reflected in the ever-changing water patterns were beautiful.

When they entered the low-slung building buried in withered pampas grass, a long corridor extended leftward, at whose end resided a girl named Lina. She sat on a canvas bed spread with a thin cotton futon, facing the window as she engaged in some task, but at the sound of the opening door, she rose fluidly to her full slender height. Her profile caught the waning afternoon light of early winter through the window, those large blue eyes fixing upon us, yet seeming short of breath, she braced her delicate hand against the window frame and carefully lowered herself back down. Her age defied estimation—still bearing childish traces yet showing transient bloom like a fragile flower—her tenderness giving an impression of purity akin to viewing a delicate etching or pencil sketch.

Like those accustomed to misfortune, who anticipate calamity at the slightest change, she seemed uneasy about the unfamiliar man who had come with Iwagaki, but once Iwagaki finished the introductions, she became remarkably animated. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She greeted them in vowel-rich, Latin-accented English, then repeated several times while gasping for breath, “You came all the way to such a place.”

“Ms. Lina, the purpose of today’s visit is to hear your demands and make Yamakawa squirm, so it’d be best if you pour out everything you’re thinking.” “We’ll have you moved to a better hospital soon—but for now, do you need anything?” The girl named Lina lowered her eyes and said, “There is nothing I lack.”

Lina said in a thin voice. Because she sounded sorrowful, they thought she was crying, but what appeared on her angelic face was merely an innocent, natural expression. “That’s exactly what’s wrong.” “Even if it’s called a common-law relationship, since you’re a de facto wife, there’s no reason you should be treated like this.” “Under normal circumstances, taking this to family court would be more straightforward, but I’m choosing not to do that.”

“But I no longer hold any grudge against Mr. Yamakawa.”

“If you start saying such things, we won’t be able to do anything for you.” “The other day, I received a letter from Mr. Yamakawa, and now I fully understand.” “That Mr. Yamakawa loved me, that his promise to marry me wasn’t a lie back then… In other words, he felt obligated—as one of the Japanese—to console a survivor from a family that suffered such horrors at Japanese hands. But now, that burden has grown far too heavy for him to bear.”

“What do you mean by ‘heavy’ and ‘light’?” “If you were to marry me—as long as we’re standing or sitting or moving about—you wouldn’t be able to stop remembering what the Japanese did in the Philippines…… When I think that would continue until one of us dies—even just imagining it—the feeling becomes unbearable. Mr. Yamakawa broke his promise not because his love vanished or his heart grew cold—but because he feared our home would become such a dark place.”

“That’s been obvious from the beginning,” said Iwagaki Nankō, his voice edged with impatience. “To bring this up now—it’s nothing but an excuse.” Lina’s fingers tightened on the windowsill as she replied, “Not just Mr. Yamakawa… I’ve come to see it that way too.” The afternoon light caught the hollows beneath her eyes when she turned. “I’d foolishly believed unchanging love could overcome any memory… How wrong I was.” A dry cough interrupted her before she continued, quieter now: “If we married only to regret it later… If every glance between us had to pass through memories that won’t fade…”

“I see… So Yamakawa said that.”

“Moreover, I once stood as a witness at the Sumatra war crimes trial and proved the crimes of the Japanese.” “I had forgotten that… No matter what happens, it’s become a situation where I cannot marry Mr. Yamakawa.” “It’s sad, but there’s nothing to do except give up.”

“Ms. Lina, you were the one who accused Tsumura, weren’t you—the man they called ‘Butterfly’...” Lina kept her eyes lowered and gave no reply.

We understood perfectly what she meant to convey. Struck by the truthfulness resonating in her words, we listened with respect and sympathy, yet it appeared the girl called Lina—her vision clouded by love—had constructed an entirely different version of Yamakawa. This Yamakawa she portrayed shared no likeness with the man we knew; our sense of purpose dissipated until we could scarcely gather any resolve.

“This has become rather unfocused.”

“Even so, I can’t just leave it be.” “That’s going a bit too far.” “I’m going to Yamakawa’s place now.”

With that, he parted ways with Iwagaki in Shinjuku.

As dusk approached and he arrived at Yamakawa’s house, a black shadow flickered within the leafy thicket of Japanese pagoda trees near the entrance. At first he thought a child might be climbing there, but it turned out to be that orangutan perched on a horizontal branch, gazing at the fluttering dead leaves with a face like a Greek sage.

While waiting in the parlor, a forty-five-year-old spinster emerged in peculiar attire that imitated Her Majesty the Empress’s court dress.

“Hanayo has a slight cold and has been secluded for about three days now... Aside from Keiko, he won’t let anyone near him.” “If this concerns business, I shall take care of it for you.” “Regarding what matter?” “It’s about a girl named Lina…” “That girl… Oh yes, she’s come to the house about twice.” “Her complexion wasn’t exactly dark, but had a sooty cast—had she possessed any charm, that might have been something, but there was none of that… a girl as unremarkable as a withered field chrysanthemum… As for affection—what a peculiar thing it is… The mere touch of Hanayo’s hand would send her into such a frenzy—eyes whitening, body convulsing—such astonishing sensitivity… I nearly thought she’d lost her mind.” “Once, for instance, she came over—which was fine—but without any conversation, she suddenly started crying nonstop. I found her difficult to handle and was at my wit’s end.” “So how do you know about that?”

“Today, Iwagaki Nankō lured me out under the pretense of autumn leaf viewing, then sprang that person on me like an ambush… What an appalling situation.” “Well really—though I shouldn’t say it—she’s reaping what she sowed.” “Lack of planning… Imaginative girls invariably meet such ends.” “I understand Hanayo received some local assistance during the postwar upheaval—but chasing him all the way to Japan? That crosses beyond mere inconsiderateness.”

“Love is inherently unreasonable, but from what I’ve heard, Mr. Yamakawa made a promise and took her away—so perhaps the other party was simply too pure.”

Tsuneko wore a cold smile as she stared intently, but— “You’re hopeless. You don’t understand Hanayo at all… Not all truths necessarily move people, nor does innocence always affect them. Depending on the other party, there are cases where one must not treat them with sincerity—occasions where mixing lies into one’s words may even demonstrate virtue. If necessary, Hanayo would make promises a hundred times and break them just as readily… After all, in the women’s division he managed over a hundred and fifty difficult individuals—inflaming passions here, cooling tempers there—so he wouldn’t err in his emotional logic over one mere woman. If someone claimed he did something to that misplaced girl, Hanayo would feel wronged. Our failure lay in not discerning she was the type to press matters so relentlessly—but once realized, we resolved it swiftly… What was it that girl said again? I already told you she doesn’t resent Hanayo anymore, didn’t I?”

“She did say that.” “Was Mr. Yamakawa outmaneuvered, then?” “I’d forgotten to hear your account… What brings you here?” “…With busybodies like Iwagaki about and journalists digging around, it’d be inconvenient if our names surfaced—I thought transferring her to a somewhat better hospital might be advisable… Not that I wish to overstep.”

“That’s very kind of you to go to such trouble… but there’s no need for these exertions.” “Left undisturbed, it’s a matter that will resolve itself naturally.” “The physicians say she won’t last through this winter—didn’t they tell you?” “Hadn’t you heard?”

"I see, that makes sense. Time being the greatest mediator... How apt those ancients were with their words." "It's not that I desire such an outcome, but if she's fated to die, there's nothing to be done. Since God calls [her]."

From upstairs came what seemed like a muffled rustling, but soon it turned into a violent scuffling noise as if bodies were grappling. “What could that be?” As Tsuneko listened with a baffled expression, the clamorous uproar swelled to its peak—stampeding footsteps now interlaced with simian shrieks. From the door leading to the inner chambers emerged Keiko and Yamakawa’s mother clad in nightclothes.

"I apologize for this state of dress... Ms. Tsuneko, what is that commotion about?" “Who knows?” “Don’t just say ‘Who knows’—go look... Ms. Keiko, you shouldn’t stand there either.” Muffled gunshots rang out chaotically—six in total. "Is only Mr. Yamakawa on the second floor?"

“No, there’s an orangutan.” In a voice that seemed to see through everything, Keiko answered. No sooner had the sound of footsteps thundered down the stairs than Yamakawa entered the parlor with unfocused, feverish eyes. “What happened?” “The orangutan started doing something strange. Because it was dangerous, I disposed of it… An orangutan that chatty—such a thing shouldn’t exist.” He muttered with a gloomy face, sank into the sofa, and clutched his head with both hands. Tsuneko strode briskly to Hanayo’s side and,

“Exposing our secrets before others… Why must you always be this way?” she rebuked with a pallid face.

“Ms. Tsuneko, saying such things now…”

“Mother, please remain silent. There should be no Judas in the Yamakawa household.”

Having said that, she came over here. “Today finds us quite occupied—my apologies—but might I ask you to take your leave?… Another time, perhaps.”

With her customary feigned politeness and an insincere smile plastered on her face, she began to usher him out.

V

Around 8:00 AM on February 5th, Yamakawa was thrown from the national railway at the so-called Curve of Death between Shinjuku and Shin-Okubo, meeting an accidental demise. It appeared that after falling onto the roadbed, he had made contact with the wheels and been flung beneath the embankment—he was found dead in an Okubo Hyakunincho drainage ditch. In objective circumstances, it was an accidental death, but in reality being a planned suicide disguised as an accident, the letter stated that he had thoroughly researched the location and conditions on-site over a considerable period. The reason he chose such a maddening method for his suicide was simply that he deemed it optimal—there was no ulterior motive beyond that. Considering the various circumstances and factors that had driven Yamakawa to such extremes, it became clear that for Yamakawa himself, there had been no other course of action but this.

As they were going to Kirigaya Crematorium, they left home early but took the opportunity to stop by the Nichifutsu Gallery to see Iwagaki’s paintings.

It was a sunny yet somehow gloomy morning; upon entering the gallery, sweat formed. The walls were filled with nothing but plodding, talentless paintings that seemed to reflect Iwagaki’s kindly face—as they angled their bodies and walked briskly past them, a shockingly vivid color suddenly seized their gaze from a dim, shadow-clogged wall far from the windows.

In the center of a gray canvas uniformly painted over swelled a voluminous blood-red form resembling cut-and-pasted crimson velvet in an indefinable shape. At first glance it seemed to depict flowers, but no—it was a painting of a single butterfly flying diagonally. The title read "Mariposa Roja (Red Butterfly)"... What might its scientific name be? It resembled a common blue butterfly yet differed. From head to wingtip, across a solid crimson base, delicate white arabesque patterns adorned what appeared to be an unprecedented exotic specimen. At the bulge of its thorax, the blood-crimson grew most intense, imparting a sense of plump scale thickness while gradating toward the hindwings with ineffable nuance; the serrated edges displayed what might be imagined as this world's most intricate lacework arabesque patterns, melting dreamlike into the blanc de zinc backdrop.

The final letter Yamakawa left was a long-winded and exceedingly troublesome affair, yet such confessions rarely maintain—without drowning in sentimentality—this manner of being recounted with utter candor, this steadfast preservation of pious demeanor until the very end. Though Yamakawa was called an unpleasant man, it made one feel a sort of bewilderment—as if within the profound depths of his disposition there might have lain concealed an overflowing soul of unfathomable depth.

Through marital alliance policies, the Yamakawa family too belonged to the lineage of eminent houses—the Beisaku, Hata, and Fujiike clans—that had forged a vast marital network across academic and financial circles. In the Yamakawa household, they adopted the method of wedding their female members to social work professionals and educators, thereby establishing marital alliances in those spheres. Through the mutual assistance of marital alliance blocs, the Yamakawa family’s supreme directive was to cultivate influence in educational circles—children yet to be born, and even maternal second cousins on the bride’s side, became essential personnel for advancing this policy.

Yamakawa's conscription notice came as a bolt from the blue, and though they exhausted every possible measure in their campaign to revoke the summons, once the war entered its defeat phase with the National Mobilization Law having been enacted, they realized that for a reserve second lieutenant—unless he contracted an actual debilitating illness—not even the Chief of Staff's influence could enable deception. Thus they convened a family council centered on Major Kihara, the Vice-Minister of Military Affairs who was married to Yamakawa's younger sister Asako. “It’s fine if all the men of Japan die, but Hanayo dying would be a problem.” “You must guarantee that you absolutely will not kill him.”

Yamakawa’s mother said that to Kihara. While positions like adjutants or headquarters staff might have enjoyed considerable freedom and commanded a certain dread in that regard, they still came with irksome service regulations; one could never know when or to what ill-fated front they might deploy you, and even in terms of food provisions, the home front had been hardly a blessing. If one were a special duty officer in intelligence for occupied territories—where supplies were abundant—they could have grown their hair out, dispensed with military uniforms, and with nothing but vague titles like "adjutant-level" or "high-ranking official-level" attached to their name, avoided all disciplinary measures; if so inclined, they could even have lived in hotels and indulged in luxury.

With the invincible navy's annihilation at Midway and the cancellation of Operation M, as a twilight hue cast itself over the progression of all military operations, the sensitive upper echelons of the occupied territories swiftly discerned Japan's doomed fate.

On Negros Island, an alcohol tank was blown up; on Panay Island, Ishihara Industries employees were killed. What surfaced publicly were the island's rioters, but it was understood that Manila's intellectual upper echelons commanded the guerrillas. These objective circumstances necessitated intelligent special operatives—ones capable of infiltrating closed social classes beyond the reach of merely brutal Military Police Corporals or Sodai faction Military Police Squad Leaders. After thorough deliberation, he accepted conscription under those terms; prior notification must have existed, for upon enlistment he was immediately selected as a Category C student and received short-term special training focused on occupied territory administration, strategic studies, and personal intelligence.

In the Philippines region, Yamakawa’s life was structured around residing in first-class hotels or flats, dressing in white linen suits and Tagalog camisas, adopting a refined gait in salons and bars frequented by elites and intellectuals, modestly lowering his eyes while offering polished smiles, delivering witty jabs at the military’s ignorance, murmuring things like, "The Japanese lack imagination—they cannot govern other peoples," all while cultivating the impression of an intellectual democrat or a noble scion opposed to military cliques—then, upon detecting subtle shadows in his interlocutors’ reactions, he would hand over data to the Military Police and promptly transfer to another district… a behavioral pattern endlessly repeated.

Yamakawa felt perplexed by how the materials he had collected were being processed through extreme methods he had never wished for, but this too grew increasingly cruel in tandem with defeat's tempo, and with bloodshed becoming immeasurable, the occupied territories' administration in the Philippines began assuming a ghastly visage. Even if he had thought he didn't want to die in war, he had never meant to seek his own safety and comfort amidst others' calamity and ruin; yet owing to special duties' organizational structure, he could neither withdraw nor quit simply from weariness. When he realized nothing remained but to continue while war lasted, he found himself newly appalled—as if freshly comprehending—at cowardice's retribution's magnitude.

"I was appointed as a special duty officer; my wishes were fulfilled; from the moment it was decided I could absolutely avoid death in the war—the irreversible collapse of my spirit began. Had I been able to foresee the baseness of this work—had I known that my peace of mind would be so thoroughly shattered, tormented day and night by blood-soaked visions—I would never have chosen such an ill-suited mission. Around that time, I happened to read a poem by Vildrac... Had I known it would come to this, I should have been the first casualty in the first battle... It was a moment of such futile regret that these verses struck my heart with particular force. Despite this, I still detested dying so thoroughly that I had no choice but to persist in my sordid work."

With the war’s end, Tsumura—having played a role in guerrilla suppression massacres in Sumatra while also being exposed as an operator of atrocities in the Philippines—was sent to Batavia and hanged. Yamakawa, however, had acquired senior employee status at Ishihara Industries just before the armistice, transferred from the Philippine region to Dutch-controlled Sumatra under the pretext of taking Lina as his secretary, and settled with her at Medan’s South Trade Club. By concealing his background, he managed to evade pursuit as a war criminal. Though Yamakawa’s name surfaced repeatedly during the Manila Philippines War Crimes Trials, he was perceived by the Philippine intellectual class as one of the mild-mannered Japanese sympathetic to their cause. With numerous witnesses testifying he had not been present at any incident sites, the matter ultimately never became an issue.

Yamakawa was demobilized in November following the war's end aboard the first available Liberty ship and lived leisurely at Kanazawa's Hakuunso Hotel until the spring of 1948 while closely monitoring the progress of the Philippines Trials. When these concluded in May, he returned to his home in Meguro. During his stay at Hakuunso—where constant communication with Yamakawa's family had been maintained—there occurred no such incident as his elder sister Tsuneko telling Izawa's wife anything resembling an exclamation of "Oh my!" followed by clinging motionless to a pillar.

All incidents had become things of the past; the truth of the Philippine atrocities should have been forgotten along with memories of the war. Yet images clung to every flower and blade of grass, creating an oppressive gloom that could not be shaken off. The debility proved more severe than anticipated; even reality began to take on a phantasmagorical aspect. I found myself tormented by a baseless despair—that I was an entity severed from society’s people and things, stripped of any right to human connection.

"I know the rationale that the best way to conceal one's thoughts is not to think of them at all, but there exists no endeavor more arduous than forgetting or maintaining thoughtless stillness." "No matter what I behold, memories surge forth unbidden, plunging me into contemplation." What ceaselessly assailed Yamakawa’s psyche was the brutally simple conviction that exposure meant hanging; as peace reclaimed all things and society grew ever more stable, his terror swelled beyond containment.

He had labored under the conviction that even the most trivial matter could become the spark of exposure, painstakingly aligning the consistency of his six years’ actions until he believed he’d forged an impregnable fortress—no matter where challenged. Yet at his homecoming celebration, someone declared outright: “Your face bears the look of one who dined well and lived comfortably.” Despite having been confident it was safe, the realization that such a major oversight had existed caused him to lose all faith in his own mind.

While Lina’s arrival in Japan had been calamitous, it was the unforeseen encounter with Tsumura’s monkey that truly shook Yamakawa. Had he considered it calmly, such a coincidence should have been possible; yet to Yamakawa, it seemed like nothing but some will intent on denouncing his sins, leaving him flustered and incoherent. The first thought that flashed through my mind was that this monkey would eventually denounce me. I don’t know why such a thought occurred to me. In that sense, Lina was far more dangerous, yet I hadn’t even considered that possibility. Later, I had somewhat calmed down, but due to the impact sustained then, I ultimately could not escape it to the very end.

Taking the monkey from Tsumura’s father and confining it to the bedroom had been an impulsive act, but ever since then, he had been tormented by its chattering. What appeared to others as mere ordinary monkey behavior would sound to Yamakawa like words conveying clear meaning, and when he became intoxicated and began losing clarity, Tsumura’s voice would say, “Hey, pour more, pour more.” When he startled awake, the monkey wore an expression as if nothing had happened, scratching the back of its neck with a hind leg. Dismissing it as his imagination, when he began to doze off—in a manner that had been Tsumura’s habit—it would sneer in a nasal tone.

This continued for several days, and when he could bear it no longer, he went to Suda’s place to inquire, but was evaded and returned home. The reason he killed the monkey was that he could no longer endure the irrational oppression weighing upon his psyche. At the beginning of January, Lina died. The Yamakawa family’s treatment of Lina was not as coldly cruel as it appeared; in truth, they had been discreetly delivering just enough provisions each month to keep her from hardship, binding her through their benevolence. When she died, Tsuneko went to dispose of matters to the extent that no issues would arise later, sighing in relief that this had rid them of a nuisance—but Yamakawa, on the other hand, had found some solace in having someone to share his secret with. With Lina’s death, that avenue of disclosure vanished, leaving him nearly crushed by loneliness.

Yamakawa grew increasingly untethered by his desire to be released from oppression, and whenever he encountered Military Police in town, an impulse to say "Excuse me, I..." would well up, forcing him to stream with greasy sweat as he fought to suppress it.

One night at the end of January, when Yamakawa told his mother and Tsuneko he intended to turn himself in—saying it was no use—the two were aghast: if he did such a thing, not only would Keiko’s pending marriage arrangement collapse, but all the social credibility Yamakawa had painstakingly built up over the years, his ties to the Moromiya family—everything would be undone. “No matter how much you suffer, we cannot permit such Judas-like acts.” “Please—I beg you—at least abandon that course.”

The situation grew dramatic when even Asako, his younger sister who had become a war widow, came running in to join their tearful dissuasion. When he pushed back that he would simply die then, they countered that suicide was the greatest sin in Christianity. To do such a thing, they argued, would extinguish Yamakawa’s life of faith. To preserve the Yamakawa family’s honor and thereby avoid the public suspicion and societal criticism that would arise, they must have arrived at the conclusion that there was no other choice but to feign an accidental death.

Should this line of thinking be called profound, or should it be called shallow? In essence, Yamakawa’s life—including himself—was the history of an excessively timid man, constantly tiptoeing around in all directions. Is the blurred ash-gray expanse in this scene the sky, or is it water? Is this butterfly flying, or is it flowing? A single butterfly with wings patterned in blood-red and bone-white hangs precariously in a desolate space. Although Yamakawa's letter made no mention of it, due to various circumstances, it has now become clear that Mariposa was not Tsumura but in fact Yamakawa.

The butterfly in this painting seemed to satirize Yamakawa’s life.

The road to Kirigaya was interminable, mournful, and evocative of something unnameable. In the waiting room, university presidents, doctors, their wives—clever-looking individuals and shrewd-faced figures connected to the Yamakawa family’s Fujon—adorned in religious pretense, waited solemnly and quietly. After about two hours, Yamakawa’s lanky body—now reduced to a small accumulation of bones still radiating heat—returned to where everyone waited. Yamakawa’s bones displayed the desiccated elegance of Utrillo’s whitewashed walls—a blend of white, pale ash-gray, and the withered-leaf brown of terre de naturel—resting upon the iron plate in a refined style that seemed ready to scatter at the slightest breeze. As the attendant began gathering them toward the center with a small broom, Yamakawa fluttered up lightly like butterfly scales and made his rounds, meticulously bestowing keepsakes upon each person’s nostrils.