Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Professor Yamakawa Sekitei entered with a pale face.

“This is disastrous!”

As if declaring “urgent as the law commands,” he sat on a chair and slumped his head limply.

I was in the middle of frying spaghetti in butter—a pressing task in its own right—but since Professor Sekitei was in such a dire state, I approached him still holding the meat fork.

“Professor, what’s wrong?
“You look terribly pale.”

“Well, truly... Things have reached a complete impasse...”

The professor was lightly sweating, twisting the handkerchief into knots between both hands and tugging at it.

“See?
“So it’s not like I didn’t warn you— Is this a honey trap?”

The professor now took the edge of his handkerchief into his mouth and pulled at it with his hand.
He made a grotesque gesture akin to a female impersonator in a provincial new-school theater piece lamenting tragedy.
Of course, being so absorbed, he remained oblivious to his own antics.

“No—it’s something far more dangerous.”
“…If it were a honey trap, even I could find a way to slip through.”

The professor brought the handkerchief he had removed from his mouth toward his balding face.

“Actually, I was invited to join a burglary...”

“What did the burglary coerce you into?”

The professor waved his hands as if fanning the air,

“No—that’s not it.
“In other words, I was invited to go commit a burglary.”

“You should go… After all, you’ve gone to the trouble of living in such a place to probe the human customs of Paris’s lower society—you must immerse yourself completely to give it meaning.”

The professor began gasping and flailing like a drowning swimmer,

“D-d-don’t mock this!
“I cannot do such a thing!
“…Even someone like me remains an imperially appointed official.
“However you consider it, I simply cannot engage in burglary!”

Professor Sekitei specialized in Beyé’s moral sociology—a convoluted discipline.

In a nutshell, the Professor devoted himself body and soul to what appeared, at first glance, to be a circuitous academic inquiry: whether morality progresses or regresses.

For example, considering the fact that the system of polygamy had developed into a strict monogamous system, morality could be considered to progress.
In contrast to this, there existed a theory that morality rather regressed.
As evidence for this, they cited the fact that modern crimes had become extremely scientifically cruel and that their frequency had increased compared to earlier times.
Since the Professor sided with the theory of regression, he made a fervent resolution that to obtain irrefutable real-world examples of this regressive doctrine, the scholar himself needed to live within the daily realities of those lower strata—and so he bundled his luggage and moved from the tranquil and refined high-class lodgings of Passy to the new city district’s beggar colony.

The Zone was a beggar colony newly created outside the old ramparts bordering the city—established to control the beggars and vagrants scattered throughout Paris by consolidating them into one place—where its residents built simple yet sturdy shacks enclosed by corrugated iron, occupied by nightsoil haulers, junk dealers, chair menders, ragpickers, and the like.

Though Professor Yamakawa Sekitei possessed an ardent personality, he evidently found himself unable to endure living in such corrugated iron barracks, and thus took up residence on the second floor of a questionable-looking specialty restaurant called Hongō Bar, situated precisely on the border between the beggar colony and Paris proper.

In other words, the Professor lived in a state of limbo, perched precariously on the dangerous line separating the beggar colony from Paris proper—his dignity was barely maintained at this precarious boundary.

Regarding this, the Professor had a proper justification.
No matter how much enthusiasm one might possess, he would say, they wouldn’t permit residence there without a municipal permit.
However liberal the French government might be, it could hardly issue a beggar’s permit to a Japanese imperially appointed official—anticipating this, the Professor employed such sophistry.

Even in such a critical moment, the Professor—true to his character and without forgetting his scholarly tenacity, his face pallid—launched into such impertinent remarks.

“After all, they’re trying to recruit someone like me—a virtuous old scholar—into burglary! Developmentally speaking, this indeed becomes a striking example of how reflective morality is regressing.”

“I don’t care about the morality part—but what exactly are they trying to steal?”

The professor’s face once again took on an unpleasant hue.

"The details there remain rather unclear... but generally speaking, it seems they've settled on breaking into a wealthy man’s mansion around Rue Saint-Honoré."

"So what role are you supposed to play?"

The professor looked up at me timidly with a furtive glance,

“The one who breaks the window will be handled by Goigorofu—the fellow who recruited me—but it seems the role of crawling in first has been assigned to me.”

This was disastrous.

Imperially Appointed Official.
Doctor of Letters.
Fifth-Class Order of Merit.
Fifty-seven years old.
Height: 1 meter 55 centimeters.
The sight of this short, bull-necked, hunchbacked Professor Sekitei—with his round, childlike face—being prodded from behind by a burglar as he clumsily crawled through the veranda window!
Dramatic, one might say—or rather, it was nothing short of a spectacle under heaven.

The professor’s absent-mindedness had long been famous, and moreover, he was terribly clumsy.
He had never once brought home an umbrella he had taken out with him, and at his age, he couldn’t even crack an egg by himself.
Moreover, he was lazy, slothful, indecisive, and timid—no matter which angle you considered it from, he was simply the least suitable personality to serve as an accomplice in a burglary.

“But even if they tried making use of you as an accomplice, I don’t imagine it would be of much help.”

The professor assumed a sulky expression,

“No—you shouldn’t underestimate me so easily.”
“If they made me do it, I think I could actually manage to pull it off quite impressively—but such things clash somewhat with my moral ideals, so that’s precisely why I’m not doing it.”
“Please don’t misunderstand.”

“How on earth did you come to be relied upon for such a thing?”

“If they take someone like me—an ethicist—along as an accomplice, it lightens the burden on their conscience, you see.”
“I think that’s their real objective.”

“Couldn’t you have refused outright?”

The Professor let out a troubled sigh,

“There’s a reason it can’t be resolved so simply… I’m afraid I may have nodded along a bit too carelessly… And I might have inadvertently added fuel to the fire…”

“For someone of your standing to encourage burglary… that’s rather unbecoming.”

“Indeed, it seems I let my curiosity carry me too far. However, this too stems from my simple intellectual fervor for research—a point that offers me some consolation—but the practical matter has now reached an impasse.”

“Professor Sekitei, you didn’t actually agree to this, did you?”

Professor Sekitei shrank in on himself like a scolded child,

“Well… the truth is… I agreed.”

“This is astonishing.”

The Professor dejectedly raised his face and looked up at me with sheep-like gentle eyes,

“For my part, I simply had no other choice… To gain your understanding, I suppose I must explain the nuances of this matter in detail, but to put it briefly, it was roughly like this.”
“...Earlier today, as I was eating lunch on the dirt mound downstairs, a tubercular Russian man named Goigorofu came up to me and said, ‘Hey, second-floor Professor—business good?’ So I answered, ‘Well, things have been downright dismal lately—not a single uptick.’ Then Goigorofu said, ‘That’s a shame.’”
“Hey, Baldy, if that’s how it is, I’ve got a sweet deal here—wanna get in on it?”
“It’s an unbelievably sweet deal, I tell ya.”
“So I said, ‘Sounds good.’”
“……It’s utterly improper, but in that society, matters like these are akin to everyday greetings. If I were to dwell on each of these things, I couldn’t last a single day living in such an area—that’s how I saw it.”
“However, Goigorofu—on his part—grew terribly enthusiastic. Actually… due to certain circumstances… he had wanted a partner like me—a bald-headed figure with a plausible face.”
“If you’re serious about this, I’ll give you a generous cut.”
“Well? Spit it out clearly.”
“I put on a slightly menacing expression and gave a sly grin.”
“Quite some time ago, when we performed Shakespeare’s *Antony and Cleopatra* as an English play in high school, I played Cleopatra and captivated the entire school—so I do have some experience in that area. …Now then, with such a fearsome expression on my face, what do you suppose I said?”
“...That depends on the circumstances.”
“I didn’t come all the way from the Far East for jokes or idle banter.”
“You’re bringing this up knowing full well what it entails.”
“…I said, and then shuddered violently.”
"My vision blurred, and I nearly staggered toward the counter."
"No—well, it’s truly unbearable—utterly lamentable!"

Then Goigorofu put on an exaggeratedly earnest expression and said, “Oh, I see.”
“My apologies for underestimating you.”
“I hadn’t realized you were such an esteemed individual.”
“…his speech suddenly turned polite… putting on that respectable face while reading some tedious book—but I’d always suspected it was just an act.”
“Now that you’re this sort of person, well—this makes me all the more indebted.”
“This isn’t like hauling around worthless junk—this’ll give us proper momentum.”
“…And so things clicked right along—until we wound up in that mess I told you about earlier.”

One could almost visualize how this timid Professor Sekitei confronted the burglary and what course of events led him to this irreparable situation.
Presumably, Professor Sekitei—due to that characteristic overzealousness of his—ended up being compelled to take the vanguard position among the burglars as a consequence of having spread out his grandiose claims.

The purpose of the Professor’s visit was as follows.

“If I were to break the agreement now, it certainly wouldn’t end without consequences. From their perspective—having even disclosed the location—if they learn I’ve had a change of heart, they’ll likely refuse to let me live. Given that deranged, murderous man’s nature, that danger is all too real. By the logic of ‘adults changing their ways,’ I intend not to return to Hongō Bar but instead go into hiding somewhere. What truly weighs on me are the research materials left behind there—I cannot abandon years of effort in that place. So I thought: perhaps my nephew from the countryside could suddenly come to visit his uncle, stay in my room awhile, and discreetly retrieve the materials bit by bit when the opportunity arises, ensuring Goigorofu remains none the wiser.”

The Professor squared rounded shoulders with an air of dignity,

“You see, isn’t that right? If I myself were to get killed just to provide an example of the regression theory, there’d be no point in that!”

he exclaimed.

II

On a street corner leading from La Villette’s market gate toward Puuru Nūvu in Paris’s northern outskirts stood a shoddy single-item eatery, its lintel varnished with the words “Hungarian Soldiers.”

This was what Professor Sekitei referred to as "Hongō Bar".
When Professor Sekitei—with his slightly lisping speech—pronounced "Longloir-Veille," it inevitably sounded like nothing but "Hongō Bar."
As Professor Sekitei was rather naive about worldly affairs, he seemed completely unaware of this; but when someone once explained the somewhat humorous reason behind it, he abruptly slapped his knee and—

“That’s excellent!”
“From now on, let’s call it Hongō Bar.”

he declared with great fervor.

It was exactly dinnertime, and the pungent smell of cabbage stew wafted thickly out.

Peering timidly through the thick cotton gauze curtain into the interior, I saw a dim, damp earthen-floored room with a long table set directly on the ground. About twenty men—disheveled villains straight out of *Nostalgia*, their slovenly appearances enough to send chills down one’s spine—were shouting boisterously while devouring an utterly chaotic meal.

All wore their hunting caps tilted sideways.
They were fearlessly devouring grotesque fare rarely seen on city restaurant menus—blood sausages, fried catfish, mussels and garlic in salted broth, gelatinous pork cartilage, boiled calf brains, and the like.
It was nothing major, just a trivial matter, but it made one feel an indescribable sense of helplessness, as if they had plunged into an entirely different world.

There was no use hesitating forever.
Summoning every last ounce of courage, I resolutely opened the glass door and stepped inside.

A terrible stench and warmth mingled subtly, hanging thickly in the air.
On the ochre earthen floor lay blue phlegm, cigarette butts, fish heads, pork cartilage, and other assorted debris scattered haphazardly, leaving almost no place to step.

Even considering this was Professor Sekitei’s request, the thought of having to spend the next four or five days in such a refined and elegant environment felt somewhat excessive, stirring a certain restlessness of heart.

A man who appeared to be the proprietor—with thick, drooping whiskers resembling walrus tusks—stood rigidly by the liquor counter, wearing an expression that mocked like a pale-yellow oil merchant’s. I approached him and asked, “Which one is Goigorofu?” The blue-aproned man whose face recalled Gōrukii’s sharply widened his large eyes and—

“Who the hell’re you?” he barked.

Thinking that if I kept acting timidly I’d only be looked down on with no end to it, I put force into my voice,

“I’m Yamakawa Sekitei’s nephew. I came here because that layabout Goigorofu asked me to pass along a message.”
“Since I’m at it, I’ll mention this: I plan to stay here in my uncle’s place for four or five days, so you’d better keep that in mind.”

I declared with gusto, rattling off my words.
At least on the surface, it appeared that way.

Gōrukii in the blue apron flared his nostrils, snorted “Hmph,” and then—

“So you’re that baldy’s nephew kid?”
“Well I’ll be—you’ve got a real strange face there.”
“You’re the spittin’ image of a catfish.”

he said something rude.

However, considering this was part of the local temperament, it didn’t provoke anger. Of course, even if one were angered, rash expressions couldn’t be voiced—so ultimately, it amounted to the same thing.

“People often say that,” I retorted. “With this big head and bony frame, they claim I resemble a Seine catfish. Not particularly clever. Why not try something more original? Now that I think of it, old man—you look like a walrus. Did you drift here from over there?”

Gōrukii suddenly opened his mouth so wide that his Adam’s apple was visible and burst into a booming laugh,

“You bastard! Callin’ me a walrus—that’s some smooth talker shit, ain’t ya! Hmph, this’un’s all right.”

Having said that, he turned toward where the group was eating and bellowed, “Hey, Pipo! This bastard here wants a word with ya. Once ya finish stuffin’ yer face, get yer ass over here.”

“Hey, Bro, have a drink or somethin’.”
“How ’bout a ‘Parrot’?”

Parrot… It must’ve been some kinda drink slang, but even school toughs wouldn’t use terms that crude.
If you went acceptin’ recklessly, God knows what’d come flyin’ out.
I declined gently.

“I’ll pass.”

“Well then, how ’bout some ‘petroleum’?”

“I make it a point not to drink gasoline or petroleum whenever possible.”

“What’re you yammerin’ about, you daft eggplant? There’s no damn gasoline in my firewater!”
“Keep crackin’ wise and I’ll bash your skull in!”

Things were taking a nasty turn, I realized—and just as that clammy unease crept over me, a shadow of a man drifted into view, gaunt as a plow handle and vague as fading smoke.

He was a twenty-seven- or twenty-eight-year-old youth with sunken cheeks and a sallow complexion like faded wallpaper. Due to severe facial neuralgia, he would occasionally twitch his cheek with a jerky spasm. He had the eerily composed, peculiar demeanor often seen in fanatics—as though convinced that he alone grasped the world's truth.

As for those eyes, they had an almost indescribably terrifying appearance.
To put it simply, the pupils were no larger than thumbtack heads while the whites spread with excessive dominance.
In Western terms, they would be called "maleficent eyes."
In Japanese terms, they would be termed "four-white eyes."
Faced with this textbook example of them, I grew flustered.
Thinking "This is one dangerous character who's appeared," I found myself shrinking back when the gaunt man—extending an unnervingly long hand resembling Buddha's citron fruit, sallow and emaciated—spoke in a voice as flat and insidious as seawater seeping into a coastal cave:

“I am Goigorofu. And you are?”

As he said this, he gazed directly at my face with those not-particularly-chilling eyes he had just mentioned.

Even so, if this was Goigorofu, there seemed to be a considerable gap between him and the man Professor Sekitei had described. According to the Professor’s account, Goigorofu had been characterized as a man who spoke with a lazy, cheeky tone—something like, “Hey, baldy, got a sweet deal here—wanna get in on it?”—but from what I could see, this Goigorofu was a somber sort; no matter where you prodded him, not a shred of that cheerful manner seemed likely to emerge. Not only that, but his grammar was so precise it strained belief for a resident of this district, and his politeness reached such extremes it bordered on rudeness.

His attire followed suit—while not exactly smart, it at least maintained a tidy appearance. Though made of sufu blend, the knees weren’t rounded out and the pockets showed no sagging. It carried the formal air of ceremonial wear meant for a once-in-a-lifetime event, and when I later reflected on this and realized how accurate that impression had been, I found it positively uncanny.

Undoubtedly, I had been vaguely staring at his face for a rather long while, leaving Goigorofu’s hand extended all the while. Goigorofu repeated himself once more.

“I am Karasukī Goigorofu. And who might you be?”
“And what business brings you here?”

I had come here intending to confront the tubercular patient about the burglary, but being met with such defiance left me utterly flustered. Stammering, I vaguely disclosed that Professor Yamakawa Sekitei had fallen gravely ill and had thus been unable—albeit reluctantly—to fulfill his promise with you. Having said this, what kind of upheaval would be unleashed? This very moment was profoundly chilling.

Now, Mr. Karasukī did not show much surprise.
On the contrary—to put it in scenic terms—a lingering smile, like the faint autumn sunlight filtering dimly through rain clouds, came casting over his faded-complexioned face.
Indeed, this was so unexpected that I was utterly dumbfounded.

Karasukī, with that subtle, faint smile, peered deep into my eyes with his extraordinary four-white eyes—

“So, Monsieur Yamakawa must be in quite a panic, I suppose.”

[I] thought—the story had diverged quite a bit.
After agonizing over whether to confess everything bluntly, [I] tentatively tried saying something noncommittal in this manner.

“Well, you see… it’s just that… nothing’s making any sense.”

Karasukī took me by the elbow, led me slowly to a corner, had me sit on a chair there, and with an expression that said he already knew everything—even if I tried to hide it—

“I understand.”

“I put considerable effort into it, so I imagine the Professor must be trembling in fear… I am well aware that Monsieur Yamakawa is a sincere scholar specializing in moral sociology… Yet for some reason, he insists on playing the villain to such an extreme.”

“He’s been playing the villain to the hilt—last March, he claimed he assaulted an errand boy from the National Discount Bank and made off with three thousand francs, then threatened a ticket seller at the stadium and took every last cent she had—all these outlandish tales.”

“Because he delivers these tales with all that misplaced jargon and whatnot, I can’t help but burst out laughing when I hear them.”

“Since we never took any of it seriously, you see, the Professor grew increasingly frantic—day by day, the scale of his tall tales climbed one notch at a time, as if to say ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ each time.”

“He’s reached quite an enormous sum lately—around two hundred thousand francs… And he’s killed quite a few people too.”

“To my knowledge—three monks, two taxi drivers, one dentist, and one artificial flower factory girl.”

“…That’s roughly the state of things.”

“That’s quite the massacre.”

“The crowd that comes here has ended up being no match for the Professor at all, nervously tiptoeing around as if touching a boil, to the point where they can’t even carelessly approach his side—that’s how things stand now.”

“Well, in reality, once someone gets caught by the Professor, you’re done for a lifetime.”

“Since they’re subjected to dredging up every last evil deed in this world, they’re pretty much stewed through.”

“If left unchecked, it was likely to spiral out of control—so today at noon, I tried intimidating the Professor by feeding him some nonsense.”

“…Did the medicine take effect?”

“Given how timid the Professor is, he must have been utterly flabbergasted.”

Good grief what an outrageous thing t hear.
He had no idea tProfessor could carry out such utter foolishness here.
Due ttheir shared nationality s fellow countrymen he too turned completely red i tface and i tinstant—unsure how trespond—could only roll his eyes restlessly.
There was not s single word o greeting tbe offered.
Thanks tProfessor Sekitei he had suffered terrible embarrassments many times before but this was tfirst time ithad been such an extraordinary one.
It was s absurd i defied all reason.
So resentful had he grown toward tProfessor that he ended up blurting out everything tKarasukī.

Karasukī chuckled in short bursts—*heh heh*—then, in a kindly tone as though discussing his own affairs,

“As the Professor, he must have worked so hard trying to blend in with the atmosphere here—but spouting such nonsense in a place like this shows rather poor judgment.”
“If skillfully exploited, there’s no guarantee he won’t be dragged into some dreadful mess.”

“Every single point you make is valid—as always, the Professor leaves us at our wits’ end.”

Karasukī spoke in a quiet tone that could even be called gloomy,

“In any case, the Professor is there every day, spending money recklessly. …You had no idea about this, did you?”

“Huh? How’s the money being used?”

“Every day, he hosts grand banquets or offers drinks to everyone without exception who comes here. …If that were all, it might still be tolerable—but whenever someone begs him, he hands out money to anyone and everyone.
“And that’s not money given out of naive kindness.
“……Around here, they call the Professor ‘Central Bank.’”

“This is astonishing. I wish he’d put an end to this foolishness already.”

“Exactly… The residents here are all hyena-like greedy brutes—if he keeps this up, they’ll suck him dry to the bone.”
“Once they sink their teeth in, they won’t let go until the very end…”
“Taking advantage of the Professor’s naivety—as one example—two or three of them have concocted this nonsense called ‘Straw Bread,’ trying to make him buy the invention rights… They claim that if you grind straw into pulp and treat it with a chemical called Fenarutin-Addo, it becomes just like wheat flour—but Fenarutin-Addo itself is pure nonsense; no such chemical exists anywhere.”
“In reality, it isn’t medicine or anything—it’s simply high-quality wheat flour itself.”
“Since they mix wheat flour into the straw from the very beginning, it’s only natural that wheat flour remains after removing just the straw.”
“If wheat flour didn’t come out, that would be downright strange.”
“…Yet the Professor remains unaware of such things.”
“He’s getting carried away because he claims this is a world-class invention.”

The Professor did not let slip even a fingertip’s worth of such matters.
The fact that Professor Sekitei—kind-hearted, garrulous, and prone to boasting—hadn’t so much as brushed against the topic spoke volumes about how fervently he clung to “Straw Bread.”
The Professor, terrified his invention might spill to others, clamped his twitching lips tight and maintained an obstinate silence like an oyster.

Karasukī spoke in a tone that remained gloomy,

“With this ‘Hongaryian soldiers,’ you’ve likely grasped what sort of trouble the Professor is courting—but there’s still another problem.”

Even he was beginning to feel vaguely terrified, and he asked in a flustered voice,

“What on earth is next?”

Karasukī deeply bowed his head and spoke in a voice like a whisper.
“Politika!”
“What does ‘Politika’ mean?”
In Karasukī’s small crow-like eyes, for an instant, a flame-like flicker burned.

“Please don’t speak too loudly… A political upheaval—soon, a tremendous political disturbance will erupt in Paris… As a result, districts like this one are certain to face harsh searches. Someone like the Professor mustn’t loiter in such places.”
“The mere fact that a foreigner would choose to live here—whatever his purpose—gives ample cause for suspicion. Depending on how the Professor carries himself, it could lead to severe complications.”
“…As for the Professor’s conduct—well, that much can be fully discerned right here and now.”
“With that stubbornness of his, he’s bound to pick fights with anyone indiscriminately.”
“Whether they’re detectives or police officers, he draws no distinctions… If angered, he’ll spout utter nonsense…”

It was no joking matter.

This emaciated young man with a sunken complexion had, for reasons unknown, tactfully driven Professor Sekitei out of the dangerous district—a place that would inevitably bring him grave misfortune—through the most astute method that avoided harming the professor’s absurd self-esteem.

Unable to maintain an air of nonchalance any longer, I found myself growing somewhat heated—even to my own surprise—

“Then, you—in other words, Professor Sekitei…”

Just as I was about to express heartfelt gratitude, Karasukī raised his hand and—

“There’s no need for you to say anything further. It’s not as though I’ve done anything particularly special. …If my secret respect and friendship for the Professor—quietly, even just a little—have been of service to him, there could be no greater joy.”

Having said that, he slowly stretched out both legs and sank into an old rattan chair with a loose backrest,

"...I too... I once studied moral sociology under Beye in Moscow."
"In the end, that it didn't amount to anything—well, you can tell just by looking at this current state."
"...Ah, but that period was the happiest time of my life. Even through arduous studies, I was always shielded by hope and ideals—and back home, my aged mother still lived."
"The joy I felt when returning to the countryside after finishing major exams was beyond description."
"When my house came into view at the end of that long country road, I couldn't even muster the strength to suppress my sobs."

A faint flush of blood rose to Karasukī’s cheeks, and his eyes sank into a trance-like haze, as though directly beholding some cherished scenery.

“...My hometown lies in a place called Zaporizhzhia by the Dnieper River.”
“You might at least have heard of the river’s name.”
“It’s in southern Ukraine.”
“...When summer approaches, countless flowers bloom wildly across vast grasslands overgrown with wild weeds.”
“Forsythia-colored blossoms push through the tall grass.”
“Goldenrods thrust out their triangular heads while white clovers dot the fields.”
“...Partridges burst from cover as hawks circle lazily.”
“...At dusk, swans rise from lakes—their wings gilded by rose-colored sunsets—crying with silvery voices as they fly northward, looking like red handkerchiefs fluttering through twilight skies.”
“...When St. Andrew’s Festival comes, villages erupt in uproar.”
“Honey cakes, poppy cakes, fried cakes... fat nanny-goat meat and aged honey... Under great birch trees, old Zaporizhian men drink firewater while plucking banduras.”
“Such merriment!... That time truly existed.”
“...Not a dream.”
“It certainly happened long ago... But...”

He started to say—then abruptly adopted an expression as though waking from a dream, glancing back toward me with a faint flush of embarrassment tingeing his high cheekbones—

“…Trivial matters.”
“…What possessed me to start rambling like that?”
“…I’m not quite myself today.”
“Whenever I grow sentimental like this, I invariably develop a fever afterward.”
“Well, I’ve talked far too much.”
“Let’s leave it at this for now.”

Having said that, he rose from the chair and, pulling out an old-fashioned watch from his coat pocket, looked at it—

"Oh, it's already nine o'clock... Actually today at nine-thirty there's supposed to be an emergency inspection."
"If you don't leave soon, things will get messy."

When I looked back at the dining area—indeed—aside from the walrus-faced proprietor—there wasn’t a single person.

“There’s no need to worry.”
“I will escort you to Viette’s city gate.”

When we exited the city gate, Karasukī gripped my hand with his bony hand and—

“Farewell.”
“Please give my regards to Monsieur Yamakawa.”

He muttered those words and, with a light cough, disappeared into the darkness of the sidewalk.

III

Professor Yamakawa Sekitei clamorously knocked on the door.
What a noisy professor he was.
As I opened the door while muttering, Professor Sekitei burst in, clutching an extra edition in his right hand, his entire face seemingly nothing but eyes wide with intensity.

“Something terrible has begun.”
“I’ve had my fill of your ‘terrible matters.’”

“This is no joke—it’s a major incident.”
“Major incident… Goigorofu assassinated President Zume… Ah, how could such a thing happen?”
“I was so shocked that I was momentarily stunned.”

I snatched the extra edition and skimmed through it diagonally; roughly what was written was as follows.

(On the 6th at 3:00 PM, Mr. Paul Zume, President of France, fell victim to an assassination by a Russian while visiting the Great War Veterans’ Writers, Painters, and Literary Arts Exhibition at Rothschild Hall.)
The assailant fired three pistol shots at point-blank range.
The president sustained one bullet to the head and two to the shoulder and was immediately admitted to Poincaré Hospital; however, given his advanced age of seventy-four, his life hung in the balance.
(The perpetrator was identified as Karasukī Goigorofu, a White Russian who harbored deep dissatisfaction with the French government for neither intervening against the Workers’ and Peasants’ Government nor cracking down on Bolshevik elements, leading him to target French leadership.)

Professor Sekitei, turning crimson up to his neck, flared up as he stood—

“What on earth was the need to kill someone like the president? The French president or someone like him is merely a social figure who faces outward toward foreign countries—killing such a person wouldn’t serve any purpose at all. That’s exactly the sort of thing that lunatic would do. There’s a limit to absurdity! That face alone is the very model of a moral degenerate—precisely those with such dissociative dispositions are prone to committing these pattern-driven crimes. When it comes to the inhumanity and cruelty of those kinds of people—they simply can’t be measured by common sense, I tell you.”

Indeed, there is that perspective of yours, Professor.
As for Karasukī’s secret friendship toward Professor Yamakawa—though I had not a shred of intention to inform him of it—be that as it may—I began to feel that unless I troubled him just a little—something within me would not rest.

“Say, Professor, where was it that Karasukī said he was taking you?”

“Rue Saint-Honoré.”

“You are aware that the presidential residence is on Rue Saint-Honoré, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“In other words, Karasukī intended to use you as a pawn in the presidential assassination—this was a dangerously close call, you know. If you’d gone trailing after him, you’d have been forced to bid Paris farewell from the guillotine’s platform—no ifs or buts about it.”

Professor Sekitei made a strange *gurgling* sound deep in his throat, staggered to the wall, and *thudded* down onto his backside there.