Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Japanese economics student Shunsaku Odajima, summoned by his female friend Ivette, had departed Paris late the previous night and arrived at Deauville's Normandy Hotel in the predawn hours. This place was a global resort centered around gambling, reachable by car from Paris in a little over two hours. When Odajima brought his car to the entrance of the hotel—a grand stone structure deliberately incorporating rustic elements here and there—his eyes caught a hut-sized mass in the roadside darkness that had begun to catch the faint light of approaching dawn. To his weary body, that mass imparted an intense sense of living presence. When he looked closely, it was an elephant. The elephant’s body—adorned from back to limbs with cloth, embroidery, and metal arranged in crisscross patterns—was tightly trussed in a circular bundle, and leaning against its foreleg, an African attendant could faintly be seen sleeping with the drooping trunk cradled in his arms. Three or four African attendants could still be seen leaning against and sleeping by the hotel’s wooden siding outside as well.

Odajima had recently recalled an article he read in the Paris Pictorial while in Paris. The Maharani of Kapurthala had specially procured a white elephant from her native India to attend Deauville’s Grand Prix horse race. It also mentioned that the petite and beautiful Parisian actress La Cabanel would ride out in a Near Eastern-style palanquin carried by four African child attendants. He realized that the delicate performers employed in that ostentatious display were sleeping here now that their duty was fulfilled.

Beneath a chandelier hanging crimson-yellow and faded against the dawn sky, as Odajima inquired at the front desk clerk whether Ivette was indeed staying there, several groups of men and women entered through the main entrance. The men wore tuxedos; the women mostly had gowns draped over their shoulders, passing through with the stately gait of a count and countess. Next passed a woman whose exposed chest and arms were studded with jewels—a figure anyone would recognize as a woman of ill repute. She was undoubtedly one of Deauville's celebrated beauties—a striking woman. Her eyes were taut as panes of glass. Eyes that didn’t shift a millimeter—the kind shared by all women of her ilk, coldly appraising the consumer worth of every passing man.

The clicking of small heels raced forward, chased by the sound of a man’s shoes, and another couple entered through the entrance. Odajima exclaimed “Yaa” in Japanese—the folds of Ivette’s dress were cinched in heavy Gothic pleats, the gold and silver foil on her wrap crackling like an imperial herald’s fanfare. Beneath this, her solid silver evening gown trailed a narrow hem. Had she not been holding that feather fan, she might have been mistaken for an armored angel from some medieval altarpiece. Her oval face—childishly plump at the jaw—seemed almost overwhelmed by the grandeur of her costume. Her companion was an elderly dandy. His papery skin appeared to sheath intricate networks of nerves, while his eyes harbored a veteran shrewdness that elegantly manipulated all matters to his advantage. Those large eyes bore soft shadows beneath the lids like ornamental tassels of fatigue. Ivette, who had been vigorously steering this silver-haired Adonis by their linked arms, flashed Odajima a glance before coolly looking away. After advancing five or six paces to where an apple tree pot marked the stairway corridor’s turn, she disengaged from the gentleman’s arm, rested her right hand on the planter’s rim, and hitched her gown’s skirt up to her knees. The practiced old aristocrat discreetly turned his back, letting his weary eyes settle on the aqua windowpanes where courtyard gloom merged with electric light. The desk clerk—ever mindful of hospitality etiquette—studiously averted his gaze. (Only Odajima, that etiquette-blind Oriental, could claim the privilege of feigning obliviousness.) The contortion of her raised knee flipped her stocking’s edge like a bellflower petal, revealing where her exposed ivory flesh swelled—adorned with the tattooed shield of Jandark. The insignia of the French Girls’ Club. This tattoo-displaying pantomime of garter adjustment had been orchestrated solely for Odajima’s benefit. Whenever arranging trysts with him in others’ company, she invariably employed this brazenly charming semaphore.

Having ascertained that Odajima had witnessed her display, she smoothed her skirt back into place, rose, and addressed the old gentleman.

“I’m going to have shrimp for lunch today—at Saint-Siméon in Honfleur.” “Understood, Mademoiselle.” “Oh my, I’m going alone.”

“How curious.” “A tryst?” “No, I want to see the Seine estuary alone.” “Ah—so we’re affecting hysterical landscape painter airs now?” “Then we’ll abstain until evening.” “In exchange, dinner at Shiro at ten.” “Then to the baccarat tables.”

Through her conversation with the old gentleman, Ivette let Odajima hear the rendezvous location (Saint-Siméon). After the two had gone up to the second floor, Odajima inquired of the front desk clerk.

“Who is that gentleman?” “Mayor of Deauville, Monsieur Machip (pseudonym).” Odajima was inwardly astonished—just as she had hinted back in Paris, Ivette truly was embedded here in Deauville as a Spanish national spy.

II The sun began to blaze vividly upon the early autumn morning. Deauville’s roofs rippled their arrayed scales of red, green, and gray. Among them rose a gable-roofed theater and a temple spire—he found it slightly odd that this city, outwardly pristine yet built from thoroughly sinful materials, should contain such sanctity—while beyond lay faintly visible a polo field surrounded by orchards, its red earth yawning open like exposed flesh. Through narrow gaps between architectural clusters before him, slanting rays lifted into view the gambling hall’s white structure—its floral-patterned base resembling garden skirts—and the Atlantic’s sharply defined horizon line, both aligning precisely with his fifth-floor hotel window frame across the way. Along the plane tree-bordered coastal promenade, morning riders already moved ant-like to and fro. There among them rode mockingly the King of Kapurthala with his woman atop an elephant—their figures swelling disproportionately large against the scene.

Fatigue had induced a deep sleep, and Odajima—having slept sufficiently from his earlier nap—found himself no longer sleepy even as he lay down on the bed again. And he spread out the society magazine Boulevardier he had brought from Paris. He had never seen this magazine before, but having bought it thinking today’s Deauville—where Parisian high society had migrated—could best be studied through its pages, he now flipped through them. The first thing that caught his eye was an article about France’s automobile king Citroën coming to this town for high-stakes gambling. Articles about Marquis Bonni—the foremost dandy of French aristocratic society—discussing the organization of a European Noble Families Relief Association in this town at the request of an American wealthy widow among other matters caught his eye—when abruptly the room’s door opened.

“Excuse me.” “I just got the wrong room, you know.” The woman in a rose-colored robe with a glossy yellow sheen swiftly closed the door through which she’d entered and approached him while speaking rapidly. “I really like Oriental men.” “Let me stay right here like this.”

Odajima hurriedly half-rose from the bed and, waving his hand, said. “No, you can’t.” “I’m a serious traveler.”

The woman, with unexpected briskness, returned to the doorway and said. “If you want company, just call for me in Room 493, okay? I’m not some cheap woman who entertains the likes of you, but I’ve completely ended up like this, haven’t I?” The woman showed her unadorned wrist. “So I thought I’d get some opium from you and try drinking it like crazy.” Odajima said with a wry smile. “I’m afraid I’m not Chinese.”

But the woman still seemed doubtful. "In this town, you know, there are plenty of women who've staved off death at the brink with ash or opium."

III

Sun, great estuary. Seagulls—the Honfleur coast, at a suitable distance from Deauville, was a cool, tranquil land where one went to heal the deep wounds from Deauville’s gamblers’ defeats and soothe inflammations inflicted by pleasure-seekers through their fierce day-and-night indulgences.

At an outdoor table of the Saint-Siméon restaurant, while having Odajima peel small shrimp, Ivette gazed at the Seine estuary, her long eyelashes veiled by the midday light. When she sat still like this, Odajima could not discern whether she was contemplating some object or lost in thought. Yet it was precisely in these motionless moments that this girl appeared most beautiful. Ivette inherently possessed a melon-seed-shaped face with a translucent white forehead that faded into unglazed ochre across her rounded cheeks—a hallmark of Southern European Latin heritage—but when she entered this unselfconscious state, she became an indescribable entity, only the beauty bestowed by nature remaining upon her exterior. Large eyes with slightly downturned corners—unclear whether seductive, mocking, or sorrowful; a nose rounded yet asserting modest authority; lips drawn so taut they threatened to split—these features turned hollow while retaining their form. And in this very collapse of hers—what irresistible allure it possessed!

“Were you surprised by the sudden telegram?” “Not particularly surprised.” “But really—what do you mean by summoning me to such an extravagant place?”

She transformed from a “thing” back into a mere woman and chuckled slyly. Then, grasping small shrimp in her hand to eat, she wiped her fingertips—round and supple as udo shoots—with a napkin. Odajima knew full well she would never give a straight answer even when pressed directly. Yet she wasn’t the type to devise harsh questions laced with traps. Odajima asked point-blank: “You came here as a detective, didn’t you?”

“Hmph, what’s that supposed to mean?” Ivette started slightly but feigned childish ignorance, arching her back in a defiant posture toward Odajima—just as the sun blazed directly. When the early autumn sea breeze swept across her forehead and cheeks, she abruptly collapsed. “Lend me your arm, Mr. Odajima. Let me cling to you—this business makes me so dreadfully lonely.” Ivette grasped Odajima’s arm with both hands and pressed her temple against his upper bicep, where the distinctively Japanese musculature—rounded and firm—could be sensed through the woolen fabric. As if yearning to merge with some vital force, she quietly let her eyelids droop halfway. Two seagull shadows flitted across her long lashes.

The waiter brought the restaurant’s signature stuffed bird dish but, being well-versed in such table scenes, withdrew soundlessly with practiced discretion. With a face as blank as a child’s after breastfeeding, Ivette finally lifted her head from the man’s arm. “How much do you think the French government skims from casino gambling?” “I don’t know.”

Even though Odajima majored in economics, he had not yet studied gambling.

“In casino gambling, for ‘Chemin de Fer’—a type of betting—the casino takes a five percent commission.” “From that five percent, the French government takes three percent.” “Then in Baccarat, for each 3,000-franc fee skimmed by parent organizations, they take sixty-five percent per transaction.” “Just consider it for a moment.” “It’s enormous, isn’t it?” “I see.” “That’s staggering.” Odajima was startled. He had vaguely known France’s finances relied on gambling taxes. Yet he hadn’t realized they extracted such sums from individual wagers. Moral reform groups wielding influence across France had exhausted themselves decrying these taxes as a national disgrace and demanding gambling halls’ total abolition as humanitarian blight—all to no avail. Casinos instead multiplied nationwide. Even now that financial authorities’ pretext—“until postwar recovery”—had become meaningless, they persisted in ignoring reason precisely because such profits proved too lucrative. As Ivette spoke with mounting fervor, Odajima listened raptly.

“So exactly how much does the French government receive from gambling annually?” “If it were that simple to determine, I wouldn’t have struggled so much,” she replied. “Precisely because it’s difficult to uncover—that’s what makes it my trade.”

Odajima looked at her face anew. Since he had met her three years earlier at the Bastille Day dance hall in Paris, she had changed occupations quite frequently: a Jean Patou mannequin girl; a Canine Lovers' Club secretarial assistant; mistress to a Turkish tycoon; playgirl aboard an American world cruise ship—during her time in these occupations, she had frequently encountered Odajima, venting countless complaints and boasts about her life yet never uttering a single reflection on the professions themselves. She seemed to have resigned herself to all of them as fate’s inevitable course. And she always kept a set of castanets in her handbag; whenever her profession saddened her, she would take them out and clack-clack them between her fingertips to dispel the gloom. This occupation seemed to weigh far more heavily on her than any previous one—and seeing her now, unlike before, reveal even fragments of its inner workings struck him as poignantly vulnerable.

IV

While deeming the indulgence of flattery an unsavory pastime, they nevertheless pursued it unapologetically as their profession, upholding it universally as their supreme business creed. This was the French resort mentality.

Deauville’s Normandy Hotel dining hall was another such example. A dignity installed with faint shadows lingering in every corner of the walls to put guests slightly at ease—superficial refinement—before discerning eyes could swiftly see through it, refracted light from all directions focused that very artifice. And so the guests, transformed into noble-obsessed sleepwalkers, unconsciously drank, ate, and danced. While driving the guests to such madness, the manager and dining hall staff’s courteous attitude—extending heartfelt kindness, charm, and respect toward those maddened forms—contained not a trace of irony or cunning. It was an utterly composed and natural attitude. It became clear how well-suited the French were to the hospitality trade.

Odajima reluctantly took a seat with the Woman from Room 493 at one of the 250 tables encircling the dance floor. The woman practically stormed into the room when Odajima, having parted with Ivette in Honfleur and returned that evening to rest, was taking a break. Despite being slightly drunk, the woman claimed she was hungry and rummaged through Odajima’s room, searching for something to put in her mouth. The woman finally flipped open the lid of Odajima’s suitcase and rifled through its contents. And she found the tin of rice crackers an acquaintance had given Odajima before he left Paris and began crunching them.

“Rice crackers… Heh heh… They’re really good.” Her legs—rudely splayed like sticks—blatantly revealed the coarseness of a woman in her trade, yet even so, the meticulous care she took to eat haphazardly without smudging her lipstick struck Odajima as somewhat pitiable. When she had eaten enough rice crackers, “French women, I tell you—we think about food right up until the moment we kill ourselves. Even if I get my heart broken by a man, I’ll never let food do the same.”

As she spouted such nonsense, she seemed to wilt even more pathetically. “I can’t eat dinner tonight.” “You treat me to dinner.” “I couldn’t pay and got kicked out, so I can’t get into this hotel’s dining room on my own.”

Odajima felt cornered.

“Well then, you might as well come with me.” Then the woman abruptly adopted a matter-of-fact expression, strode ahead decisively, and barged into the dining hall. The woman settled into her seat and unhurriedly began extracting a cigarette from Odajima’s cigarette case to light. Then, eyeing the waiter who was taking her order with visible suspicion, she addressed him imperiously,

“Hey there.” “Bring me something eye-opening—cognac or the like.” “And bring me some extra goose fat.” “I need to get a bit of my strength back.” Such was her manner. While ordering dish after dish as she pleased and eating them, the woman cheerfully explained the hall to Odajima. That American man, unaware that the gentleman beside him was none other than His Majesty Dom Manuel, former King of Portugal, struck up a conversation with the woman in such a brash manner. The two men who were cheerfully chatting with one woman each were Benali Matzcafe and his younger brother Benali Hagin—they who had transported telescopes to Central America’s high mountains and grasped living evidence for astronomy. Both were famous Deauville enthusiasts. Marquis de Bonni, playing cards, had a luster that belied his years. A serious dandy who never stayed up past two in the morning for the sake of his looks—such was his bearing. Madam Former So-and-so was introducing her new husband to her ex-husband, who had brought along his own new wife. Now, the corpulent German sausage king leaned his head against the chairback and began to snore. All the while she busily explained these things, the woman stuck out her tongue each time her familiar Argentine tango musicians or playgirl friends came and went—a substitute for proper greetings.

Finding it increasingly uncomfortable to remain among the crowd with the woman gulping down whiskey and growing steadily more intoxicated, Odajima rose to retreat to his room—whereupon she suddenly glared up at him. “Hmph. Ivette went all the way to Honfleur, and yet…” The woman’s words carried a strange vehemence. “How do you know that?” “Snakes follow their own trails. Hmph.”

The woman turned away with a sneer, but this time glared up at Odajima even more fiercely than before. “I always end up having men stolen by that Ivette.” As the woman’s glare softened, a pitiful, teary-eyed expression appeared. Odajima, having told this woman he had known Ivette from before and finding it utterly futile, ended up dragging the reluctant woman out through the hotel entrance into the twilight.

V

It was past 1 a.m. inside the Deauville gambling hall.

In the milky, stagnant air of the room, a deep and cruel bloodletting had begun. In the weary light suffused with tobacco smoke and perfume, gambling tables hovered in numbers. And around them, people were packed tightly. It looked as if people were swarming over a shipwrecked boat. Some people leaned too heavily on the edge, appearing to have sunk down entirely. At the 2,000-franc tables, the Stanley gang—a major gambling syndicate—launched their assault.

A slender, neatly dressed man; a woman with her back fully exposed; a couple—both corpulent, their bodies studded with jewels. Dozens of couples dressed in such dazzlingly chic finery that they paradoxically appeared ordinary dominated most of the hall, making the cattail-hued crone single-mindedly chasing gains and the fresh-faced youth with childlike innocence stand out all the more. And between those human bodies flashed playing cards, wooden clogs sweeping them aside, white hands, banknotes, and flat silver plates used in place of currency. Odajima stood abnormally tense, his hands clenched tightly together, his ankles planted on the floor as he surveyed the hall through the tips of his heavy shoes.

That's it. At last—she found him again!

It was the woman from Room 493. Odajima grew irritated. This woman had been following him everywhere he went since arriving in town, as if someone had commissioned her to do so. It was truly a tedious coincidence.

But the woman, completely indifferent to whether Odajima was in such a mood or not, vigorously grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him along. There was no helping it! At least she wasn’t drunk—he resolved it would be better to use this situation rather than have her resist noisily; he might even get some explanation of the place in return. The woman, however, was excited as if fixated on something. After forcefully pulling the man’s hand and walking him around the hall for a while, she suddenly stopped, hastily released his arm, and roughly tugged Odajima’s earlobe.

“Ivette is here.” “You came here wanting to see Ivette, didn’t you?” “I know perfectly well.”

Ivette was at the 500-franc table. At the table directly opposite the old gentleman standing at the dealer position, she presided with queenly composure. She wore a dress whose color complemented her face exceptionally well. The entire group at the table seemed to defer to her authority, adjusting their behavior to match her mood. Among them, the bull-necked man in his prime sitting beside her attended to her needs with almost servile eagerness. Ivette acknowledged Odajima's arrival. Then she deliberately leaned against the bull-necked man's shoulder, feigning fatigue relief. The man closed his eyes and kissed her fingers. She threw another fleeting glance toward Odajima but didn't so much as look at the woman accompanying him. Of course Odajima knew Ivette wouldn't care about this woman being near him; what stung more was how she—childlike as it appeared—provokingly teased him by flirting with another man. Yet even that jealousy gave way to fascination with his companion's bizarre behavior. Though Ivette ignored her completely, when Ivette turned their way, the woman hastily nodded, forced a smile, and even blew an air kiss. Her face had gone pale with excitement, her breathing turning rapid. When Ivette calmly returned her attention to the game, the woman clawed at Odajima's arm like a harpy, urgently dragging him away from the spot.

“—I’m so frustrated.” “I lost to her again.” “That girl must’ve got some kinda electric grip on people’s minds.”

While tears streamed down her face, the woman vehemently pulled Odajima into the attached bar and went inside. "More drinking?" Odajima grew increasingly irritated. And as he wondered what obligation he possibly had to take care of this woman with dinners and drinks, Odajima felt utterly foolish. But even so, a slight feeling of pity for her seeped into the loneliness he felt from being separated from Ivette. And so, reluctantly, he followed her into this place as well.

A terrifyingly long bar counter. There were only four or five customers. A man who appeared to be the head bartender had just finished shaking a cocktail mixer. “Oriental madam—has your sir already granted you that jade hairpin you’ve been pining for?”

He approached the two seated in chairs far removed from the other customers and cracked a jest to the woman. “Shut up, Freddy—this man here isn’t Chinese, worse luck for you.” She panted heavily... The man left behind an ambiguous smile and turned back toward the customers across the way. Having seen him off, the woman now turned back toward Odajima, blinking her strangely vacant eyes where tears had dried. “You know, that Freddy there—they say he’s the king of French cocktail-making.”

Having informed Odajima, she once again headed over there. “Freddy, bring me the cocktail you just shook up.” The woman, having imperiously placed her order, settled down only to contort her face into complaints again and start talking about Ivette. “Did you see that impressive outfit of Ivette’s? At first glance it seems unremarkable, but that rose de rage color—no skilled fabric merchant in France has ever been able to produce that shade before. And yet she’s managed to get herself into that damn thing without anyone noticing—what a witch she is.”

The woman jabbed Odajima hard each time frustration seized her. Each time her violent elbow struck him, he found himself recalling Ivette’s smoke-tinged gaze through fluttering lashes. “I’m begging you—don’t fall for that woman. If it were any other woman, I’d even help you get together.”

According to the woman's account, Ivette remained childlike for her age. Yet she possessed a sweet poison that paralyzed nearly every man who became involved with her. The men too, initially treating her as a plaything, gradually grew genuinely attached and ended up obeying her every whim. Though utterly vexed by her selfishness, they ultimately came to delight in it. Such men were mostly elderly, and even when a young man appeared among them, he too would start doting on her like a daughter. The woman counted renowned businessmen and politicians among those men, and indeed—lowering her voice at the end—declared that even here, from Deauville’s mayor to the casino’s senior officials and wealthy men who had come to gamble from across the world, nearly all had been ensnared by Ivette. As he listened, Odajima considered these must be men Ivette had won through her radiant beauty and those charmingly brazen tactics she sometimes employed as professional stratagems, but in his current state, this realization brought him little comfort.

“So you—” “A foreigner like you mustn’t get entangled with that sort of woman.” “If it were me, I’d just be a woman for the moment...” Having talked herself out by chattering nonstop at Odajima—who never once contradicted her—and with her drunkenness gradually taking hold, the woman now began accosting everyone who entered the bar.

According to people’s accounts, the gambling tables grew increasingly lively, and the Stanley gambling syndicate moved to the thousand-franc table to commence “Open Bank.” This gambling method allowed becoming the banker to accept wagers against any opponent, no matter how large their stake beyond a thousand francs. The banker needed to place at least one million francs on the table while keeping two million more in reserve. The story that Citroën—the Automobile King who had been gambling since last night—had already accumulated losses nearing ten million francs made those holding glasses freeze mid-sip, their breath caught in their throats.

At that moment, the one who entered with her young husband was Cécile Sorel—the renowned French actress whom Odajima had seen several times in Parisian theaters. Her near-sixty small wrinkles were rendered inconspicuous by her dignity and eloquence, making her appear not at all mismatched with her husband in his thirties. Her attire consisted of a Second Empire-style robe de style befitting her current status as Countess, and she held a painted fan. She was about to take a seat at the large table in the corner of the bar when, unexpectedly spotting the sharp-tongued satirist Fernando Vandrelem among the women, she cheerfully

“We might as well have taken seats here to become material for your works, ohoho...” Despite this easing of tensions in the room, the woman with Odajima grew increasingly hostile as her drunkenness deepened. When she noticed a mild-mannered old man in evening wear who had just arrived, she suddenly raised her eyebrows in defiance. “Hmph, another of Ivette’s esteemed relations has appeared.” She made to seize the old man’s white beard. The elderly gentleman—former chief of the Russian Imperial Court’s detective corps before the revolution, now head of Deauville’s fraud and gambling control division—smiled as he caught her hand, pinned her body, and dragged her down from the high chair. Under his courteous yet unyielding restraint, the woman found struggle pointless.

Odajima grew increasingly desperate to escape from the woman. As soon as he seized the opportunity and hurried out of the bar’s entrance, the woman came clumsily chasing after him.

“I’ll chase you all the way to the Orient.” “As if I’d hand you over to Ivette.”

The flower gardens surrounding the casino—divided into angular and diamond-shaped sections—were wet with night dew, illuminated by light streaming from the windows, and glittering like rubberized artificial flowers. While walking through them, no matter how much Odajima tried to shake her off, the woman refused to leave. In the end, she lay spread-eagled on the lawn and, stretching out one hand, firmly grasped his pant leg and refused to let go. His irritation finally snapped. Though aware of its cruelty in yanking her up, he employed a judo technique he somewhat knew. Then the woman sprang up unfazed and now clung to his shoulder.

"How strange—so utterly strange." "Do it harder!" "This is the first time I've felt pain here—it feels good."

Odajima was troubled to his core. His head grew fuzzy with exhaustion. As for the woman, her drunkenness finally reached its peak; she clung tightly to Odajima's arm, rested her head on his shoulder, and began sinking into a deep sleep. Having forgotten that he had come out hoping to possibly meet Ivette, he lost all sense of forethought or afterthought, found everything too bothersome, and ended up taking the woman back to his room at the Normandy Hotel to let her sleep.

VI

The woman was thrown onto Odajima’s bed and sank into unconscious slumber, but he found himself utterly unable to sleep beside her. He pushed the sofa against the wall, spread a blanket over it, and lay down. Fatigue immediately dragged him into deep sleep.

Odajima awoke from the sofa when morning was already well advanced. The woman on the bed still lay in a drunken stupor. Whenever he beheld her disheveled sleeping form, Ivette's cold porcelain-like charm grew nostalgic to him. If Ivette had possessed even a fraction of this woman's reckless abandon, his feelings toward her would have long since transformed into an ordinary romance by society's standards. But the mystery of Ivette occasionally collapsing into becoming a mere "object"—even as a form of allure—possessed something almost superhuman. And those childish mannerisms she flaunted—they proved far too off-putting for them ever to become lovers. And so he had been drawn to her through some indescribable charm beyond love... This time perhaps she had summoned him here with some resolve—though sending telegrams wasn't particularly unusual by her standards—yet whether imagined or real, the Ivette he'd met yesterday in Honfleur had seemed lonelier than ever. Could there be some imminent crisis approaching her? As this faint premonition arose, Odajima found himself even less able to remain still.

Odajima slipped out into the corridor, slipped some money to the bellboy assigned to Ivette's room, and tried to inquire about her condition. According to the bellboy’s answer, she had just returned from the casino to change into riding clothes at the hotel and had gone out carrying a whip. She was certain to return by ten, he said, having scheduled a warm bath, massage, and manicure for that time. The wait until then felt interminable. He couldn't bear remaining in his own hotel room with that woman’s sleeping form until then. Having learned Ivette had gone out for her morning ride, he resolved to find the bridle path and meet her. Before long that woman would wake and leave once she realized his absence—Odajima stole back to his room, changed hurriedly into everyday clothes, and hurried out. The overcast sky let fall a mist-like rain that left the air stiflingly humid. Eugène Corniche Avenue’s crowd blurred with tree-lined greenery into ground-glass haze, their bustling shadows dissolving.

Those passing through during riding hours were mostly horses. He scrutinized each horse one by one, but Ivette remained nowhere to be seen. Astride Epinal—Europe’s most renowned horse, its front half nearly suspended in midair as it kicked at the sky with slender forelegs—Paul Weltheimer passed by, and people held their breath as vigorous applause erupted amidst the mist. On the beach, girls in this year’s trendy bathing suits split down to below the back and young men covering only their waists while otherwise naked clung to the waves only to be battered and knocked down; from afar, the Westerners’ skin possessed the tender freshness of freshly peeled bananas—Odajima suddenly flushed crimson. Had he not, after all, continued yearning for Ivette’s body?—Cowardly and timid as ever in plumbing the depths of his own psyche, he once again shook his head vehemently from side to side. And then, with a vigor that seemed to defy something, he walked off briskly.

The luxury shops catering to tourists had lowered their fire shutters and were still in a deep slumber. On the door, a crudely sketched caricature of the Spanish Emperor had been drawn in white chalk.

Slipping through the political upheavals of his own country, His Majesty would occasionally come to this place for leisure. His Majesty’s classically styled face was popular everywhere in France. The mannequins in the tailor’s shop window, under morning electric lights that still hadn’t been extinguished, were heralding that this autumn’s fashion trend was Persian wild sheep. The drizzle had cleared unnoticed; the road climbed a slope of reddish earth where autumn grasses lay tangled; and the polo ground unfolded before his eyes.

The England vs. America polo final was scheduled for that afternoon. Amidst the American players' practice horses swiftly gathering and retreating like foaming waves, green stripes and pale pink uniforms flickered through the mist. A single horse whinnied loudly and stamped its hooves under an elderberry tree along Odajima's path, sensing the herd surging toward the roadside fence in pursuit of a ball. As he carefully circled the elderberry roots, he found a man standing dazedly holding the horse's bit. This was the forty-year-old ticket clerk Odajima had seen at the casino counter the previous night. The slender white mare wore a sidesaddle with decorative ribbons - possibly Ivette's mount. How had Ivette grown familiar enough with this man to entrust him such duties? Odajima wondered instinctively.

“Good morning.” “Isn’t this Mademoiselle Ivette’s horse?” “Where is Mademoiselle Ivette now?” The man answered without showing any particular surprise.

“Oh? Do you know Mademoiselle Ivette?” “Mademoiselle has gone down that cliff to the temple.” “She said she’s inquiring about the amount of offerings collected, being acquainted with the priest.” “That young lady’s quite the earnest sociologist, isn’t she?” He nodded in agreement. “I suppose so.” “She truly is an earnest sociologist.”

At the same time, there was something he needed to casually probe this know-it-all man about. Odajima asked with feigned nonchalance. "I also have business with Mayor Machip. Where is he?" "As for the Mayor? The Mayor was together with that young lady and a wealthy Scotsman named Mr. George at Louis’s until half past five this morning, eating a late-night supper." "The three of them plan to depart for Spain tonight." "So the Mayor returned home to make preparations."

Odajima felt Deauville before him as a shell devoured by her. Is she already leaving for Spain? Does she no longer have business in Deauville?—As Odajima stood blankly staring at his shoes, the man now inquired with a puzzled look. “Are you a friend of Mademoiselle Ivette?” Odajima was suddenly seized by an impulse to hate Ivette. Ivette—why had she summoned him to this place in the midst of such an emergency? In a fit of anger, he wanted to say something reckless.

“Even so, I am her lover.” Then the man laughed sharply—unlike his previous gentleness—and said: “Anyone who gets acquainted with that girl well enough must be her lover, I suppose. But who among them could truly become her real lover? From my twenty years of experience watching women from the casino ticket counter, I can tell you—that girl’s the sort you savor with your eyes. If you get too involved—well, she’s the sort of woman who’ll bring about your ruin.”

Odajima said without understanding what it was about.

“Thank you for your advice.” Anyway, I’ll go meet Ivette.

Odajima's anger toward Ivette had already vanished. With a profound sense of emotion, he descended the single path along the cliff toward the temple to meet Ivette.

VII

After thanking the temple attendant, Ivette stowed her small notebook into the hidden pocket of her riding habit. Having confirmed that the temple attendant had concealed himself behind the door beside the altar, she approached Odajima.

“You’ve come all this way.” “I too suddenly found myself needing to see you.” “But when I returned to the hotel earlier and inquired, your room was closed and you still seemed to be asleep.”

The long candles on the dim altar illuminated half of a lily blossom and the Virgin Mary statue’s bosom, leaving everything else shrouded in darkness. Ivette’s willowy form in her riding habit—laced so tightly it seemed to bisect her torso—materialized only through meager light penetrating stained glass obscured by repair scaffolding. “So you’re leaving, I hear.” “My, wherever did you hear that?” “…That’s how it stands. It was settled quite suddenly this morning.” “Why such abruptness? Was it someone’s doing? Yours?”

“Everyone decided—starting with the Mayor and all the people of Deauville.” “I hear you’re leaving this evening.” “I heard it from that talkative man watching the horses over there.” “Yes, that man may be a chatterbox, but he’s relatively kind and honest.” “And so I suddenly tried to see you this morning.” “And then I wanted to properly bid farewell by taking Mont Blanc—that horse called Hakusan—for one last ride.” She drew close enough to nearly press against Odajima.

“And have you already finished your investigation?” “Yes, mostly—”

She looked around and lowered her voice.

“Let’s walk while we talk... I’ve pieced together rough estimates of the gambling hall revenues that the French Ministry of Finance keeps secret.” “Of course, I’ve only confirmed numbers for nine major halls out of over a hundred—but even that lets you extrapolate the rest.” “How much do you suppose that comes to?” “Last year’s takings from just those nine halls alone exceeded two hundred sixty million francs.”

260 million francs! If converted at Japanese standard rates, that would amount to over twenty million yen. If that were the revenue from nine gambling halls, then the total from over a hundred would be something considerable. However, he now had no luxury to spare on being astonished by such matters. Seizing the deserted spot beneath the cliff, he pressed Ivette in a suddenly forceful tone.

“Mademoiselle Ivette! Why must you divulge those secrets you worked so hard to uncover directly to me? Then you drag me out to this incomprehensibly extravagant place only to subject me to such torment—what could possibly amuse you about that? What exactly do you demand from me?” Odajima’s words mingled the pent-up frustration of having been hounded by that woman since his arrival—a resentment lurking in his unconsciousness. Then Ivette’s body quivered faintly, her trembling hand alighting on Odajima’s shoulder.

“So you too were the type to say such things after all.” She concentrated what strength she had into her eyes, fixed her gaze on Odajima’s face, and continued speaking. “Do Orientals find mysteries as unbearable as Westerners do in the end?” Seen at close range, Ivette’s body—even through the woolen fabric of her riding habit—revealed in the swell of chest and hips a childlike constitution that never fully transitioned into womanhood. This very strangeness of allure further inflamed Odajima’s desire. He clamped down on Ivette’s wrist and shoulder, emitting a tormented sound.

“Tell me, I implore you.” “Speak more plainly, I beg you.” “Even now, your words remain unclear to me.”

“Mr. Odajima! Since it’s the last time, let me say everything.” “What do you mean ‘the last time’? Just because we part here doesn’t mean there’s any reason you and I can’t meet again.”

“No, this is the last.” “If I tell you everything properly, you’ll understand…………Now, let’s sit there, Odajima.”

She found an old bench under a tree at the cliff’s edge—slightly removed and seemingly discarded, barely weathered by rain. The two of them sat down. All around was hushed and still. From time to time, cheers directed at the herd of horses at the polo grounds could be heard in the distance. “Odajima,” she said, “I thought my nature had perfectly matched all my work until now.” “I’m not a woman suited for work like this.” “This current job too—rather than them counting on me being some skilled woman, what they focused on was how my childlike nature makes people like me or let their guard down—that’s what those who gave the orders wanted.”

“That much even I can understand.” “This trait of mine brought me happiness up to a point in every job and showed me interesting things.” “But in the end, it’s just work.” “When it comes to work, everything is hard.” “So I wanted someone who’d silently take in my complaints during tough times, my sighs, my occasional excited chatter when I got carried away, even the mischief I’d make when craving comfort.” “Otherwise, my roots for living would’ve withered away.”

“Hmm.” “But among Europeans, there wasn’t a single person who could endure such things for me.” “Europeans are a race that won’t lend their support to anything without understanding.” “Even if I explain my peculiar nature, they never quite understand.” “But once I explain and they do understand, this time they adopt a parental stance toward me and start spoiling me in such a simplistic way.” “It may sound demanding, but they end up losing the charm of satisfying the ‘conditions’ I seek in a man.” “I grew disillusioned with so many Europeans and found you.”

“Hmm.” “I’m gradually coming to understand what you’re saying, Ivette.”

“Just listen... Until now, you stayed silent to the point of seeming indifferent to what I did, letting me have my way with everything.” “Yet you never once acted as if you had no interest in me.” “You’re the only man who’s endured my peculiar desires—I’ve been grateful for that in my heart.” “I understand.” “Ivette.” “I fully understand.”

“Oh, do listen… Truly, you’ve humored my whimsical mysteries all this time without ever demanding explanations.” “You see, I thought that was a defining characteristic of you as an Oriental.”

“Wait a moment, Ivette.” Odajima hurriedly wiped the sweat from his forehead, then firmly gripped Ivette’s shoulders and shook them. “I was wrong. I’ll remain as I’ve always been toward you, Ivette.” “Yes, thank you………… But once I truly understand your real nature………… Then everything will truly be our final farewell.” He was sorry—he had been wrong. “No—I was the one too naive to think I could keep treating someone as my self-indulgent partner. I was the one who should apologize. But as I’ve said many times—on the surface I’m this spirited, cheerful woman, but sometimes I turn into something like an impenetrable wall. And there are times when I shut my lonely self inside that wall and don’t let myself breathe.”

I too often encountered you in those moments. I preferred the cold you of those moments over your cheerful self. Odajima audibly gulped down a dry swallow.

“Say, Ivette.” “Being a state detective is too heavy a role for you.” “You should extricate yourself from such dangers and adopt a more comfortable station.” “Isn’t there even some old man drafting a will to leave you an inheritance?” “Go quickly to Paris—become that old man’s adopted daughter or such—and settle into an untroubled position.”

The handkerchief Ivette had gently pressed to her eyes appeared to Odajima to be wiping away tears.

“Thank you.” “But it’s all too late now.” “I can no longer remain in France.” “As a female national spy, I’ve ended up on France’s blacklist.” “I am being deported—to Spain.” “And even if I’m sent back to my homeland of Spain, there’s no telling when the anti-Primo faction that ordered me to spy might be overthrown.” “Anyway, it’s a foregone conclusion that I’ll face a firing squad beneath the elm tree in front of the wall.”

“Ivette, is that true?”

“Oh, yes, it’s indeed true.”

Ivette briefly looked around the vicinity. There was no one. But Ivette leaned forward and forcefully drew her whisper close to Odajima. “Spain’s former dictator, Primo de Rivera, banned gambling in resorts under the guise of justice. Not only did the government lose its income, but every resort became desolate like extinguished flames... San Sebastian across the border along the coast from here makes a good example. For several years that port was a bustling pleasure spot, but after the ban it abruptly turned into just another ordinary industrial port in Spain. That’s why the current government has grand plans to revive gambling. My secret mission was to investigate strategies for French resorts’ prosperity as reference material for their revival plans. And well—I did everything within my power, but it seems I first caught the eye of Boris Nadell, the detective chief of the gambling hall.”

“Hmm.” “So you’re truly being deported to Spain tonight no matter what?”

“Yes, no matter what.” “And even if I’m sent back, it’s to Spain—where a political upheaval may start tomorrow as I just said.” “I think it’s wise to bid you my final farewell now while I still can.”

She stared intently at Odajima’s face as she extended her hand. He gripped her hand in return, but there was no strength in it.

“It can’t be helped—if that’s your fate.” Ivette relaxed the tension in her face and stood up from the bench. She smoothed the waist of her riding habit, gave her skirt a couple of light pats, and began walking with her face slightly downturned. But when Ivette turned back once more to look at Odajima—still sunk in thought and unable to rise from the bench—she had already regained her usual vivaciousness, that firm countenance returning. With her face now tinged by a hint of coquetry, she came back to Odajima’s side and peered over her shoulder into his face.

“Monsieur Odajima! Don’t you want anything from me?” He was flustered by the sudden question. “Oh ho ho ho—can’t you tell? Monsieur Odajima.”

Odajima turned crimson down to his hands and feet. ——……………………. “As for men I truly despise or those who’ve given me nothing—no matter how final things get—I’d never do anything for them, but you’ve quite met my wishes.” “Monsieur Odajima.” Odajima turned even more crimson. “I’ll thank you properly.” “From half past ten to twelve tonight... I’ll come to your room, okay?” “Odajima.”

VIII

Suddenly, Odajima—now the most pitiful despondent man forced to bid eternal farewell to Ivette—returned to the hotel simultaneously transformed into the most shamefully fortunate man. There remained less than an hour until half past ten, when Ivette would visit.

When Odajima opened the door to his hotel room, the woman who had completely slipped from his consciousness was still there. The woman, apparently having emerged from the bathroom in a robust-looking half-naked state, was partaking of the morning meal. On the wheeled silver table, a can of caviar was enveloped in a mound of crushed ice. Then a half-finished glass of white wine—Odajima stood frozen beside it, utterly dumbfounded. When the woman saw him, even so, she hurriedly put on her socks. And then, as if he were a familiar man, she embraced his body and seated him in the chair before the table.

Since you weren’t coming back, I started breakfast alone. "Well then, let’s exchange our good mornings." “Bonjour, mon petit.” And she tucked a napkin into his chest. So, what would you like to eat? “You must be hungry after your walk.”

He now lacked both the courage to get angry and the energy to resist. This will do for me.

Odajima poured wine into the glass and drank. A single glass wouldn't quench the thirst in his heart. The woman, spreading cheese on black bread while staring fixedly at him as he gulped down the wine, was seized by a faint shudder peculiar to women of her sort—a tremor born of acute sensitivity—but finally let her contorted eyes go slack with abandon and, as if drained of strength, flung both bread and knife onto the table before speaking.

“I knew it. You went to meet Ivette.” Odajima, with a somewhat flustered look, kept gulping down the glass of wine without stopping his hands, so the woman became somewhat overwhelmed and stared at him blankly. But eventually leaving her chair, she began listlessly putting on her clothes. “Well, fine then. At least finish the meal you started.”

The woman gave no reply to this Odajima, finished putting on her clothes completely, and quickly fixed her hair. And she came to Odajima’s side and held out her hand. “What’s this about?” “You’ve gotten awfully quiet all of a sudden, haven’t you?”

“I understand completely.” “Ivette’s finally coming to this room, isn’t she?” “And she’ll become the queen of this room, won’t she?” “If I stayed here until then—no matter how much I hate that woman—I’d have to put on maid-like smiles and wait on her.”

Odajima was slightly surprised. How did this woman know that Ivette was coming to this room? “That flower’s always the one driving me out.” The woman pointed to the geranium flower in the vase before the mirror and said this. This flower had always been an ill-omened encounter for this woman. This flower was always the one that adorned the room whenever Ivette permitted men that final thing. The men whom this woman tried to keep always ended up with Ivette. At times this woman had tried to beat Ivette to the men she pursued, but she always lost. Even when Ivette made no deliberate effort to defeat her, that peculiar charm of hers prevailed. This woman’s terror of geranium flowers had become instinctive. This woman had been a sister mannequin with Ivette at Jean Patou’s shop. They had also been members of the Maidens’ Club together—a strange collision of fates between these women comrades. The woman had just stepped from her bath when she saw the geranium flower before the mirror. She started, thinking it was happening again. But she reconsidered—perhaps it was mere coincidence. It stood to reason that hotel staff would use this seasonally blazing bloom. Wanting desperately to believe this, she hadn’t questioned the bellboy who brought it. Yet Odajima’s present attitude proved this was no chance geranium—rather one Ivette had sent via bellboy to claim the room. “I’m leaving.” “But I won’t back down from Ivette again.”

“I’ll keep fighting her till I die—” The woman’s voice was low yet spilled forth in shouts and grievances without restraint. Odajima listened intently to her words while the blazing geranium flower before him now stirred deep shame within his chest, mingling powerfully in his heart with the sorrow of parting from Ivette.

The clock struck ten.

Then the woman suddenly went brusquely out toward the doorway. Odajima, slightly flustered, ended up blurting out thoughtlessly.

“Ivette leaves here tonight for Spain.” “She’ll never return to France again.” The woman turned around, thrust out the chin, and spoke as if confronting Odajima himself.

“Then I’m going to Spain too. I’ll compete with Ivette for those men over there!”

IX

The early autumn morning sun streamed in through the window in chartreuse hues, and before the mirror, a geranium flower moistened its red lips in the dreamlike room.

Ivette did not permit the man to speak.

“Now we are ‘things’.” “That’s all there is to it.” “Things attain their highest value.” “That’s all there is to it.” Even if it was only that, even if it was merely out of gratitude, Ivette’s endeavoring to become a woman toward him as a man struck Odajima as so unbearably poignant it defied remedy.

Odajima sighed repeatedly. And whenever he tried to say even a word, Ivette would distract him with a song.

Odajima fell asleep before he knew it.

An hour and a half had passed. In that twilight between dreaming and waking, he felt something wrenching him up by the roots; when he startled upright, Ivette was gone from his side.

On the night of Ivette's departure, Odajima was standing in the hotel entrance.

The car arrived. However, neither the Mayor nor the wealthy man was inside. Instead, Detective Chief Boris Nadell sat within wearing traveling clothes. Accompanied by a crowd of hotel staff, Ivette emerged, her light clothing in subdued tones lending her an air of forlorn dignity. Before her commanding beauty, Boris presented three bouquets.

“Mademoiselle.” “I regret to inform you that neither Mayor Machip nor Mr. George can accompany you to Spain.” “Instead, I will see you off to the border.” “This flower is a gift from Mayor Machip and Mr. George.” “They both asked me to convey their regards.” “And one bouquet is a gift from the Deauville Police Station.” *Police?*

Even Ivette paled. However, she immediately regained her composure.

“Understood.” “I offer my deepest gratitude for your kindness.”

She settled comfortably into the car. Having seated the Detective Chief beside her, she held herself with more authority than usual. To Odajima’s greeting, she now offered nothing more than a perfunctory nod.

As the car was about to start moving, the ticket counter man from the gambling hall came rushing over. The man offered bonbons to Ivette. “Good day, Mademoiselle.” “Please take good care of yourself on the journey.”

To this as well, Ivette made only a formal return greeting.

At that moment came a woman rushing as if about to fall—the same woman who for two days had clung to Odajima and before him had ceaselessly vilified Ivette as her mortal enemy. She must have dashed out in complete panic—her kimono worn in utter disarray—shamelessly thrusting her upper body into the car to cling to Ivette.

“Ivette, are you really being sent back to Spain?” “Then I’ll go back too.” “Ivette.” “If you aren’t here, there’s no point in me staying alone in this place.” “Take me back too, please.” “Ivette.”

Then, instead of Ivette, Detective Chief Boris Nadell spoke in a slightly stern tone.

“That won’t do.” “Mademoiselle Ivette’s car is specially commissioned.” The woman showed none of her usual haggard demeanor; after wilting momentarily and staring blankly at the two in the car, she clung to Ivette even more pitifully than before and said—

“Then I’ll go back by train… But I don’t have any money right now. Ivette, sorry to ask, but could you give me just enough for settling at this cheap inn I’m staying at now, the train fare to Madrid, and some pocket money for now?” Ivette said nothing. She barely turned to look at the woman, but when she finished speaking, silently nodded, opened her handbag, and handed her a mix of gold coins and paper bills. The woman grasped Ivette’s hand—the white gloves clinging to her fingers—and pressed it to her forehead in gratitude.

“Thank you, Ivette.” “Then I’ll leave this place as soon as I’m ready.” “Let’s meet in Madrid, okay?” “Right? Definitely.” “And I’ll come visit your old home right away, okay?”

The woman nodded in solitary acknowledgment and dashed back the way she had come. Of course, even though Odajima—who had clung to her so persistently—stood right before her eyes, the woman didn’t so much as glance his way. Having seen off the car, all the hotel staff withdrew inside. But Odajima remained standing in the shadow of a great column, gazing at the wheel tracks Ivette had left behind under the eaves lantern’s bright light. Then there was still a man there who came up beside Odajima. The man was the forty-year-old ticket counter attendant from the gambling hall.

“Poor Ivette.” “She’s finally being expelled to the border under suspicion of being a national spy.”

Odajima tried to offer some response, but his voice caught in his throat.

“She was too precious to discard carelessly, yet we could no longer permit her to remain in Deauville. With that clever, lovely girl involved, even things France couldn’t afford to lose would be plundered down to the last scrap.”

"Do you know if that girl stole something?" "Ha ha ha... What a sweet lover you are. You truly don't understand French people, do you? Especially those of Deauville. From the Mayor downwards, we'd known all along that girl was a detective." "And yet you kept her here until today." "But she was too lovely a creature to expel outright. An oddly captivating sort of girl. So we let her stay until she ceased being tolerable. Deauville's ornamental gardens require butterflies with varied wing patterns, you see."

“Have you been involved with that girl for long?” “Yes, from soon after she first came here. We knew all about her schemes and played along with them. We even taught her the casino’s secrets—at least those that wouldn’t fatally wound France. That butterfly wasn’t like ordinary ones—it needed special bait... Thanks to her staying here three months, Deauville thrived with extra money flowing through it. But our season here will soon end, and if we let that lovely girl stay any longer, we’d likely have her probing national affairs until it violated our patriotic duty. So it was unanimously decided to expel her, you see.”

After his astonishment subsided, anger surged up in Odajima’s chest.

"Crafty bastards," he thought. "The French are truly cunning... They exploited Ivette—who came here as a detective—right here in Deauville. They're mocking us, utterly." "Ha ha ha—too quick to anger, you," said the ticket counter man. "We people of Deauville loved that girl beyond business motives—make no mistake of that. Drawing lines between French calculation and sincerity proves devilishly hard. See, today we had the Detective Chief himself escort her to the border—protection for that girl now blacklisted as Spain's spy. And with her gone, imagine how the mayor and all will mope about in loneliness! Tonight at his residence, her admirers gather for a remembrance party. They'll swill hot gin and sigh in chorus, those men."