Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Hamao Shirō

The last light of the sinking sun peered through the windowpane into the room.
The oppressive silence within the room formed an uncanny harmony with the eerie medicinal odor, awaiting the approach of a tormenting night.

It was a twilight in mid-spring.
Yet the spring of this world, swirling in the revival of all things, appeared to have forgotten to visit only this room.

On the bed lay a man who appeared barely past thirty, stretched out like a corpse.
His hair, too long to be parted and appearing utterly neglected, hung wild and tangled over his face, making his corpse-like complexion seem even more pitiful.
Though his slender, high nose and well-shaped mouth not only avoided giving an ugly impression but rather should have been beautiful, there lingered an uncanny feeling in that countenance which showed no vitality whatsoever.

Beside him stood a man in Western attire who also appeared to have just passed thirty, standing like a stone statue and gazing pityingly at the man on the bed.
He too was possessor of an exceedingly distinguished countenance.
However, this solemn—or rather, eerie—silence lent a certain intensity to his distinguished features.

The patient lay there.
The one standing beside him was the physician.
He was the Vice-Director of this hospital.

Suddenly, the patient opened his eyes.

His gaze collided clearly with that of the standing man.
The standing physician abruptly averted his eyes.

The patient said.

“Yamamoto... are you alone?”

The physician didn't clearly understand the meaning of this question.
"Huh...?"

“Is it just you and me alone in this room now?”

“Ah, I sent the nurse downstairs.
“Because I had business to attend to.”
“I’m alone here.”

“I see.”

The patient seemed to ponder for a moment but then closed his eyes again.
Yamamoto Masao, the Medical Scholar, was expecting the patient to say something next.
However, the patient fell deathly silent once more.

This time, the physician spoke up.

"You... aren't in any discomfort, are you?"

"Ah... no—nothing particular..."

Once again, the oppressive silence closed in.

The sunlight gradually faded, and night drew near.

In the ghastly silence, Medical Scholar Yamamoto Masao clawed at his head as though unable to endure it.

The patient was Ōkawa Ryūtarō, a renowned playwright.
He published his debut work at twenty-seven years of age and suddenly rose to fame after a certain literary master of the time recognized his talent.
Through the second and third works subsequently published, he became the complete darling of the literary world, and before even reaching thirty, society could no longer help but acknowledge him as a first-rate artist.

It was Ōkawa Ryūtarō who, at thirty-three today, drank poison in a suicide attempt.
Whether by fortune or misfortune, he failed to die right away.
Exactly five days had passed today since he was carried into this hospital, not far from that house, in anguish.

Vice-Director Yamamoto Masao had been Ōkawa's friend.
Through his desperate efforts, Ōkawa had seemed saved.
However, that too proved temporary.
Yamamoto now knew all too clearly that Ōkawa's life had become purely a matter of time.

Why had Ōkawa attempted suicide?

Despite Ōkawa having indeed planned and carried out his suicide, the fact that no documents that could be considered suicide notes were left behind meant that various newspapers needless to say published lists of conjectures from literary masters acquainted with Ōkawa.

Despite being a literary man, the fact that he left not a single suicide note led some to speculate that his suicide was likely an impulsive act.
However, the fact that Ōkawa had obtained poison several days prior and had discreetly questioned others about drugs made it clear that such conjecture was pure fantasy.
Therefore, the various literary figures each vigorously expounded their own firmly held theories.
However, no one could help but acknowledge that there had been at least two apparent causes.

The first was an issue concerning Ōkawa Ryūtarō as an individual artist, while the other—though entirely different yet simultaneously appearing highly plausible—was the famous tragedy that had occurred at his home approximately half a year prior.

Playwright Ōkawa Ryūtarō, who had achieved great renown before reaching thirty years of age, was however thought to have reached the zenith of his artistry before reaching thirty.

When he was thirty, though his renown still showed no signs of waning, some people had already detected his weariness within his works.
At thirty-one years of age, an impasse as an artist began to manifest clearly within his works.
A certain play published at the end of that year had laid bare the author's artistic anguish.
He grew desperate.
He wavered.
Where lay the path he should take? Ōkawa Ryūtarō faced this torment at thirty-one.

Society had finally perceived Ōkawa’s exhaustion.
However, he was not slacking off.
He shouldn't have been able to slack off.
But the more he rushed, the more he felt his own powerlessness.
In this way, he spent his thirty-second year.
Without publishing a single work—no, without being able to publish one.

Why had he grown so desperate?

A formidable competitor had emerged for Ōkawa.
Yonekura Sanzō’s emergence had been precisely that.

Yonekura was nearly the same age as Ōkawa.
At first, the literary world—dazzled by Ōkawa’s renown—did not value Yonekura’s plays all that highly.
However, Yonekura endured in silence.
He persevered.
And around the time Ōkawa was thought to have reached his zenith, Yonekura suddenly rallied.
Around the time Ōkawa began showing fatigue, Yonekura started making bold strides forward.
And around the time Ōkawa grew increasingly desperate in his struggles, Yonekura had completely secured a position in a corner of the literary world.

Society was fickle.

Though Ōkawa's name had not been forgotten, his plays had by this time become nothing more than published works.
Yet with each new publication, Yonekura’s works came into the spotlight one after another.
What pained Ōkawa most was that the very master who had first launched him into the literary world now certified Yonekura Sanzō as superior through his endorsement.

Had this occurred when Ōkawa brimmed with vitality, he would never have been startled.
Yet for him—having spent every ounce of his creative energy—to witness Yonekura’s abnormal ascent surpassing even his own zenith must indeed have been excruciating.

The reason was that Ōkawa Ryūtarō and Yonekura Sanzō were sworn enemies who would likely never have shaken hands forever.

They had already been competitors even before publishing their debut works.
Both intensely neurotic and stubborn, and thoroughly consumed by mutual jealousy, they had hated each other wholeheartedly rather than loved one another long before achieving fame.

*Just you wait.*

They had both harbored this thought.
And upon that sentiment, the two men applied themselves.

However, what had definitively made these two men sworn enemies was not this mutual ambition of theirs.
Indeed, they had begun to love the same woman—almost simultaneously.

This romantic rivalry became known as a rather famous incident.
The woman was Sakai Yōko, an actress with a certain theater troupe.
When a work of Ōkawa's was brought into the spotlight by this troupe, he met Yōko.
Yet around that same time, Yonekura too came to know her.
Thus with Yōko at the center, the two men competed in love.

In this struggle, complete victory lay squarely with Ōkawa.
Ōkawa and Yōko formed a harmonious household when he was twenty-nine and she twenty-three.
Yōko abandoned the stage without regret to become an exemplary wife, and they were even blessed with a lovely child.

When he acknowledged his defeat, Yonekura even thought he might die.
However, he rallied.
Having rallied, he devoted himself even more assiduously to his art, ultimately achieving renown that surpassed even Ōkawa’s.

Ōkawa was now victorious in love, but defeated in art.
At least, that was how the world perceived it.

Men—especially a man like Ōkawa—cannot live solely for love.

What indeed did his year-long silence signify? Had he finally run out of strength? Or was he enduring temporary silence while attempting to make a comeback? The public observed this with deep interest. Such were the circumstances under which Ōkawa Ryūtarō’s suicide incident occurred. That certain figures in the literary world had identified this point as the cause of his suicide could hardly be called unreasonable.

However, there were circumstances that made it impossible to view this as the sole cause.
To overlook the tragedy at Ōkawa’s home previously described as a cause—or at least as one of the causes—would not be correct.

The evening editions of various newspapers on October 20th last year all reported the incident in sensationalized detail.
Let us present one of them next.

Burglar Attacks Mr. Ōkawa Ryūtarō’s Residence Early This Morning

――wife Sakai Yōko (former actress) was brutally murdered,

―the burglar himself was also shot and killed by Mr. Ōkawa―

With burglaries occurring nearly every night of late―now casting doubt even upon the Metropolitan Police Department’s existence―yet another tragedy erupted this dawn: a burglar broke into playwright Mr. Ōkawa Ryūtarō’s residence, killed his wife Yōko (formerly known as Sakai Yōko, an actress at XX Theater), and was immediately shot dead at the scene by the homeowner’s pistol.

Around 3:30 a.m., night watchman Taniguchi―while patrolling near XX Block in XX District―suddenly heard two gunshots from what appeared to be Mr. Ōkawa Ryūtarō’s residence half a block away. He rushed toward the house; upon hearing repeated cries of “Thief! Thief!” from within, he sounded his emergency whistle, vaulted over the garden fence, and entered the grounds.

Mr. Ryūtarō then came running out from inside holding a pistol―but upon spotting Taniguchi―shouted: “The thief―inside!”

“I killed him!” he cried before collapsing.

Taniguchi lifted Mr. Ryūtarō and found him unharmed―having merely fainted from shock―and was reviving him when Patrol Officer Satō Ichirō arrived after hearing gunshots and whistles. Authorities from XX Station investigated and determined: after breaking through the kitchen door with a deba knife around 3 a.m., the assailant first rummaged through Yōko and daughter Hisako’s bedroom where Yōko awoke to his threats with the blade.

Screaming “Thief! Thief!”, she called for Mr. Ryūtarō sleeping next door―prompting her attacker to pin her down and strangle her neck until suffocation ensued.

Amidst this chaos―Mr.Ryūtarō emerged from his room―fired one bullet into his right chest then another into his forehead―instantly killing him.

The burglar’s identity remains under investigation.

The following day’s newspaper carried an article as follows.

Sakai Yōko’s Killer Identified as Burglar with Four Prior Convictions—Violent Criminal

――Mr. Ōkawa’s Actions Constitute Self-Defense――

As previously reported, yesterday morning a burglar invaded playwright Mr. Ōkawa Ryūtarō’s residence and perpetrated a horrific tragedy; through fingerprint analysis, it had now been confirmed that said burglar was an escapee named Ōmame Toraiichi—alias Ase Tora—a four-time convicted robber currently serving time at XX Prison.
The full details of the tragedy had been reported generally as follows based on the results of an on-site investigation by a judge and prosecutor.

Ōkawa Ryūtarō (32) formed a family of three with his wife Yōko (26) and eldest daughter Hisako (3); while the household also employed a maid named Satō Sadako, she had taken temporary leave approximately one week before the tragic night due to her father’s illness, resulting in them recently living as a completely undisturbed trio.
Around 1 a.m., Mr. Ōkawa had been writing late into the night; his wife Yōko and Hisako had gone to bed earlier in the eight-tatami room, and Mr. Ōkawa retired to sleep in the adjacent six-tatami study.
Mr. Ōkawa had recently made it a practice to sleep in a separate room, as he did most of his work at night.
As Mr. Ōkawa was not a sound sleeper, it was determined that he had fallen asleep around two o'clock.
According to the investigation, the burglar had infiltrated through the kitchen by prying open the door; initially rummaging through the kitchen’s adjoining room but finding nothing of value, he immediately proceeded to invade Yōko’s room. It appeared he had first stealthily searched around the bedside, as the dresser drawers had been left open.
However, awakened by the noise, Yōko opened her eyes and challenged the intruder, causing the burglar to abruptly shift to open confrontation as he thrust the deba knife in his hand before her and threatened.
Had Yōko remained silent then, perhaps that tragedy might not have occurred—but in her extreme shock, she let out a scream and called for help.
Mr. Ōkawa, who had been sleeping in the adjacent room separated by a single sliding door, awoke to this scream and suddenly leapt into the room carrying the pistol that had been at his bedside.
Startled by Yōko’s voice, the burglar suddenly grabbed the black cloth intended for a mask, shoved it into her mouth, forced her down, and with both arms straining, strangled her throat—causing her to writhe and perish in agony.
At the very moment the villain pinned Yōko down and strangled her, Mr. Ōkawa rushed to intervene—firing one shot into the burglar’s right flank before he could fully register the situation, then delivering another shot that struck his head as he recoiled.
However, due to being just a moment too late to save Yōko's life, Mr. Ōkawa—overwhelmed with anguish—rushed outside while letting out a loud cry.

As a result of the investigation, it was revealed that the deba knife possessed by the assailant Ōmame Toraiichi had been purchased by the assailant himself two days prior at the hardware store of Ōno Toshikichi located at XX Block in the XX District of the Prefecture; an employee at said hardware store had retained relatively clear recollection of Ōmame’s face, thereby conclusively establishing that it had indeed been purchased by the same individual.
Mr. Ōkawa had temporarily collapsed completely due to this tragedy and remained in an almost dazed state, yet he answered the investigators’ questions with relative clarity.
Mr. Ōkawa underwent questioning at XX Station, but they were likely to dismiss the case as self-defense.
The assailant’s possessions had included, in addition to the deba knife, three yen and twenty-three sen in cash, a flashlight, candles, and a black cloth for masking.

Regarding the above, a certain high-ranking judicial official commented.
"I am not privy to detailed information regarding this recent burglary-murder case involving Mr. Ōkawa Ryūtarō, so I cannot state anything definitive. However, from what I have heard, Mr. Ōkawa’s actions would appear to constitute self-defense and not exceed its permissible scope, so there should be no issue."
"That is to say, when anyone—be it a burglar or otherwise—breaks into another’s home late at night and attempts to kill one’s wife, this clearly constitutes what Penal Code Article 36 terms an ‘urgent and unjust infringement,’ and firing upon said individual should accordingly be recognized as an ‘act out of unavoidable necessity.’"
"However, if someone were to fire after the assailant had already killed the wife, self-defense regarding the wife would not apply—but in a case like Mr. Ōkawa’s, even after killing the wife, there still exists an urgent and unjust infringement against oneself, thus Article 36 should still apply; even if this results in killing the perpetrator, it cannot be said to constitute ‘an act exceeding the limits of defense’ in this instance."
"However, according to what I have heard, since the pistol Mr. Ōkawa was carrying had been obtained without any permit, its violation of the Firearms and Explosives Control Regulations constitutes a separate matter."

Refer to Penal Code Article 36: An act committed out of unavoidable necessity to defend against an urgent and unjust infringement upon one’s own or another’s rights shall not be punished.
Acts exceeding the limits of defense may have their penalties reduced or exempted depending on circumstances.

Though Mr. Ōkawa’s actions were ultimately never challenged as self-defense, the shock this incident dealt to Ōkawa Ryūtarō was truly immense.
He had passed several months since the event in a nearly spiritless state.
They had been a couple who loved each other so profoundly.
Moreover, such tragic shock would not be easily endured even by ordinary people.
And for an artist like Ōkawa—a man endowed with such delicate nerves—none could doubt this shock had verged on being fatal.

Since that tragedy, Mr. Ōkawa Ryūtarō had entrusted his sole surviving daughter to his wife’s family, closed up his house, become utterly alone, and moved into an apartment near this hospital.

Genius Ōkawa, who had already been unable to produce works even before the tragedy, spent the six months since that calamity in this manner—watching his archenemy Yonekura Sanzō’s fame rise day by day.

Who could claim this tragedy bore no relation to Ōkawa Ryūtarō’s present poison suicide incident?

Now, the story returned once again to the twilight hospital room.

The room was steadily growing darker.

The graveyard-like silence was suddenly shattered once again by Ōkawa.

“Yamamoto… Yamamoto…”

“What is it, Ōkawa? Huh?”
Yamamoto answered as if relieved.

“Is it just you in this room?”

“Ah, as I just said—there’s no one else.”

“Yamamoto, you have long been both my close friend and my doctor.”
“I deeply thank you.”

“…………”

“Well then—I have something to ask you now, both as my doctor and as my close friend... You’ll give me clear answers, won’t you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“To put it plainly—I want to pose you two questions I’ve staked my entire life on.
"For one of them—answer me clearly as my doctor.
"And for the other—answer me clearly as my close friend.”

“Yeah, I’ll try to do that as much as I can.”
“Go ahead and ask.”

A solemnity that defied violation surfaced on Ōkawa’s pallid face as he lay there.
On Yamamoto’s motionless forehead, sweat began to bead.
He held his breath and braced himself for whatever question Ōkawa might pose.

“Answer me as my doctor, I implore you.”
“I probably won’t survive this, will I?”
“Not at all.”
“Couldn’t I die at any moment now?”

“…………”

“No—my way of asking might have been poor.”
“Perhaps you cannot answer that precisely because you’re a doctor.”
“Then as my close friend—won’t you tell me?”
“I’m not going to make it at all, am I?”

“Ah, it’s a state where you can never let your guard down.”
“There’s no telling when danger might come.”
“But there are countless cases of people recovering from conditions like this.”
“So you can’t call it hopeless.”

“Thank you.”
“But you’re mistaken.”
“I have no desire to go on living.”
“Dying is surprisingly easy, you know.”
“It’s precisely because people strive desperately to live that there are cases where they recover.”
“But I have no intention of trying to live.”
“Therefore, I won’t recover.”
“I want to ask again.”
“If I were to make a will, would now be the appropriate time?”
“Can I put it off a little longer?”

“That’s right—it’s your choice. However, if you’re going to do it, there’s no harm in doing it now.”

Yamamoto answered while wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Thank you.
“What you say is definitive—I understand it clearly.
“From when I botched my suicide until now, I’ve stayed alive because I needed you to hear my will—because I had to make you listen.
“And because there was something I needed to ask you.”

“Very well—I’ll listen.”
“Speak.”
“But take care not to exhaust yourself as you speak.”
“Your life may expire before you finish uttering it.”

Ōkawa now fell silent.

The silence continued for some time.
Even though the room was already growing dark, Yamamoto had forgotten to flip the light switch.

“Do you know the real reason why I tried to commit suicide?……For these past few months, I’ve been tormented every night by the ghost of my dead wife.”

“Because you loved each other so much…”

“No—that’s not what I meant.”
“I’ve been cursed all this time by the specter of my murdered wife.”

“Why?”

“Why? So you too believe the same as the world after all? Yamamoto.
“I can’t count how many times I thought about killing my wife.
“And regarding that incident on that terrible night—even if it’s said I didn’t do it with my own hands—I bear full responsibility.
“Yamamoto, I made the burglar kill my wife.
“I watched silently until my wife was killed by that burglar……”

“Ōkawa, I can’t believe what you’re saying……”

“I know.
“Of course.
“But it’s true.”
“I’ve been defeated in everything.”
“In my career! In love!”
“I congratulate you on remaining unmarried.”
“I never imagined marriage could be such a terrifying thing.”
“Yōko and I married.”
“That’s why I was defeated.”
“If only Yonekura and Yōko had married back then.”
“Without doubt—I would have won.”

“At first, I thought I had won—at least in love! I believed I had completely obtained Yōko. Believing this, I lived in happiness for about six months. However, when about six months had passed, that happiness was lost forever. I began to doubt whether I had truly obtained Yōko. When that thought came, what you call happiness had already vanished. Yōko loved me too—at first. But did Yōko truly love me as a human being?”

As Yonekura’s renown blazed brighter, Yōko’s eyes too kindled with new light.

I began to suspect my wife.
“Whether Yōko would continue to love me completely.”

Marriage!
People say marriage is the graveyard of love or the tomb of romance.
How happy must those people be who can go on thinking that way.
Marriage is not a peaceful graveyard.
It is not a quiet resting place.
Marriage is a terrifying curse.

Whether this stems from the inherent nature of my life, or perhaps because mine was a special case—having had a romantic rival named Yonekura whom I once defeated to win my wife—I cannot say for certain.
But in any case, by getting married, I had indeed come to feel increasingly anxious in my heart.

If we married, I could possess Yōko completely—her body and heart, every part of her! What a fool I was to have thought this way. At first, I thought I had obtained both. However, when I clearly saw Yōko as my wife after marriage, I began to think how we might completely and eternally love each other. I began to doubt whether the wife I had obtained would indeed remain within my grasp for long.

I know many husbands.
I often see them walking happily alongside wives.
I lament that I wasn’t born as carefree as them.
They are all comforted by monopolizing their own wives, by monopolizing their bodies.
Without giving the slightest consideration to their wives' feelings!

Some of their wives must have perpetually nursed discontent.
Others had likely resigned themselves.
How many truly loved their husbands completely? For me, even contemplating this was unbearable.
I monopolized my wife's body while being unable to endure a single day unless fully loved by her.
For one such as myself, how accursed must marriage have been.

At the start of our marriage, Yōko both respected and loved me.
That was certain.
But I, blinded by love, neglected my artistic refinement.
I was aware of that.
But I even thought that if I lost all my work, it would be fine as long as Yōko continued to love me completely forever.

This very thought—may it be cursed from every possible angle!
As my work declined, I began to clearly perceive that Yōko’s trust in and love for me were also beginning to wane.
Did Yōko truly love me—me as a human being?

The anguish of those days could not be fully poured out here and now in two or three hours of speaking. Nor was it something that could be made public. Moreover, my life might end at any moment—just as you said. I might die without having fully said all I wanted to say. Therefore I resolved to stop repeating these interminable lamentations. "In short... first I felt Yōko's heart drifting away from me... then I discovered myself powerless to prevent it... I had lost all faith in Yōko's heart..."

Ōkawa, having said this, suddenly tried to sit up.

Yamamoto, who had been listening like a stone, startled and restrained this.

“Ōkawa, calm down.”
“I’m hearing every word clearly.”

While saying this, he took the nearby water pitcher and brought it to Ōkawa’s mouth.
Ōkawa drank two or three sips of water with apparent relish and continued speaking.

“Ever since I realized Yōko didn’t love me completely, how I suffered!”
“On top of that, my work gradually became something I could no longer manage.”
“Meanwhile, Yonekura was becoming increasingly successful.”
“Yōko even began to show signs of starting to regret having married me.”

However, Yamamoto, I was forced to suffer even greater misery beyond that.
"What I've told you up to now has been nothing but matters of the heart."
For some people, it might have been possible to go on living carefree.
But guess what?
"About a year after we married, I began noticing strange behavior in Yōko."

“What?”
“What did you say?!”

“Conduct unbecoming of a wife.”
“Scandalous conduct!”
“Meaning what?”

“Do you still not understand?”
“Conduct unbecoming of a wife… In other words, I discovered I wasn’t fully monopolizing Yōko physically either.”

“…”

“You must think this unthinkable.”
“Shocked, aren’t you?”
“But it’s the truth.”
“Yōko began frequently going out when I was away.”
“For instance—she’d claim she needed you to examine her body, then leave.”
“When I’d check with you afterward—call your house right then—it’d prove false every time… That woman Yōko even let that bastard have her body.”

“Who’s ‘that bastard’?”

"Of course—Yonekura Sanzō."

“Did your wife ever say such a thing?”

“Fool! Don’t you know Yōko? Would she ever admit something like that? That woman—she’s beyond ordinary. I don’t mean to praise my wife, but that creature loved art above all else—more than people. Intelligent and silver-tongued. Even if questioned, she’d never confess. That’s why I’ve never once asked such a humiliating question.”

“Then isn’t it first of all doubtful whether your wife even did anything improper?”

“You argue like a lawyer.”
“Wasn’t this suspicious enough to make anyone think and feel?”
“And who but Yonekura could possibly deserve Yōko’s love?”
“You might call this unreasonable.”
“But trust a husband’s intuition—and an artist’s intuition.”
“If ‘intuition’ won’t suffice, call it instinct!”

“……”

“To state it plainly, I felt that my wife’s behavior was suspicious.”
“I discovered she would often make flimsy excuses and leave the house.”
“Isn’t this enough?”
“She’d devise an excuse and go out.”
“When I checked—it was despicable, but I did check—it turned out to be complete lies.”
“These facts alone might be insufficient for a prosecutor.”
“But isn’t this enough to convince us of my wife’s infidelity?”
“Moreover, when you consider Yōko’s usual attitude that couldn’t be expressed in words, there can be no objection.”
“And who other than Yonekura—whom Yōko would even praise in front of me at times—could possibly be the other party?”

“I may not have been a husband or an artist myself, but I find it hard to agree with you so readily.”

“But even I wasn’t just indulging in fantasies or groundless suspicions. Especially after abnormalities began occurring in Yōko’s body, I considered things quite calmly.”

“You must remember.”
“That Yōko became pregnant.”
“That before she came to have you examine her, I visited you.”
“At that time, I must have asked you whether I could father a child.”
“From my experience of having you treat me for a certain illness once, I thought you would be able to make that judgment.”
“When his wife became pregnant, could there be any man in this world more wretched than a husband forced to doubt whether the child was truly his own?”
“Moreover, I did doubt that.”
“That’s why I asked you clearly.”
“However, you—”

“It shouldn’t be impossible.”

He gave such a lukewarm response. To conceal my own embarrassing position, I couldn’t press any further. But I had interpreted your response at that time as a denial. So when she became pregnant, my suspicion seemed to have become completely certain.

“Ah, but as you told me earlier—what can I do about the lack of evidence? Your answer was ambiguous too. It might be my child. I’ve piled anguish upon anguish like this for over two years since my wife became pregnant.”

I desperately wanted to obtain evidence—I kept thinking this—but Yōko had completely concealed her actions.
I even considered having another doctor besides you examine my body.
But when I considered it from another perspective—what would happen even if it were discovered that Hisako wasn’t my child?
Knowing Yōko, I didn’t believe she would confess honestly.
No—even if she did confess, what would I do?

If Yōko were to confess that she loved Yonekura, what would happen?
Even if it were discovered that Hisako was Yonekura’s child, would that bring happiness?
The law would of course deliver some result.
But would this serious problem improve even slightly no matter how the law resolves it?

“Yamamoto.”
“What in the world should a husband do when his wife has been stolen?!”

“……”

“Anyone would think this, but the very first thing that came to my mind was to eliminate my wife and the man by any means necessary.”
“But I compared Yonekura and myself.”
“If I were to eliminate Yonekura by some means, what would society think?”
“The ignorant world would think it was nothing but my jealousy toward his renown.”
“Being thought of that way is unbearable.”
“Moreover—though this is truly a contradictory thought—even setting intuition aside, I wanted by any means to obtain the conviction and evidence that Yonekura was the adulterer.”
“I was tormented.”
“I suffered alone without saying anything to Yōko or Yonekura.”
“In the end, there is only one path to salvation.”
“To devote myself assiduously to art.”
“And then to strike down Yonekura’s renown in a single blow.”
“By doing so, I could splendidly exact revenge against Yonekura, and Yōko would undoubtedly become mine once more.”

Having resolved thus, I took up my pen all day.
"But it was no use."
"I was no good."
"I could do nothing; I could write nothing."
I sank once again into the abyss of despair.
"And so I finally arrived at last summer."

“I see. So that’s how it was.”
“I had no idea.”
Yamamoto said this, but his tone was utterly hollow, like a prefabricated puppet speaking through machinery.

“My household had almost ceased to be a household.”
“My wife and I had more days where we wouldn’t speak a word to each other from morning till night.”
“I had reached a point where I could no longer endure it.”
“Yōko too seemed to have finally resolved to abandon me.”
“Yōko had finally lost all patience with me both as a husband and as an artist.”

“I believe it was around September 10th last year when Yōko suddenly suggested we try living separately. That she wanted to return to the stage was her surface pretext. I listened quietly. And left it unanswered. When morning came, Yōko no longer raised the issue. So outwardly, that time passed in perfect peace. But within my heart raged a tempest.”

Yōko seriously raised the same issue again on October 19th last year—the very eve of that incident.
At that time, Yōko clearly told me about herself.
"I was convinced…"

“What? She said it clearly?”

“Yeah, the evening of the 19th after dinner.”
“Yōko once again formally brought up the separation issue with me.”
“I couldn’t endure it anymore.”

“I asked her like this:”

“If you want to leave me, there’s another reason behind it.”
“I can guess well enough.”
“Won’t you say it plainly?”

Then Yōko responded:

“Well... if I must say... there is one.”
“But even were you to hear it, nothing could be done.”

I flared up upon hearing this.

“Idiot!”
“You think I’m blind!”
“Just whose child is Hisako?!”

“What are you saying?”

Having said this, Yōko fell silent.
“Yamamoto.
If this were truly my child, shouldn’t she have answered immediately?
The fact that Yōko said nothing—no, couldn’t say anything—isn’t that proof Hisako isn’t my child?”

“And then what happened?”

“Being too displeased, I silently returned to my room.”
Then, pressing my splitting headache, I faced the desk and tried desperately to calm my mind.

Before long, Yōko too laid out the futon in silence; since I couldn't work at night with others nearby, I had made it my practice to sleep in the adjacent room where my wife and child stayed. So I had Yōko prepare my bedding too and slipped into bed without a word. This must have been around ten o'clock on the nineteenth.

Even Yōko seemed not to refute it immediately. I lay in bed for some time, but finding sleep utterly impossible in that state, I returned to my desk and lost myself in thought after thought, until at last the only resolution I could grasp was to kill Yōko.

"That’s right—the only way to escape this anguish was to kill Yōko."
"And so I thought 'I too must die,' and with this sole idea consuming me,I took out from the closet a pistol that a friend from my time abroad had once given me,and began checking its bullets."

“Yamamoto—have you ever considered, even for a moment—how difficult it is to kill someone? To commit premeditated murder isn’t something anyone can do unless they’re a devil. That night I’d hardened my resolve—and mind you, it had taken over two years to reach that profound decision—yet despite all that depth of conviction, when I took the pistol in hand… that resolve had already begun to dull.”

"There was no need to do it now. Tomorrow would suffice." Thinking this, I set the pistol down. After tossing in anguish for some time, I still couldn't bring myself to take up the weapon again, and ended up lying down with it still resting by my pillow.

Intense agitation inevitably brings extreme fatigue. Around one o'clock in the dead of night, utterly spent, I fell into deep sleep. I can't recall how long I'd been unconscious when I suddenly heard something like a whisper. As I half-rose from bed, a man's voice clearly came from the adjacent room.

I felt all the blood in my body surge up at once, suddenly grabbed the pistol by my pillow, and as quietly as possible slid open the edge of the fusuma.

No matter how panicked I might have been, no matter what sort of woman Yōko was, I should have immediately realized that a wife wouldn’t let a man into the adjacent room where her husband slept—but in truth, I was burning with rage at that moment.

However, the moment I slid open the fusuma and peered into the adjacent room, I nearly let out an "Ah!" By Yōko's bedside stood a lamp that she kept dimmed to a single candle's glow when sleeping—a habit of hers—and in that faint light, a hazy strange scene drifted into view. Yōko, half-dazed, was attempting to bring half her body out from the bedding. On top of that futon, a large man with half his face covered was thrusting out a kitchen knife while muttering something in a low voice.

I immediately realized it was a burglar.
Even I knew full well about the recent unrest through the daily newspapers.
Just as I braced myself to rush in, the man suddenly thrust out the kitchen knife in his right hand while barking, “Quiet! Hand over the money quickly!”

I heard this.
I found Yōko’s reaction to this truly perplexing.
Yōko, who had always been so composed and fearless of anything, now displayed a look of terror as though her very soul had left her body.
“No matter what I did—even if I’d tried to kill her—she would have defiantly stood her ground.”
“But then—when that man demanded she hand over the money—she turned deathly pale and began trembling violently like an empty husk.”

Taking advantage of the lamp's light not reaching where I was, I silently watched this strange spectacle.
Then the burglar spoke again in a muffled voice.

"Hurry up!"
"Do it or else!" he barked, suddenly brandishing the kitchen knife in his right hand.

Before I could even cry out "Ah!", Yōko had already let out a scream like tearing silk. Then the burglar appeared utterly flustered, but suddenly lunged at Yōko and began strangling her!"

Suddenly Yamamoto asked.

“The kitchen knife?”
“Didn’t he use the kitchen knife?”

“The kitchen knife?”
“Yeah, he threw it down and suddenly lunged.”
Yet when I saw that, I began to grow calm with astonishing composure.
At that moment, a terrible idea suddenly flashed into my mind.
Yōko was now being killed.
That very Yōko—hadn’t I myself tried to kill her just hours before?
Alright.
There was no need for me to intervene.
Now was the time.
Let the burglar execute it!
Responsibility would fall on the burglar.
Alright—witness now as the murder I had envisioned unfolded before my eyes!

While stifling my heart pounding like a tolling bell, I kept watching that scene with the pistol gripped tight.

Yōko tried to scream.
Then she lifted her face.
I will never forget Yōko’s face in that moment.
The congested hue of her skin, eyes forced unnaturally wide, lips cracked dry—and those two hands convulsing yet wrapped around the beast-like man’s arms!

Faced with this resistance, the burglar turned feral and doubled the strength in his arms—only for Yōko to suddenly collapse backward in quick succession, the burglar tumbling atop her.
He tore the cloth from his face and tried forcing it into Yōko’s mouth—she seemed to have already stopped breathing.

It was a hellish few seconds of terror.
But at the same time, what splendid seconds those were!
I saw that what I had wished for in my heart was now splendidly carried out!

"Now! This moment mustn’t be missed."

With that thought, the moment I slid open the fusuma, I went to the burglar’s side like a startled hare.
Before he could fully rise up, I suddenly fired the first shot into his right chest.
While he was flinching, I aimed at his right forehead and fired the second shot.
Of course there was no way I could miss.
The burglar died instantly on the spot.
Leaving the wailing Hisako—this accursed Hisako—lying there, I rushed outside.
And that's why I started shouting "Burglar! Burglar!"

"My wish had been admirably accomplished.
'Isn't there merely a hundredth-of-a-second difference there?
Who could know whether I killed the burglar after he murdered Yōko or during the act?... Look—the world believes I was powerless to save my wife.'
'...Shouldn't we scoff?'
'I was anything but powerless.'
'I deliberately let my wife die.'

'Yamamoto, this was that night's horrifying truth.'"

After saying this in one breath, Ōkawa gazed at Yamamoto with searching eyes.

Twilight came.
The room was now completely dark.

In the darkness, the two men faced each other.

Yamamoto, having finished listening, suddenly gulped down the water placed beside the patient.

And then he said.

“That’s a terrifying story.
That’s a terrifying fact.……But how did you come to resolve to die?”

“Well, that’s the crux of it. What I’m trying to tell you is—you see?—what I’m saying might be riddled with contradictions. But you must understand—it’s precisely this tangle of contradictions that makes up the human heart.”

“I watched my wife being killed like that.”
“No—I had my wife killed.”
“I don’t know what this constitutes legally.”
“But there’s no doubt I should bear full moral responsibility.”

By the way, after witnessing my wife’s death, I felt not the slightest remorse for what I had done for some time.
But about ten days after that, I began to be assailed by profound anguish again.

As I mentioned before, I trusted the artist’s intuition.
I trusted my intuition as a husband.
I scorned the evidence.
But after my wife’s death… particularly since seeing her face in those death throes, I began to think that my suspicions might have been entirely baseless.

If Yōko had truly loved me—if Hisako had been completely my child—what should I have done? I did something unspeakable. I had doubted my blameless wife. I had doubted that cherished Yōko. And I—ah, may I be cursed! I let that beast of a murderer slaughter my wife before my very eyes! And yet I could have saved her!!!

It had been clear Yōko considered leaving me. But did that amount to infidelity? I had committed an irreparable act.

After coming to think this way, I could no longer bear living with Hisako.
First, I decided to entrust Hisako to my wife’s parents and live alone.
However, night after night, I saw my wife's face in her death throes.
Was I wrong?
Continuing to agonize like this, I had lived for half a year.
But for me, life had become unbearable.
My wife is in hell.
She was cast there by me.
Damn me!
Damn me!
I’m bound for hell too!
After making this resolution, I repeatedly sought opportunities to die.
And so I finally carried it out……Whether Yōko was unfaithful or not, I couldn’t go on living……I’m about to die, but there’s one last thing I must ask you clearly!
In the name of the sacred science you revere, I ask clearly: Do I have the ability to father a child?
“Is Hisako truly my child?”

An eerie silence struck once more.
Even in the darkness, Ōkawa’s labored breathing could be distinctly heard.
Yet it was Yamamoto who seemed more agitated than Ōkawa.
He appeared to have forgotten himself as a physician.
He appeared to have even forgotten he stood before a patient.

Suddenly Yamamoto approached the bedside and seized Ōkawa’s right hand.
Yamamoto’s hand was trembling for some reason.
Yamamoto said in a strangled voice.

“Ōkawa, listen carefully.”
“Your life is already in critical danger.”
“At death’s door when I’m asking something this vital—why won’t you speak truthfully?”
“You claimed you watched your wife being killed.”
“You claimed you had your wife killed by that burglar.”
“Yet you refuse to say you yourself murdered her.”
“Why won’t you state it plainly?”
“Ōkawa!”
“You killed the burglar first—then slaughtered your wife!!”

Both speaker and listener were desperate.
Ōkawa’s seized hand and Yamamoto’s grasping hand both trembled so violently that they made a rattling sound.

“Ōkawa, I’ll tell you everything, so you too—tell the truth before you die!”

Breaking through the ice-like silence, Ōkawa’s voice—trembling yet relatively composed—resounded.

“I see… So you knew all along.”
“I was wrong.”
“I was wrong.”
“What have I done, even now as I face death?”
“I killed her.”
“I killed Yōko.”
“I’m telling you the absolute truth, so listen.”

That night, I went to bed around one o'clock.
But how could I sleep?
There I lay, pistol in hand, torn between killing my wife or not.
I kept tossing restlessly across the bedding, tormented.
Then around three o'clock—
A strange noise came from the kitchen.
Yet burdened with worries, though hearing it clearly, I felt no suspicion.
Instead I pondered how to exact revenge on Yōko—how to keep her mine alone forever.

The moment I truly began hearing noises was when I heard a creaking sound in the room next to where Yōko was sleeping.
It's a burglar!
Alarmed by the recent burglary incidents, I immediately realized.
Suddenly grabbing the pistol, I stealthily crept toward the sliding door.

The moment I slightly opened the sliding door, the one near where Yōko lay sleeping slid smoothly open, and a masked man abruptly thrust his head out.
In the next instant, a large man holding what appeared to be a kitchen knife was standing at the foot of where Yōko lay sleeping.

Whatever the law may say, I believed that killing someone who breaks into a house with a blade in the dead of night was the right thing to do.
No, even now I still believe that.
The moment I flung open the sliding door, I fired a shot point-blank from the burglar’s right side.
As the burglar cried "Agh—" and staggered unsteadily, I leapt out like a bird of prey, taking careful aim as I thrust the pistol against his face and fired the second shot into his forehead.
At the same moment it struck true, the burglar fell without offering any resistance.
The fight was truly simple.

At this noise, Yōko and Hisako awoke.
If Yōko had thanked me for my efforts then, things might not have come to such a pass.
Yōko, now awake, stared wide-eyed,

“What’s wrong?” she asked.
While pointing at the fallen burglar,
“A burglar broke in.
I took care of him,” I answered.

Then Yōko crawled out from the bedding, smoothly approached the burglar’s side to examine the bleeding state and press a hand to his forehead—when suddenly,

“You killed him… the burglar.”

“That’s right, I don’t care.”

“This is awful! No matter if he’s a burglar, killing him was wrong.”

How utterly unpleasant this response—no, this reproach—was!
If I hadn’t killed him, who knows what you bastard would be doing right now!
I flew into a rage.
I glared at Yōko’s face.
In that moment, while comparing the burglar’s corpse with Yōko’s face, I suddenly realized that an opportunity which should be very effectively utilized had arrived.

Alright!
Now!

Suddenly, I leapt at Yōko.
And before she could recover from the shock to do anything, I poured all my strength into both arms and tightened my grip around Yōko’s neck.

Yōko tried to scream. But her voice caught in her throat. Yet she seemed to clearly understand what was being done to her. Oh, that death-throe face at that moment! Those eyes glaring at me! Those lips that tried to hurl curses!! That is what will never vanish from my mind.

Yōko stopped breathing instantly. I threw open dresser drawers and scattered their contents about. I snatched the kitchen knife from the burglar's hand and flung it aside, heaped his corpse over Yōko's body, tore off his mask, forced open her clenched teeth, and crammed the mask inside. Every action flashed by like lightning. Because I kept thinking someone might have heard the gunshot.

After convincing myself there were no oversights in this setup, I shouted "Burglar!" and rushed outside—only to unexpectedly encounter the night watchman almost immediately.
I had to immediately give a coherent account.
Not having fully thought it through, I had no choice but to deliberately collapse there.
While doing this, I calmed my mind and began formulating my statement to the police officers.

There should be nothing unnatural about what I intended to claim.
The burglar had properly broken in.
Moreover, he was holding a kitchen knife.
There was nothing strange about me killing him.
Because my wife had been killed.

I was completely relieved. And so I laid out a clear logical sequence in my statement. There was just one single point that worried me—something only a complete amateur in criminal matters would fixate on. That is, if we suppose the burglar was threatening my wife with the kitchen knife when she screamed, wouldn't it seem more natural for him to use the blade he already held? To strangle her, he'd have to discard the knife first. What would an actual robber do in that situation? The crucial question became whether he'd throw away the weapon to start choking her.

However, the officials were perfectly taken in by what I said.
I think precisely because the judges and prosecutors were professionals in their field, they ended up being deceived.
In reality, there probably were such cases.
From their experience, they must have inferred there was nothing unnatural in what I described.
My account went through flawlessly.

“But you saw through my lie, didn’t you? When you asked about the kitchen knife earlier, I felt such dread.”
“You probably began doubting me from that point—but that’s exactly because you’re an amateur like me.”

“With this, what I had to say has ended.”
“Now tell me—about what I asked earlier.”
“I killed my wife.”
“But wasn’t my wife unfaithful?”

If the room had been bright, Yamamoto’s pallor would have appeared more corpse-like than that of the dying Ōkawa.
Yamamoto audibly gulped and said.

“Which answer are you expecting? If I answer that your wife was faithful, would you find peace?”

“Ah, unbearable!
To think I doubted my chaste wife and butchered her!”

“Then if I answer that she was unfaithful, would you find satisfaction? If it turns out Hisako isn’t your child!”

“Ah! If she had been unfaithful...! That too would be unbearable! Ah, what am I to do?! But... but I still want to know! Let me hear it before I die! Can I father a child? Is Hisako truly my biological child? Moreover, you often met with Yōko—you should know that woman’s feelings well. As a doctor and as a close friend—answer me! Answer me. …I trust your judgment! I trust what you say. You must know everything. You detected my lie from that slight unnaturalness in my words... But even so, you who shouldn't have known my murder motive...?”

A violent cough suddenly wracked Ōkawa.
Phlegm rattled in his throat.
Ōkawa was clearly approaching his final moments.

Yamamoto, who looked like a corpse, took Ōkawa's hand while looming over him, brought his mouth close to his ear, and shouted.

“Now I’ll speak the truth! Ōkawa! You simply cannot father a child. Therefore, there’s no way Hisako is your child. Your intuition was correct. Your intuition was correct! Ōkawa—one more thing I’ll say—one more thing I must say. Your intuition as a husband was indeed correct. But not everything was correct… I didn’t come to know that you had killed Yōko. Nor did I infer it. You spoke of your intuition as a husband and as an artist, right? But mine… mine was as a lover… as a paramour…”

Yamamoto, who had been speaking fervently up to this point, now noticed Ōkawa’s abnormal condition for the first time.
His physician’s identity seized him.
He suddenly twisted the light switch.
On the illuminated bed, he found Ōkawa Ryūtarō, who had now entered eternal sleep.

Yamamoto realized for the first time that he had been conversing with his friend’s corpse.
It was unclear how much of Yamamoto’s final words had reached Ōkawa.
Yet had Ōkawa died without hearing them, it might have been a mercy for them both.
For the truths Yamamoto Masao had spoken—and those he had nearly spoken—could only have been heard from hell, and uttered by one who had fallen into its depths.

The twilight confession ended there.

However, it would be unfaithful to the facts not to add one more thing.

After Ōkawa Ryūtarō’s death, his lifetime masterpieces were republished with new bindings, and his close friend Yamamoto Masao devoted all his efforts to their publication.

Ōkawa's orphaned daughter Hisako came to be raised by his close friend Yamamoto Masao, but when the publication of Ōkawa's works and other matters had been completely settled, Yamamoto Masao was discovered to have met sudden unnatural death one day at that house due to an error by Hisako.

The pistol from Ōkawa's belongings that Yamamoto had cherished discharged when the young Hisako, who had been idly playing with it without anyone noticing, accidentally touched the trigger, resulting in a single bullet striking his head and killing him instantly.

However, there were quite a few people who did not believe this.
Those who knew that a pistol could not be easily discharged by a four-year-old girl would not have believed this story in the slightest.

But why did Yamamoto commit suicide?
There was likely not a single soul who knew this.