Pathway to Japanese Literature

Though called a hospital, this place—accommodating nearly 1,500 patients and even permitting marriages between them—constituted a complete special community. Within its grounds were day laborers and factory workers; sprout-like children darted about, and for those children’s sake, a school had even been established. The patients, perhaps seeking to escape the agony of idly watching their own decaying bodies day after day, applied themselves fervently to their work—those with mild cases even persisted in strenuous labor. Their daily pocket money naturally derived from this work, and when dawn broke they would depart for their respective posts. Amidst this environment, Utsu had not yet affiliated himself with any occupation, and thus accepted the request to become caretaker. This too was naturally one of the work assignments, with five sen provided daily. Utsu was fundamentally an introverted man who, being newly admitted, had not yet fully accustomed himself to his illness—his face perpetually wore an expression of deep anguish as he brooded endlessly. Moreover, the complete communal living arrangement—six individuals pursuing their disparate lives within a disorderly twelve-and-a-half-tatami room—left him utterly overwhelmed. For someone of his disposition, becoming the animal caretaker proved an ideal role, and being allotted a private room served his needs exceptionally well.

The animal shed stood behind the L-shaped Wards 3 and 4—a dimly lit place where damp air hung heavy with moisture throughout the day. At times one felt as though entering a cave; bluish moss spread across the ground. This hospital had originally been carved anew from Musashino's distinctive mixed woodlands, leaving remnants of its vast desolation—remote from human settlement—still clinging to the site. To prevent escapes, the entire institution was encircled by a tall holly hedge; one step beyond lay Musashino's expanse of low rolling hills. Around the shed too grew pines, chestnuts, cypresses and assorted trees that had split through the moss. Among them rose two wedded pines immediately behind the shed—strikingly thick trunks perhaps three arm spans around—their branches spreading skyward in umbrella-like profusion to shroud the roof as if embracing it. Fallen leaves lay heaped upon the roof, swollen thick with weight, allowing sunlight only occasional entry like threads drawn through cloth. Utsu's room too lay within this animal shed where excrement's stench perpetually pooled. It nearly amounted to sharing bedding with the animals; initially he found it unbearable yet deemed it easier to endure than the severe ward patients' pungent pus odors.

The animals were monkeys, goats, guinea pigs, white rats, rabbits—as for special cases, three white rats afflicted with mouse leprosy were housed in a special box. His job was to give food to these animals and clean their enclosures two or three times a month. Consequently, he had much free time, but since he had no particular friends to speak of, he would generally spend his days either reading or gazing at the small body of a white rat—its face swollen and puffy from disease, marked by deep anguish—as it grasped rice grains one by one to eat. When dusk began to fall and the surrounding woods started to darken, he would go out for a walk and wander through the woods for a long time. At such times, he had completely forgotten about the animals. He diligently observed the animals and discovered various things about them, but never once felt such a thing as affection or joy toward them.

When he went around to the back of the shed and walked a short distance, there stood the prison cell. It was a red brick structure that resembled a small box. It resembled a kiln for firing pottery, and when he first saw it, he had been deeply suspicious of what it could possibly be.

“No matter what world one goes to—can humans and prison never be separated?”

When he realized it was a prison cell, he muttered those words. It was because he had recalled a friend serving time in a prison under general society’s laws—not this prison cell belonging to a small, abnormal society.

The hospital was peaceful, with no crimes worth mentioning. Consequently, the prison cells remained mostly unused; even when Utsu occasionally heard shrill women’s weeping from them during his walks, it was generally nothing more than failed escapees or adulteresses who had stolen others’ husbands. Until encountering the mysterious old man called Maki, Utsu too had experienced nothing that stirred his emotions. The state of the two L-shaped wards had grown familiar to him. At night, when light streaming from the wards pierced redly into the shed’s interior—casting leaf shadows upon tatami mats—he would find it beautiful and gaze endlessly. Inside the wards swarmed severe patients; this was a complete world of Divine Punishment Disease. Following the light’s path with his eyes, their upper bodies became visible through glass windows. Patients with heads wrapped in spiraling white bandages or completely bald blind men groping eerily through space appeared vividly before him, yet he felt none of his initial hospitalization terror. In those first days, he had felt cast into an indigenous tribe’s settlement on some desolate island—or perhaps a more grotesque den of monsters. Still, he simply could not accept this as the world of humans. Whether turning right or left, he saw only people like crumbling clay dolls; alone sinking into profound loneliness, he flailed desperately while searching for a normal person. When wandering the grounds and spotting someone approaching, he would watch intently with fierce excitement. But as they drew nearer—revealing leg bandages or faces swollen like rotten pears glaring sharply—his strength would drain away at once. Conversely, glimpsing a nurse’s white figure flitting between trees brought relief—only for him to notice himself already stepping toward it. Utsu affirmed his leprosy yet remained tormented by his mind’s refusal to treat himself as an ordinary patient.

He met Old Man Maki one midnight about ten days after coming to the animal shed. That day after finishing feeding the animals their evening meal he immediately crawled into bed and fell asleep only to be startled awake by a bad dream. No matter how much he tried to sleep his eyes only grew more alert until he reluctantly got up left the shed and wandered toward the orchard. Fortunately the moon was out brightening his footing and when he gazed into the distance he could make out the vast Musashino Plain’s haze-tinged beauty. The peach grove stood darkened appearing to crouch as though pressing its forehead against the ground while below it hung a moon round and large like a balloon floating in midair its faint light casting Utsu’s shadow upon the earth. When Utsu walked his shadow chased after him crawling across the ground. Noticing how tightly his shadow clung to the earth Utsu began feeling as though his body were gradually floating upward until strange unease gripped him so intensely he could no longer take another step. Here it comes again he muttered taking a deep breath. Having experienced this anxiety many times before he wasn’t particularly surprised yet remained terribly vulnerable to its unpredictable surges that left him paralyzed once they struck—he who could never anticipate when or where they might appear next had interpreted this as his fear of disease resonating with death itself. Anxiety like some obstinate demon brought fresh dread each time—the fear that he was slowly going mad—and at such moments he would gulp down a chestful of air then just before losing breath exhale sharply with a Hah! Hah! Now taking another deep breath his chest tightening to its limit he tried releasing it with a Hah—

“Mr. Kareno.”

The call came so suddenly from right beside him that, startled, his breath escaped before he could make a sound.

“Is that not Mr. Kareno?” He spoke again from a mere two or three ken away. Utsu was startled to realize for the first time that someone stood so near him—and moreover, that this person was addressing him.

“No,” he responded hastily. The man peered through the moonlight as if probing and approached Utsu. “I must apologize for this,” he said quietly. “Who might you be?” he asked. The voice carried a subdued tone with unassuming dignity. Utsu immediately sensed it was an old man. Under the moon’s pale light, darkness flowed thick and black, making it impossible to clearly discern what sort of man he was—yet Utsu had sensed it immediately. However, Utsu had never heard words so deeply dignified and resonant before; profoundly moved, he wondered who this man could be.

“I am Utsu.”

After a short pause, he answered,

“Utsu?” parroted flatly, then again—

“I see. “Utsu?” “Utsu?” With an air of deep contemplation, he repeated the name again. This man is strange, Utsu thought to himself as he... “Do you know me?” he asked tentatively. “No, no.”

Flustered, he denied vehemently, “I am one called Maki—” “Ah.”

While responding, Utsu perceived that there must be something in the old man’s past related to the proper noun "Utsu," and that associations arising from it were surfacing in his mind.

“When were you admitted?”

“It’s only been about three months since my admission.” “I look forward to your kindness.”

“Oh, I see.” As he said this, the old man began walking step by step, so Utsu followed and walked along. Utsu carefully observed the old man while wondering why he was wandering about like this in the middle of the night—he found it utterly perplexing.

The old man asked about the severity of the illness and encouraged him, saying that if he devoted himself earnestly to treatment, he might still be able to leave the hospital—there was no need to worry. “Are there people who fully recover?” When he tentatively asked, the old man seemed to ponder something for a moment before replying: “Well—when posed that way—it proves rather difficult to answer… Those here use ‘stabilize.’ What it means is this: while we cannot eradicate the pathogens entirely, we can render them dormant.”

He went on to state that leprosy bacilli were rod-shaped bacteria akin to tuberculosis pathogens, explaining that through chaulmoogra oil injections they become fragmented and perish—something he had heard from the doctors here and which microscopic observations confirmed. He strongly emphasized that for someone like you with a mild case, nothing mattered more than devoting yourself fully to treatment now, adding that the only necessary regimen was moderation in all things. This much he taught: follow these principles alone, and leprosy would hold no terror.

Since his admission, Utsu had already been comforted and encouraged many times with these same words, so not only did he feel little joy in them now, but the sharpness in the old man’s tone made him wonder what exactly this old man’s past had been. Preoccupied by this thought, he strained every nerve to grasp its truth. The old man—perhaps finding pleasure in tending to so-called new patients—went on telling Utsu about the hospital’s regulations and patients’ general dispositions, finally asking whether he was currently engaged in any work.

“I work as the caretaker of the animal shed.”

he answered, “I see. That place has poor air, so mind your lungs.” “You can’t afford to saddle yourself with tuberculosis on top of that.” “This hospital has no shortage of men suffering both leprosy and tuberculosis—a wretched state indeed.” “Just the other day—a man who tried escaping with a woman was confined in the prison cell behind your shed. He died coughing up enough blood to stain the cell crimson.”

As Utsu listened to the old man’s words, he visualized the furnace-like prison cell and thought this hospital must still conceal countless horrors beyond human imagination—a realization that filled him with profound unease and terror. To the dim room of the animal shed—where until now there had been no one but Utsu—Old Man Maki began making occasional visits. When Utsu mixed tofu lees with leftover food to prepare the animals’ feed, the old man would come tapping over, watching his work methods and sometimes helping out. The monkeys clung to the iron mesh and shrieked shrilly at the unfamiliar sight of the old man, causing considerable commotion at first. But as they gradually grew accustomed to him, he began smuggling sweet dried confections in his pocket for them to grasp. Yet what Old Man Maki cherished most were the small white rats; whenever he saw them clutching rice grains one by one with their coral-red forepaws, he would delight as if witnessing a marvelous discovery. When he noticed them afflicted with mouse leprosy, he would generally grimace and keep his distance.

While carefully observing the old man, Utsu discovered a certain dignity—in each casual action he performed, in every turn of phrase—that convinced him this man’s past life could never have been vulgar. Though disease had undoubtedly altered his facial features, even there Utsu sensed something imperishable. According to the old man’s account, he had now been hospitalized for ten years; at admission, nodules had covered his entire face and grotesquely swollen it, but presently all traces had vanished, leaving him cleanly free of puffiness as in his healthy days. Of course, being the wet type, his eyebrows had all fallen out—but to Utsu, grown thoroughly accustomed by now, this never struck him as strange.

When their work was done, the two of them would sit facing each other in the dim room and slowly drink tea. “I’ve been a tea lover since birth, you know—when I’m worn out, I simply can’t do without savoring a cup.”

With a faint smile playing on his lips, the old man said this and taught Utsu the proper way to prepare tea. As their interactions deepened, Utsu gradually came to feel a profound interest in the old man while simultaneously developing a deepening respect for him. And as dusk approached, gazing at the old man’s retreating figure walking away with quiet footsteps, he found himself wondering just who this man could be. He still did not know which ward the old man was in, so one day he decided to ask about it. Then, because the answer was so unexpected, he was utterly shocked.

“I reside in Ward Ten.”

The old man said in a voice as thin as that and made a dark expression. Ward Ten was this hospital’s special ward—the ward for imbeciles and psychotic patients.

Utsu observed the old man with considerable care, but nowhere could he detect anything resembling a madman. But then again, he could not believe him to be an idiot either. Both his solemn tone and the gentleness of his actions made it utterly impossible to even imagine such a thing. Then he thought that the old man must surely be acting as an attendant. Attending was also one of the tasks within this hospital, with a daily stipend of ten sen provided, carried out by those with mild symptoms. However, the old man was not an attendant; he was indeed one of the psychiatric patients. When Utsu tentatively asked, "Being an attendant must be quite difficult," the old man rhythmically tapped his own head and—

“After all... it’s this.”

With that, he clouded his face with loneliness and silently walked away. As if realizing it only now—could he still be a madman despite all this?—Utsu sensed something eerie lurking within those calm, almost subdued words and actions. And then, recalling the circumstances of his first meeting with the old man, he realized there had been something abnormal even in how he had been roaming around such a place at midnight.

It was on a certain evening about a month later that Utsu realized this old man had been an Army Captain. That day, he visited Old Man Maki's room for the first time.

Ward Ten stood quite apart from the other wards at the northernmost edge of the hospital grounds, with a small pond lying immediately nearby. Though the word "pond" might conjure images of clear water, this was instead a turbid mud-swamp whose entire perimeter had been enclosed by a sturdy wire mesh woven from No. 8 gauge wire. This barrier existed of course for suicide prevention—it was said that in earlier times, those who had plunged their heads into this muddy swamp to die had reached a considerable number.

The other wards had two rooms per building, each lined with twenty beds, but Ward Ten was pierced through its center by a long corridor flanked by five rooms on either side—ten in total—and here alone lay Japanese-style tatami mats. The rooms were six-tatami in size, each housing two people, but when they went mad, they were put into confinement cells. Even those called madmen were mostly severe obsessive-compulsive patients, while the rest were largely those tormented by persecutory delusions. There were also imbeciles, epileptics, women with extreme hysteria, and various others.

Walking down the corridor polished clean by attendants’ care for the first time, Utsu felt wonder at the surrounding forest and stillness beyond his imagination, yet simultaneously sensed a fear as if something eerie lurked beneath its surface. The shadows of deepening dusk crept through the surroundings, the air growing hazily dim. At the far end of the long corridor, objects narrowed into conical shapes steeped in darkness until their outlines blurred. With each step he took, the air seemed to sway gently around him, and he couldn’t help fearing that from behind—suddenly, like a wounded boar—a madman might come lunging at him. Having failed to ask which room was Old Man Maki’s, he stood restlessly in the corridor—peeking through narrowly opened doors with sidelong glances, pacing two or three steps back and forth while hoping someone might emerge—when from a room immediately to his right drifted a beautiful woman’s singing voice. Utsu stopped and stood still, listening intently to the exquisite voice. Hmm, hmm—he marveled while wondering if it might belong to a Korean woman. The song was *Arirang*, performed skillfully in its original language. As the melody filled the ward, a sliding door suddenly opened at the corridor’s dead end, and a man emerged listlessly from within. Utsu—who had been feeling the awkward unease of someone wandering through an empty house for the first time—let out a sigh of relief even as he tensed his nerves to assess whether this man was an imbecile or madman. The man wore a hospital-issued striped straight-sleeved garment with a belt twisted like rope. Corpulent enough to weigh twenty-four kan—bloated and swollen—he swayed toward Utsu as if buoyed by air itself until drawing near, then halted abruptly to stare vacantly at him. "He’s an imbecile," Utsu intuited internally but resolved to ask regardless,

“Good day.”

He first attempted a greeting. Then the man said "Haa" and continued staring at the area above Utsu’s head.

“Where is Mr. Maki’s room?” When he asked, “Haa.” With that, the man kept gazing at the same spot. Utsu gave a bitter smile, thinking this had become quite a situation, when his interlocutor began humming a popular song in a thin, feminine voice that clashed oddly with his corpulent frame. As Utsu smiled involuntarily and listened, the man abruptly stopped singing and wandered outside, mumbling indistinctly under his breath. Just then an attendant came by; after inquiring, Utsu finally entered the old man’s room. Though Maki was absent, the attendant said he would return shortly, so Utsu resolved to wait.

The room was six tatami in size, and besides Old Man Maki, there was supposed to be another man living there, but he too was absent. The tatami mats were fairly new, still retaining a faint bluish tint, but here and there were tears and dark reddish-brown bloodstains. The walls were whitewashed, but there were cracks and what appeared to be marks from violently punched fists. In addition to claw marks, there were also places where things had been struck against the wall, causing parts of the plaster to fall off, giving the room the characteristic air of a madman’s quarters. He doubted whether that gentle old man could have done such things, but thought it must have been the work of the other man who lived with him. When he considered what sort of man might be living here, he began to feel slightly uneasy.

On the south side was a glass window, beneath which sat a small desk. On the desk lay a single roll of paper and a stately inkstone box tinged with black and bearing a subdued luster; a serene, composed air gripped Utsu's heart. But what caught his attention most of all was a single photograph lying sideways beside the scroll—depicting a soldier, unseen within these hospital grounds, seated in a chair with a military saber before him. Utsu gazed at it, his curiosity intensely stirred. From the shoulder insignia, it was immediately clear he was a captain. There could be no doubt this showed the old man in his youth. The stern thickness of his eyebrows and the imposing fullness of his robust beard created a stark contrast between the Mr. Maki captured in this photograph and the old man now before him. Yet despite this, there lingered a faint resemblance in their facial features—like tracing the contours of a childhood memory.

“Hmm.”

While muttering this, Utsu gazed intently. At that moment, he suddenly recalled his father. His father had also been a military man—a captain like Old Man Maki—which was why as a child he had been made to listen many times to firsthand accounts of the Russo-Japanese War. Then it began occurring to him that Old Man Maki might have been a soldier who fought alongside his father in North Manchuria’s wilderness. When Old Man Maki had heard the name Utsu—"Utsu? Utsu?"— the image of him muttering this while sinking into thought resurfaced vividly in his mind, and Utsu whispered inwardly: *This has become something grave.* And he felt an anxiety akin to standing alone before some great force of fate, coupled with an interest in the certainty that he would encounter something new.

While Utsu was lost in thoughts welling up one after another, a dull, violent sound suddenly boomed out—followed by clattering footsteps racing down the corridor. "They've done it again!"

“They’ve done it again!” came a shout. Then the glass doors of each room rattled open, plunging the surroundings into chaos. Wondering what was happening, Utsu peered into the corridor through a narrowly opened entrance. The corpulent simpleton he had first encountered upon arriving here lay sprawled on his back, froth gushing from his mouth as his eyes rolled skyward in spasms. The man who had earlier dashed down the corridor now crouched over him, desperately trying to restrain his convulsions. Utsu recognized an epileptic fit at once. Patients who had rushed from their rooms formed a circle around the twitching man, all chattering simultaneously. Two women and five men comprised this gathering—each face grotesquely contorted, their collective visage forming a sinister tableau heightened by the asylum’s maddened atmosphere. The realization that any among them might erupt into violence at any moment chilled Utsu’s blood. He decided retreating while daylight still lingered would be wisest, rising to step into the corridor. At that precise moment, the haunting strains of Arirang he’d heard earlier resurfaced. Though not particularly loud, the melody flowed undiminished through the clamor, permeating every corner. As if this decaying world were being incrementally purified, Utsu stood transfixed, listening intently. Suddenly renewed commotion erupted at the entrance as a man—clearly deranged—materialized in the doorway, roaring what might pass for song in a voice that shattered all restraint. The crown of his head gleamed baldly, fringed by sparse tufts of hair. Where these straggling locks met his jawline cascaded an imposing beard—eight inches long by estimation—undulating like storm-tossed waves. This hirsute spectacle grew more unnerving for its complete absence of eyebrows, rendering his face eerily alien. Glistening pate leading like a battering ram, he charged down the corridor with terrifying momentum, shouldering through the crowd encircling the epileptic to plant himself at center stage before bellowing in a voice that could shatter gallstones:

“Sakurai, you epileptic bastard!”

he bellowed. Then, this time in a hoarse voice, he began laughing bizarrely. Once he started laughing, it seemed he couldn't stop even if he tried; he continued laughing at the same pitch for a long time. After a while—as if a rope had snapped—his laughter ceased abruptly. He fixed his eyes sharply on empty space, his features tensing into a severe expression as though deep in thought. Then, with a heavy droop of his head, he entered Utsu's room in solemn silence.

“Who are you? Here to see Mr. Maki?” Despite his solemn expression, he spoke in a sharp tone, then sat down heavily while tugging at his beard as if deep in thought. While feeling a chill in his heart, Utsu, “Ah, I’ve been waiting...” he answered and looked at the man. He must have been about sixty-two or sixty-three. The same age as Old Man Maki, or perhaps three or four years younger. Yet his jet-black beard—without a single strand of white—was truly magnificent. The gleaming crown of his head came to a sharp point, bearing a scar the size of a one-sen coin where a nodule had been. That spot alone had darkened to a murky purple, as though daubed with ink. The man gazed at Utsu for some time—

“When did you come to this hospital?!” he asked.

“It’s been nearly five months.” When he said this, “Hmm.” he was deeply contemplating something, but— “Things with form will inevitably be destroyed; living things will inevitably perish; the inevitable destruction of the living is the work of heaven, earth, and great nature.” Having said this sharply while holding his breath and fixing Utsu with an intense gaze, he suddenly burst into hoarse laughter again, identical to before. But he immediately assumed a feigned-serious expression, “To begin with, the disease called leprosy has since ancient times been referred to as Divine Punishment Disease—it is heaven’s retribution!” “It won’t heal! It will absolutely never heal!”

Having declared this with gusto, he burst into laughter once more.

“Modern medicine says it won’t heal,” he declared, eyes glinting as he leaned toward Utsu. “But I will heal it. Since it’s actually healing right now, there’s nothing to be done about that.” “What must I do to be healed?” Though convinced this man had been driven mad by illness, Utsu found himself compelled by the bizarre majesty of that beard. He posed the question tentatively. “First—‘faith.’ Those two characters.” The man’s voice took on sacerdotal gravity. “Take refuge in Buddhism.”

He declared this with such unshakable confidence that one might think not even a twitch of doubt could enter his mind; then, for a long time, he expounded on Buddhism with astonishing erudition and urged that you too must embrace religion. “Then I will follow your lead and try it as well.”

When he said this,

“That’s good, that’s good.” After repeating this several times and bringing over the tea set, he pulled out from the closet a rock-hard yōkan that must have been bought over a week prior and tossed it before Utsu, urging him to eat without reservation. He then put a piece into his own mouth and began chewing noisily. Thinking refusal might seem impolite, Utsu placed a piece in his mouth, where the hardened yōkan crunched audibly. The man watched Utsu with apparent satisfaction before suddenly standing up as if struck by an idea, retrieving from the closet a hammer about the size of a one-fū coin, and launching into rapid recitation of a sutra passage. As Utsu observed warily—thinking what bizarre act the man might perform next—he hurriedly shed his kimono, sat before Utsu wearing only a loincloth, propped up his kneecaps, and began pounding them with dull thuds. When his kneecaps grew increasingly red and painful-looking, the man intensified his hammer blows while chanting the sutra ever louder. After striking them relentlessly for some time, he stopped and began groaning as he rubbed the impacted areas vigorously with both palms. Beads of sweat oozing across his entire body, he exhaled deeply and fixed his gaze on Utsu,

“You must want to cure your disease as well—if so, then do as I do.” He said this while massaging his knees with even greater force than before. “Nothing’s as unreliable as modern science! They divide leprosy into three types—macular, neural, nodular—and jab you with chaulmoogra oil injections. But I reject their classifications! Treating it as a skin disease? Laughable! Where do the bacilli truly lurk? Doctors swab snot and earlobe blood—maybe catch one or two strays—but the real nests are in the bones! That’s why I hammer here—” he struck his kneecap “—the densest swarm in your skeleton! Five nests at least! The hammer’s heat and vibrations drive the damned bacilli scurrying to the surface. That’s how nodules form! ‘Why make nodules?’ Because I’ve got the cure!” “They call it ‘nodule injections’ here—shooting oil into lumps—but that just herds bacilli back into bone! Useless! Scrub them off with a rice paddle—like this!” Flecks of spit flew as he stroked his bald scalp. “See these scars? My rice paddle therapy!” Utsu burst out laughing yet felt unease coil in his gut—a urge to push back. His faith in medicine teetered like rotten timber.

“Wouldn’t scrubbing with a rice paddle be unbearably painful?” Smiling despite the turmoil within his heart, he posed the question, “Nah—can’t feel a thing when you’re numb.” The man burst into his trademark rasping laugh again. Utsu felt an icy shiver at the word “numbness,” willing Old Man Maki’s swift return. Numbness—the terror lay not in the word itself but in its reality: living flesh turning insensate as deadwood, rotting piecemeal into something strange and foul. He’d heard their stories—how today someone lost a leg at surgery, another left an arm at the ward—patients humming tunelessly as doctors sawed through bone with sweat-slicked blades. This wasn’t some stranger’s fate but his own impending truth—separated only by time’s thin veil. Three months here had brought countless reassurances—always the same hollow refrain:

"You're still in the early stages, you know." I had been told to rest assured, but there was nothing more disheartening than this "still in the early stages" remark. Yet this was precisely the most fitting and accurate expression.

As Utsu gazed desolately at the man's beard, the madman suddenly stood up and began circling the room like one possessed, wearing nothing but a loincloth. When Utsu asked, "What's wrong?", "I'm beginning to lose my mind," he spat out rapidly, then before even finishing the words, began roaring "Namu Amida Butsu! Namu Amida Butsu!" in a voice so thunderous it could crush one's spirit.

Just as Utsu was growing overwhelmed by this disastrous turn of events, Old Man Maki luckily returned, which brought him relief. According to Old Man Maki, this Bearded Man had apparently been involved with a political party or something of that sort before; at the time of his hospitalization, he had maintained an obstinate silence and devoted himself to Buddha worship as his daily occupation, but around five or six months later, he began developing mental disturbances. And with his face growing terribly dark, he added—

"I too have come to this ward tormented by obsessive thoughts, but that man was also like that at first." And he went on about how the Bearded Man had been confined many times—how he came to feel the leprosy bacilli as if they were maggots squirming beneath his fingers, how rage and terror seized him at their ceaseless corruption of his flesh, how even in the confinement cell he would thrash about two or three times daily, slamming his body against walls and clawing at his skin until it bled.

“What an utterly wretched reality this is. The enemy dwells within my own body, following me wherever I go.” “To kill it, I must die as well.” “I must die as well.” Utsu attempted to voice something he himself had realized—“I too sometimes feel the urge to douse my head with sulfuric acid and eradicate all disease germs”—but at that moment, he became acutely aware that he was sharing the same psychological state as the loincloth-clad Bearded Man, and feeling profound unease, sealed his lips.

After Utsu visited Room 10, Old Man Maki did not come to the shed for some time. Utsu tended to the animals as usual while worrying about what had become of the old man—whom he hadn’t seen in some time—and even considering whether to visit him again himself. The inside of the shed was dim as usual, and a small monkey—whose belly had been cut open two or three days prior and fresh patient nodules implanted—let out a heart-wrenching scream that made the surroundings even gloomier. And during the time before the old man returned here, there was one episode that stayed with Utsu.

It happened around midnight when Utsu suddenly awoke—from behind the prison cells came a man's furious shouts and a woman's heartrending screams. Simultaneously echoed the sound of cell doors being opened. Utsu grabbed his sandals suspiciously and went out to investigate. The surroundings were pitch black, with only the wind flowing through high skies rustling through old pine branches. Before the prison cell burned a small night light, its faint glow floating isolated in ink-dark shadows. Within that circle of light, two men in black kimonos—camouflaged like hawks—were dragging a young woman into a cell. The black-clad men were supervisors perpetually monitoring patients within these grounds. Utsu held his breath and hid beneath pine shadows, watching with rapt fascination as though viewing a fantasy film screen. The woman's ornate kimono stripes flapped violently during their struggle, visible even in night vision. Soon she vanished into the cell, its thick door slamming shut with finality. The supervisors exchanged grins before dissolving into darkness, leaving only that reinforced door swelling beneath dim light. Utsu emerged from the pine's shadow and approached the cell. Low, powerful sobs seeped through its walls. He stood listening before the door until an urge to address her surfaced. Assuming her to be some failed escapee's accomplice yet finding no fitting words, he turned to leave—

“Hey!” A man’s voice suddenly erupted from inside the cell, startling him so profoundly that he froze mid-step. Thinking the man must have been confined there earlier, he focused intently—wondering if there was some message meant for him—and was about to respond when the woman’s weeping ceased abruptly. From within came the faint murmur of a man and woman conversing in hushed tones. Just then, the rhythmic clop of approaching footsteps reached him. Realizing the supervisors were patrolling nearby, he hurried back to the shed.

Of this pair of would-be escapees, the man was discharged and expelled the very next day, but the woman was confined five days in the prison cell before being released. But after a few days had passed, the woman's body hung dead from a pine branch. She had likely been carrying a child in her womb.

This small incident left a nightmare-like impression on Utsu's heart. He continued living with the animals as before, but at times would be tormented by vivid resurgences in his mind of what had transpired within that small circle of light. Each time, he felt something pitch-black—neither quite anxiety nor fear—come lapping at his heart. He couldn't help finding it strange: why did what he'd faced with such surprising calmness then now threaten his heart so intensely? When he wondered whether this might leave a lifelong stain on his heart, his mind naturally grew gloomy.

The guinea pigs were housed one per box, with the rabbit cages stacked facing them. The space between them narrowed slightly like a valley, its width being no more than about three feet. Utsu went back and forth through that dim space repeatedly, feeding them. The animals pounced on the food as if they couldn’t wait and devoured it. Utsu felt no particular interest even in that voracious appetite. The red rabbit’s eyes occasionally glinted sharply depending on the angle of the light. The guinea pigs’ eyes exhibited intense shifts in color, responding to even slight changes in illumination or the minutest shifts in viewing angle. Indeed, even Utsu had long been astonished by the complexity of the guinea pigs’ eye color changes. They reflected every imaginable hue—crystal-clear sky-blue, lush grape-purple, ominous dark violet—transforming before his eyes. However, perhaps because they belonged to living creatures, these hues lacked natural beauty and instead possessed an unsettling sharpness. At times Utsu would feel a profound terror as though those glinting eyes were piercing his entire body, and when the sensation arose that ferocious beasts surrounded him, he would hold his breath and hurry outside. He found himself utterly unable to grow close to the animals. Just the other day too, when a baby monkey—its ankle wrapped in a thin rope fragment someone must have thrown in without Utsu’s knowledge—shrieked shrilly, he squatted before its cage intending to remove it, only for the monkey to suddenly thrust its arm through the wire mesh and yank Utsu’s long hair. He recoiled in such startled shock that he nearly screamed, his heart pounding violently for a long time. As he went back and forth countless times again today, terror once more began filling his entire body, and scenes from that beast movie he'd seen long ago rose in his mind—so he hurried outside. But then he immediately went back inside. It was because he had come to strongly feel that he was already someone who could die at any time.

Then why not just die now? As he idly thought this and looked up, he spotted a suitable beam for hanging a rope. He climbed onto the rabbit box and reached out to test it. His heart swelled with strange anticipation, and he grinned repeatedly. Then, slowly removing his sash, he hung it on the beam. He tested it by pulling two or three times - it proved sturdy enough that ten men could hang themselves at once without issue. All I need do is fasten my neck here and leap down... Hmm. So death's simpler than imagined. Then perhaps I needn't cling so desperately to life - having remained calm this far, I must be ready to die anytime. This realization brought relief, which then made him think there was no need to rush death after all. He tightened his sash again and climbed down. The moment he did,

“Mr. Utsu.”

When he heard Old Man Maki’s voice calling out, he hurried outside. “I truly thought you were going to go through with it.” As Old Man Maki said this with a faint smile—having seen everything—Utsu thought while, “No, I was just testing it out.”

“Hahaha, is that so? Just testing, eh? Well? Do you think you could go through with it?”

"I get the feeling it might be unexpectedly easy to go through with." "Hmm." He nodded deeply and became lost in thought. "Why do you intend to keep living?" he said suddenly and sharply, staring at Utsu's face. At such moments, a glimpse of the old man's former military bearing would fleetingly surface. Utsu quickly sensed this while being at a loss how to answer. It was a problem he had been thinking about for quite some time now. He thought that the acuity of his senses resulted from attempting to discover some means within his surroundings to resolve this problem, and that the keener his senses grew, the more intensified and strained became the space between the object and himself—like an object balanced on a taut line stretched between two points, poised precariously as if the slightest slackening would send him plummeting in the blink of an eye.

"I’ve been searching for a long time now, but I still can’t find what you might call an attitude toward living." Old Man Maki nodded deeply, then sank into prolonged thought before slowly making his way into Utsu’s room,

“Please have some tea.” he said in a quiet, somewhat lonesome voice as he sat down. He appeared utterly exhausted. Of course there was no possibility of preparing proper ceremonial tea here, but still Utsu carefully adjusted both water temperature and concentration as he urged the old man to drink. The old man dipped just his tongue’s tip into the tea, tasting it while lost in some contemplation—

“Sakurai has died.” he said.

“Ah… That person with epilepsy?” “You know the bearded man in my room, don’t you? I got into a fight with him, you see. In a fit of anger, he jumped into the well.” Their conversations always tended to lapse into silence; more often than not, they would sit facing each other wordlessly, each lost in separate thoughts. Today too, when their talk trailed off at that point, the old man turned his gaze out the window and watched a puppy frolicking in the woods—now scampering about in short bursts, now suddenly breaking into a run. After a while, he stared intently at Utsu’s forehead,

“This may sound like an odd question, but is your father still in good health?” “Yes.”

When he answered, “There was something I had long wanted to ask you—could it be that your father served in the Russo-Japanese War, and might his name be Hikosaburo?”

“Yes, that’s correct. How do you know that?”

“Hmm.” The old man uttered this with a groan and began staring intently at Utsu’s face.

“You look exactly like him. “Your forehead—it’s just like his.” Utsu, his heart struck by something profoundly fateful, thought of how his forehead alone remained untainted by the disease when suddenly it began to itch fiercely. As he raised his hand, the old man murmured with ever-deepening admiration—

“That gesture—that very gesture. Everything about you is exactly like him.” “Did you know my father?” “Know him? During the Russo-Japanese War, we served together in Nogi’s Army. He was my dearest friend.”

The old man seemed to be recalling the distant past. Utsu was at a loss for how to respond; no words came out. “Back then, I was still full of vigor.” “Brimming with vigor as I worked for our nation.” “It was during the fierce battle of Mukden—a tremendous whirlwind raged about us.” “Through that maelstrom we marched, our brigade forcing its way day and night toward the far left flank while the wind stole our very breath.” “Our mission was to sever communications between the enemy forces and their homeland.” “That march—swifter than the eye could follow—decided the battle’s outcome.” “Yet General Kuropatkin proved a formidable foe.” “His counterattack’s ferocity truly overwhelmed us.” “Because of this… I must shamefully confess… I ended up a prisoner of war.” “Twelve hundred Japanese soldiers were captured at that time.” “Several majors and colonels among them.”

Old Man Maki sipped his tea, his once-bright eyes clouding over as he— “For the following eight months, we continued our life as prisoners of war in Russia proper.” “Of course, it wasn’t such a harsh life, but the long period before being repatriated to our homeland was truly indescribably difficult.” “A considerable number of people committed suicide.” “Then there were those with severe injuries, those who had lost a hand—when we were sent from that field hospital to Tieling, it was hell.” “At the time, I was so overwhelmed that I don’t remember it well, but looking back now, we were placed into a deep cave-like space dug into the ground. There, most of the severely wounded died, and by the time we reached our homeland, our numbers had been halved.”

The old man spoke at length about his life as a prisoner of war in Russia and showed Utsu the scar from an artillery shell on his back. The scar measured about three inches in length and roughly an inch in width—no different from any ordinary scar, of course—but Utsu gazed at it with keen interest. The wound must have been quite deep, for that area alone was depressed by about half an inch. “What color is it?”

the old man asked Utsu behind him.

“Let me see... The color isn’t much different from a healthy person’s skin, but wrinkles have formed.”

When he said this, “I see.” The old man, likely feeling some joy at having demonstrated it wasn’t a leprosy scar, brightened his expression with satisfaction,

“Scars that form after the onset of this disease will always retain a dark purple hue, no matter how well they heal.” Having said that, Old Man Maki gulped down the now-cold tea. When Utsu poured him a fresh hot cup, the old man touched it briefly with the tip of his tongue, set it down, and seemed deeply lost in thought. Then he heaved a deep sigh and— “Truly, when I contemplate what we call human fate, living becomes terrifying to me.”

he said weakly, “Everything was a dream.” “And they were nothing but bad dreams.”

he continued, forming a faint smile. And then, lying down there in a way he never usually did, he stretched out his legs at length,

“Can you truly say you trust people?” “I can no longer trust anyone.” “No—even if we could truly trust each other, fate would surely shatter it.” “Audacious fate.” “It was the same with your father.” “We had vowed to remain bound for life—yet ultimately, it fell to me to break that oath.” “I suffered.” “But I became a prisoner of war and ultimately ended up contracting leprosy.” “In the end, I ended up hiding here all alone.” “Yet once again, it was fate.” “My daughter contracted leprosy and came to this hospital.” “From then on, believing only in this daughter, I resolved to live with all of myself devoted to her.” “My daughter is now past thirty, and she had sworn to me her resolve to remain unmarried her entire life.” “And yet, I was betrayed by even that daughter of mine.”

Utsu vividly pictured in his mind the scene from days past that seemed like a nightmare and heard the old man's anguished voice shattered by fate. Needless to say, the old man's daughter was the woman who had killed herself two or three days prior. Utsu knew that a considerable number of parent-child or sibling groups had come to this hospital, but now seeing the old man before his eyes, he keenly felt that their anguish was not uniform. At once, he felt himself weakly bowing before the great force of fate and tried to puff out his chest in resistance—but in that moment, Utsu became keenly aware of his own lack of footing.

The following day, the old man hanged himself from the same pine branch where his daughter had died. Utsu gazed at the old man’s corpse and thought how death alone must have brought him peace at last—seeing in those features now utterly free of anguish something almost beautiful—yet as his own face gradually paled, he breathed a deep sigh, acutely aware that he himself now stood before a great crisis.