Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Japanese exchange student Shunsaku Kōdashima, summoned by his female friend Ibéte, departed Paris late the previous night and arrived at Deauville’s Normandy Hotel in the early hours of dawn. This was a world-renowned gambling resort reachable from Paris by automobile in just over two hours. When Kōdashima brought his car to the hotel entrance—a grand stone structure deliberately incorporating rustic elements here and there—his eyes caught a hut-sized mass in the roadside darkness intercepting the faintly emerging light of dawn. To his weary body, that mass conveyed an intense sense of living presence. Upon closer inspection, it was an elephant. The elephant’s body—appearing decorated from its back to limbs with cloth, embroidery, and metal crisscrossed in all directions—was bound tightly into a rounded shape. Leaning against its foreleg, a Black man slept with its drooping trunk cradled in his arm; this scene could faintly be discerned. Still, against the hotel’s exterior walls outside, three or four Black men appeared to be sleeping while leaning.

Kōdashima recently recalled an article he had read in the Paris Pictorial while in Paris. The Maharani of Kapyultan had specially imported a white elephant from her home country of India to ride out for viewing the Deauville Grand Prix horse races. Also that the petite and beautiful Parisian actress La Cabaneul would ride out in a Near Eastern-style palanquin carried by four Black children. He realized that the delicate performers used in that ostentatious display were now sleeping here, having fulfilled their duties.

Under a chandelier that had withered into reddish-yellow hues beneath the dawn sky, Kōdashima was inquiring with the man at the front desk about whether Ibéte was truly staying there when several couples entered through the main entrance. The men wore tuxedos while the women mostly draped gowns over themselves, processing through with the unhurried stride of a count and countess. Next passed a woman whose exposed chest and arms splattered with jewels marked her unmistakably as a prostitute in any observer’s eyes. She was undoubtedly one of Deauville Stock’s famed beauties—a stunning creature. Her eyes remained fixed like panes of glass. Eyes that all women of this type shared—appraising the consumption value of passing men without shifting their pupils a millimeter.

The sound of small heels clattering, followed by the dragged rhythm of a man’s shoes, announced another couple entering through the main entrance. Kōdashima inadvertently uttered “Hey” in Japanese—the folds of Ibéte’s dress fell in heavy Gothic pleats, the gold and silver foils of her wrap rustling with the ceremonial dignity of an imperial procession. Beneath this, her silver evening gown trailed a narrow skirt. Were it not for the feather fan in her hand, she might have been mistaken for an armored angel in a medieval painting. Her oval, childishly rounded face seemed almost eclipsed by the grandeur of her attire. Her companion was an elderly gentleman of striking looks. His thin skin appeared to sheath intricate nerves beneath, while his eyes harbored a refined cunning that elegantly turned all matters to his advantage. Though large, those eyes bore soft shadows beneath the lower lids like ornamental weariness. Ibéte—who had been briskly steering this silver-haired Adonis by the arm—flashed a glance at Kōdashima before instantly assuming indifference. After five or six steps toward the stairway corridor’s corner where an apple tree pot stood, she disentangled her arm from the gentleman’s, rested her right hand on the planter’s rim, and hitched her evening gown up to her knees. The seasoned gentleman discreetly turned his back, allowing his tired eyes to settle on the pale blue window glass where courtyard twilight mingled with electric light. The front desk clerk—versed in hospitality etiquette—naturally averted his gaze. (Being an Oriental ignorant of such decorum, Kōdashima alone could claim ignorance through this privilege.) The tension of her raised knee caused her stocking’s edge to curl back like a campanula blossom, revealing the swell of ivory flesh where an adorable Jandark shield had been inked. This marked the French Maidens Club insignia. In truth, she had staged this public garter adjustment solely to display this tattoo to Kōdashima. Whenever arranging clandestine meetings while accompanied by others, she invariably employed this charmingly audacious gesture as their signal.

When she ascertained that Kōdashima had witnessed her display, she lowered her skirt back into place, stood up, and said to the elderly gentleman.

“For today’s lunch, I’m going to have langoustines at Saint-Siméon in Honfleur.”

“Understood, Mademoiselle.” “Oh, I’m going alone.” “That’s strange. Having an affair?” “No, I simply want to see the Seine estuary by myself.” “Hoho, so we have a landscape painter suffering from hysteria, I see. Then I shall restrain myself until evening.” “In exchange, we’ll have dinner at ten at Shiro. Then let’s go to the baccarat tables at the gambling hall.” Through her conversation with the elderly gentleman, Ibéte had let Kōdashima overhear the rendezvous location—Saint-Siméon. After the two disappeared upstairs, Kōdashima asked the front desk clerk:

“Who’s that gentleman?” “That would be the Mayor of Deauville—Monsieur Machip—a pseudonym.” Kōdashima felt inner surprise—just as she had hinted back in Paris—that Ibéte had truly entrenched herself in Deauville as a Spanish state spy.

II

The sun began to blaze vividly over the early autumn morning. Deauville’s roofs shifted their array of red, green, and gray scales. Among them rose a gabled theater and temple spire—though he found it faintly absurd that this city, superficially pristine yet built entirely from sinful materials, should contain a temple at all. A polo field encircled by orchards lay faintly visible beyond, its red earth gaping open through the soil’s cracked surface. From narrow gaps between architectural clusters before him, slanting rays of light lifted into view the white gambling hall adorned with garden skirts and the distant severance-line of Atlantic waters—all arrested at the height of his fifth-floor hotel window frame. Along the plane tree-bordered coastal promenade, morning riders already moved ant-like in their comings and goings. Among them rode conspicuously large—the King of Kapyultan upon an elephant with some woman, his posture radiating dismissive mockery.

Fatigue had drawn him into deep sleep, and Kōdashima—having slept sufficiently during his earlier nap—found himself wide awake despite lying down again on the bed. He unfolded the Boulevardier society magazine brought from Paris. Though never having seen this publication before, he had purchased it thinking today's Deauville—where Parisian society had temporarily relocated—could best be studied through its pages. Flipping through them, his eyes first caught an article about France's automobile king Citroën visiting for high-stakes gambling. Another piece caught his attention—how Marquis de Bonni, French aristocracy's foremost dandy, had gathered in this town at an American heiress widow's behest to discuss forming a European Noble Families Relief Association—when suddenly his room door swung open.

“Excuse me.” “Wrong room, huh?” The woman in a rose-colored negligee slick with yellow sheen quickly shut the door behind her and approached him while speaking hurriedly. “I’ve got this thing for Easterners.” “Let me stay just like this, ’kay?” Kōdashima hastily propped himself halfway up from the bed, waving his hand as he said: “Can’t do.” “I’m a proper traveler.”

The woman, with unexpected decisiveness, returned to the doorway and said.

“If you ever want company, call for me in Room 493, okay? I’m really not some cheap woman who entertains the likes of you, but I’ve ended up like this all the same.”

The woman showed her bare wrist, devoid of any adornments.

“So I thought I’d get some opium from you and drink myself into oblivion.” Kōdashima said with a wry smile. “Unfortunately, I’m not Chinese.”

But the woman still seemed doubtful.

"In this town, you know, there are lots of women who stopped themselves from dying with ash or opium."

III

The sun, the great river estuary.

Seagulls—the Honfleur coast, at a suitable distance from Deauville, was a cool, tranquil land where Deauville’s gamblers went to heal the deep wounds of defeat and the inflammation from their fierce day-and-night indulgences. At the outdoor table of Restaurant Saint-Siméon, while having Kōdashima peel langoustines, Ibéte—her long eyelashes veiled in the midday light—gazed at the Seine estuary. When she sat still like this, Kōdashima couldn’t tell whether she was gazing at something or lost in thought. Yet it was precisely when she remained like this that this girl appeared most beautiful. Ibéte was a woman whose features—from her Latin Southern European translucent white forehead to cheeks tinged with the faint reddish-brown of unglazed pottery, all framing a softly rounded melon-seed face—naturally inclined toward sensual beauty. Yet when she slipped into this vacant state, she became an indescribable “thing,” leaving only the beauty nature had bestowed to linger upon her outward form. Large eyes with slightly downturned outer corners—eyes whose expression hovered ambiguously between coquetry, mockery, and sorrow; a rounded nose that asserted a petty authority; lips drawn so tautly pursed they verged on coming undone. These features retained their form yet turned hollow. And what an irresistible charm lay in this girl’s very emptiness!

“Were you surprised by the sudden telegram?”

“Not particularly surprised,” he said. “But really—what exactly do you intend by calling me to such a luxurious place?” She emerged from being a “thing” into merely a woman and chuckled slyly. Then she ate the langoustine with her hand and wiped her fingertips—round and supple as bending udo sprouts—with a napkin. Kōdashima knew full well she would never give an honest answer even if pressed directly. Yet she wasn’t one to prepare such harsh, leading questions either. He asked resolutely:

“You came to this place as a detective, didn’t you?” “Hmmph—and what might you mean by that?” Ibéte gave a slight start but feigned childish ignorance, arching her chest in a defiant pose toward Kōdashima—just as sunlight pierced through. When the early autumn sea breeze swept across her forehead and cheeks, she abruptly slumped. “Lend me your arm, Kōdashima. Let me cling to you—this profession makes me so terribly lonely.”

Ibéte gripped Kōdashima’s arm with both hands and pressed her temple against the distinctly Japanese musculature that swelled roundly through the woolen fabric of his upper arm. As though yearning to dissolve into some potent vital essence, she quietly let her eyes half-close. Two shadows from passing seagulls lightly fluttered across her long lashes. The waiter brought the restaurant’s signature stuffed fowl dish but—well-versed in such tableaux—retreated soundlessly.

With a face as vacant as a child’s after finishing nursing at the breast, Ibéte finally lifted her face from the man’s arm. “You—how much do you think the French government takes from casino gambling?” “I don’t know.” Even though Kōdashima was majoring in economics, he hadn’t yet conducted research on gambling. “In casino gambling—for ‘chemin de fer,’ which is a type of gambling—they take five percent, and the casino takes its commission.” “From that five percent, the French government takes three percent.” “Then in baccarat—for each three-thousand-franc commission skimmed by the parent organization—the government takes sixty-five percent each time.” “Just think about it.” “It’s quite significant, isn’t it?”

“I see.” “That’s enormous.” Kōdashima was surprised. He too had vaguely heard that France’s finances were being supplemented by gambling taxes to some extent. However, he hadn’t realized they were taking so much from each individual form of gambling. Numerous moral reform groups influential within France had expended every effort decrying gambling taxes as a national disgrace and demanding the complete abolition of gambling establishments as an affront to humanity—yet none of this had come to pass. Rather, casinos were only multiplying within the country. Today, when the financial authorities’ excuse of “until postwar finances recover” had lost its meaning, they persisted in ignoring these valid arguments precisely because they could siphon off such handsome profits. Kōdashima listened intently as Ibéte spoke with some excitement.

“So—just how much does the French government take in from gambling each year?”

“If it were that easy to ascertain, I wouldn’t have struggled so much.” “It’s precisely because it’s hard to ascertain that it becomes my line of work.” Kōdashima looked at her face once more. Since he had first become acquainted with her three years earlier at the dance floor of the Bastille Day celebrations in Paris, she had changed occupations quite extensively. Jean Patou’s mannequin girl. Dog Lovers' Club secretarial assistant. During her time as mistress to a Turkish millionaire and courtesan on American world cruise ships—these professions she engaged in—she frequently encountered Kōdashima and would vent countless complaints and boastful tales about her life, yet she never uttered a single reflection on the professions themselves. She seemed to have resigned herself to all of them as inevitable fates. And she always kept a pair of castanets in her handbag; whenever her profession filled her with sorrow, she would take them out and click them with her fingertips to distract from the gloom in her heart. This latest profession seemed to weigh far more heavily on her than any before; that she now shared even fragments of this profession’s inner workings with him—something she’d never done previously—made her appear endearingly vulnerable in his eyes.

IV

While understanding that indulging in flattery was a poor habit, they nevertheless pursued it unapologetically as their profession, upholding it to the utmost as their supreme business creed. This was the character of French resorts. Deauville’s Normandy Hotel dining hall stood as one such example. A dignity maintained through faint shadows cast in every corner of the walls to put guests at ease; an affected elegance; before those with discerning eyes could pierce through it, refracted rays from all angles focused that artifice. Thus did the guests become aristocratic somnambulists, unwittingly drinking, eating, dancing. The courteous demeanor of managers and dining staff—who, even as they kept guests in that frenzied state, directed genuine kindness, charm, and respect toward those maddened shells—contained not a trace of irony or guile. It was an utterly composed and natural manner. One understood just how consummately suited the French were to the hospitality trade.

At one of the 250 tables surrounding the dance floor, Kōdashima reluctantly took a seat with the woman from Room 493. The woman had nearly burst into his room when Kōdashima was there, having parted from Ibéte in Honfleur and returned to rest that evening. Despite being slightly drunk, she claimed hunger and ransacked Kōdashima’s room, searching first for something to put in her mouth. The woman finally flipped open Kōdashima’s suitcase lid and rummaged through its contents. And she found the can of rice crackers that Kōdashima had been given by an acquaintance before departing Paris and began crunching them.

“Rice crackers… Heh heh… These’re damn good.” Her legs—rudely splayed like sticks—blatantly exposed the brusqueness of a prostitute, yet even so, the very care she took to eat haphazardly without smudging her lipstick struck Kōdashima as somewhat pitiable. When she’d eaten a decent amount of rice crackers, “French women, you know... “They’re still thinking about food right up to the moment they kill themselves. “Even if they get broken by men, they never want to lose taste for food.”

The woman spouted these incomprehensible things and grew increasingly pitifully wilted.

“I can’t eat dinner tonight.” “You’re buying me dinner.” “Since I couldn’t pay and got kicked out, I can’t get into this hotel’s dining room on my own.”

Kōdashima felt cornered.

“Well then, I suppose you’ll have to come along with me.” Then the woman suddenly put on a perfectly natural expression, strode ahead purposefully, and marched straight into the dining hall. She settled into her seat and leisurely pulled out a cigarette from Kōdashima’s cigarette case to light it up. Haughtily addressing the waiter who eyed her suspiciously while taking their order, “Hey.” “Bring something eye-opening—cognac or whatever.” “And fetch some extra goose fat while you’re at it.” “I need to get my strength back.”

That’s how it went. As the woman ordered dish after dish to her liking and ate—remaining in high spirits all the while—she explained the venue’s layout to Kōdashima. That American there—unaware the gentleman beside him was former King Manuel of Portugal—kept trying to start conversations about women with such shameless frankness. The two men cheerfully chatting with a woman apiece were Benari Matsucafé and his younger brother Benari Hagin—the ones who hauled telescopes up Central America’s highest peaks and captured living proof for astronomy. Both counted among Deauville’s most celebrated devotees. Marquis de Bonni—playing cards over there—maintained a youthful sheen disproportionate to his years. A fastidious dandy who never stayed past two AM for vanity’s sake. Former Madame Such-and-such was introducing her new husband—the one she’d brought along—to her ex-husband—who’d likewise arrived with his new wife. Now leaning his head against the chairback, the corpulent German sausage king commenced snoring. All through this rapid-fire commentary, the woman stuck out her tongue whenever familiar Argentinian tango musicians or courtesan friends passed by—using it as her greeting substitute.

Finding it increasingly disagreeable to remain among people with the woman—who had been drinking whiskey heavily as her drunkenness gradually intensified—Kōdashima stood up to withdraw to his room, whereupon she suddenly glared up at him.

“Hmph. Ibéte went all the way to Honfleur, and yet...” The woman’s words carried a strange intensity. “How do you know that?” “It takes one to know one, hmph.” The woman turned aside with a derisive laugh, then glared up at Kōdashima even more fiercely than before. “I’ve always had men stolen by that Ibéte.” As her glare weakened, a pitiful pout appeared on her face. Kōdashima had told this woman he’d known Ibéte for some time already, but seeing no point in further discussion, he hauled the reluctant woman out through the hotel entrance into the evening gloom.

V

It was past 1 AM inside the Deauville gambling hall. In the milk-colored stagnant air of the room, a vicious mutual bloodsucking had begun.

In light wearied by tobacco smoke and the scent of perfume, several gambling tables floated. And people were densely packed around them. It looked as if people were swarming onto a shipwrecked boat. Some leaned too heavily on the edge, while others looked as if they’d sunk completely. At the two-thousand-franc table, the Stanley gambling syndicate began their battle. A slender, impeccably dressed man; a woman with her back fully exposed; a couple—both corpulent—studded with jewels.

So many couples dressed in kingly resplendent, supremely stylish attire that they paradoxically appeared ordinary occupied most of the space, making a birch-bark-colored old woman single-mindedly fixated on greed and an innocent-faced youth stand out all the more. And between those human bodies flashed playing cards; wooden clogs that swept them aside; white hands; banknotes; and hammered silver plates used in place of paper money. Kōdashima stood unnaturally tense, his hands clenched tightly together, ankles planted against the floor as he surveyed the hall through the tips of his heavy boots.

That's it. There she was—found at last!

It was the woman from Room 493.

Kōdashima grew irritated. This woman, as if someone had put her up to it, had been tagging along after him everywhere he went since coming to this town. This was a truly uninteresting encounter.

But the woman, completely indifferent to whether Kōdashima was in such a mood or not, vigorously rolled up the man’s sleeve. There was no helping it! At least she wasn’t drunk—better to take advantage of this rather than provoke half-hearted resistance, he decided, resigning himself to getting some sort of explanation out of her here. However, the woman was agitated, as if fixated on something. And after forcefully pulling the man's rolled-up sleeve, she walked him around the hall for a while, but suddenly stopped, hurriedly released his arm, and spitefully yanked Kōdashima's earlobe.

“Ibéte is here.” “You came here because you want to see Ibéte, don’t you?” “I know full well.”

At the five-hundred-franc table sat Ibéte. Directly across from the elderly gentleman standing at "Oyamoto," she presided over her table with queenly composure. She wore a kimono whose color complemented her complexion perfectly. The table's occupants all appeared to acknowledge her authority, modulating their behavior to match her shifting moods. Most conspicuously, the bull-necked man of prime age beside her attended to her needs with nearly groveling solicitude.

Ibéte acknowledged Kōdashima’s arrival. Then she ostentatiously leaned against the bull-necked man’s shoulder and pretended to relieve her fatigue. The man, utterly enraptured, kissed Ibéte’s fingers. She cast another fleeting glance toward Kōdashima but did not even grant a look to the woman accompanying him. Of course, Kōdashima knew that even if Ibéte were aware of this woman being by his side, she wouldn’t care in the least—more than that, he felt a twinge of jealousy at how Ibéte, childlike as it seemed, was deliberately teasing him by flirting with another man. But even more than that, he found himself captivated by the peculiar behavior of the woman accompanying him. Despite having been ignored by Ibéte, when Ibéte turned her way, she hurriedly nodded, flashed an ingratiating smile, and even blew a kiss. Her face had gone pale with excitement, and even her breathing had grown hurried. When Ibéte once again lowered her eyes to the table and calmly immersed herself in the game, the woman frantically urged Kōdashima to leave the spot as if clawing at him.

"I'm so frustrated," she said. "I lost to her again." "That little brat must have some powerful electric hold over people's minds." The woman pulled Kōdashima into the casino's attached bar while tears streamed down her face. More drinks? Kōdashima grew irritated. What obligation did he have to babysit this woman through dinners and drinks? He found the whole situation utterly absurd. Yet even so, a faint pity for her seeped into his loneliness—a loneliness made keener by Ibéte's absence. Reluctantly, he followed her inside once more.

An impossibly long bar counter. There were only four or five patrons. A man who appeared to be the head waiter had just finished shaking a cocktail shaker.

“Madame Oriental—have you managed to wheedle a jade hairpin out of your husband yet?” He approached the two seated on chairs far removed from the other guests and cracked a joke to the woman. “Quiet, Freddie. Unfortunately, he’s not Chinese.” Panting...

The man left an ambiguous smile and turned back toward the other customers. Having seen him off, the woman now turned back toward Kōdashima, blinking her eyes that looked strangely hollow now that her tears had dried. “That Freddie—they say he’s the king of the French cocktail world, you know.”

Having informed Kōdashima, she headed back over.

“Freddie, bring over that cocktail you shook up.” The woman who had haughtily placed her order now settled down only to contort her face in complaint and start talking about Ibéte. “Did you see that impressive outfit of Ibéte’s? At first glance it seems unremarkable, but that rose de Rajef color—it’s a shade even the most skilled clothiers in France haven’t managed to produce until now. And she’s already wearing it somehow—what a witch she is.”

The woman jabbed Kōdashima sharply each time frustration overcame her. Every time her violent elbow struck him, he found himself recalling Ibéte’s gaze through smoke-darkened lashes. "I’m begging you—don’t fall for that woman alone." "If it were any other woman, I’d even help set things up for you."

According to the woman's account, Ibéte remained childlike for her age. Yet despite that, she possessed a sweet poison that typically paralyzed any man who became involved with her. The men too, initially treating her as a plaything, gradually grew genuinely attached and became utterly compliant to her every whim. While driven to distraction by her selfishness, they ultimately came to take pleasure in it. Such men were mostly elderly, and even if there happened to be a young man among them, he too would begin doting on her like a daughter. The woman counted renowned industrialists and politicians among those men, and indeed, lowering her voice at the end, declared that even here—from Mayor Machip of Deauville to key casino officials and wealthy men who had come to gamble from nations across the world—nearly all had been ensnared by Ibéte. As he listened, Shunsaku Kōdashima supposed these must be men won over by Ibéte’s resplendent beauty and those brazenly cute tactics of hers—sometimes deployed as professional stratagems—but this realization brought him little comfort now.

“So, you see—” “A foreigner like you shouldn’t get tangled up with a woman like that.” “If it were me, I’d be a woman for the moment…” Having vented by chattering nonstop at Kōdashima—who offered no objection—and with her intoxication deepening, the woman began accosting anyone entering the bar. According to patrons’ chatter, the gambling tables grew increasingly frenzied. The Stanley syndicate had moved to thousand-franc tables to commence “open bank”—a system where bankers accept wagers exceeding 1,000 francs from any opponent. Such bankers needed at least one million francs on the table with two million in reserve. News that Automobile King Citroën—gambling since last night—had carried over nearly ten million francs made glass-clutching patrons pause mid-sip. Then entered Cécile Sorel with her young husband—the French actress Kōdashima had often seen in Parisian theaters. Though nearing sixty, her dignity and eloquence masked fine wrinkles, making her thirty-something husband seem no mismatch. She wore a Second Empire robe de style befitting her countess status, painted fan in hand. About to seat herself at the bar’s corner table, she spotted Fernand Vandrem—the acerbic satirist—among the women and remarked with perfect composure:

“We might as well have taken seats here to become material for your next work, hehe…” Despite this easing of the atmosphere, as intoxication deepened, the woman accompanying Kōdashima grew increasingly hostile. When she spotted a gentle old man in evening attire who had just arrived there, she suddenly bristled and sharply arched her eyebrows. “Hmph, another one of Ibéte’s dear relatives has shown up.” The woman tried to grab the old man’s white beard.

The old man—former chief of the Russian Imperial Detective Corps before the Revolution and current Deauville Fraudulent Gambling Control Chief—smiled as he seized her hand, restrained her body, and dragged her down from the high chair. Under the old man’s courteous yet firmly restrained handling, the woman found no use in struggling. Kōdashima could no longer bear to stay near the woman. Seizing an opportunity, he hurriedly exited through the bar’s doorway, and the woman clumsily chased after him.

“I’ll chase you all the way to the Orient.” “Who’d hand you over to Ibéte?”

The gardens surrounding the casino, divided into angular and diamond-shaped sections, were wet with night dew and glittered like varnished artificial flowers under the light streaming from the windows. As they walked through them, no matter how much Kōdashima tried to shake her off, the woman refused to let go. In the end, she ended up lying spread-eagled on the lawn and, stretching out one hand, firmly grasped the hem of his trousers without releasing it. His temper finally snapped. While knowing it was cruel to haul her up, he used a judo move he somewhat knew. Then the woman nonchalantly rose and this time clung to his shoulder.

“Strange… strange… strange…” “Do it more!” “This is the first time I’ve felt pain here—it feels good.” Kōdashima was utterly confounded. His head grew foggy with exhaustion. The woman’s drunkenness had finally peaked; her arms clung fiercely to his while she rested her head on his shoulder and began sinking into deep slumber. Having forgotten his original purpose of possibly meeting Ibéte, devoid of any forethought or afterthought, and finding everything bothersome, he took the woman into his room at the Normandy Hotel and laid her down to sleep.

VI

The woman was thrown onto Kōdashima’s bed and fell into a senseless sleep, but he found himself completely unable to rest beside her. He pushed the sofa against the wall, spread a blanket over it, and lay down—whereupon fatigue immediately dragged him into deep sleep.

Kōdashima awoke from the sofa when morning had grown quite late. The woman on the bed still lay insensate in sleep. Each time he glimpsed her disheveled sleeping form, he found himself yearning for Ibéte's cold, porcelain-like allure. Had Ibéte possessed even a shred of this woman's recklessness, his feelings toward her might long since have become an ordinary romance by society's measure. But Ibéte's occasional collapses into detachment—becoming mere 'object'—held an allure that bordered on the superhuman. And that childlike compulsion to parade her artifices—those very traits that should have kindled passion between them instead left them chilled. So it was that he'd been drawn to her through some ineffable magnetism beyond romantic love... Yet now—had she summoned him here with some resolve of her own? Though summoning by telegram scarcely counted as remarkable behavior for her, whether real or imagined, the Ibéte he'd met yesterday in Honfleur had seemed lonelier than ever before. Could some imminent crisis have befallen her?—As this faint premonition took shape, Kōdashima found himself increasingly unable to keep still.

Kōdashima slipped out into the corridor, pressed some money into the hands of the bellboy assigned to Ibéte’s room, and inquired about her whereabouts. According to the bellboy’s answer, she had just returned from the casino to change into riding attire at the hotel before going out again with a whip. She had scheduled a warm bath, massage, and manicure for ten o’clock—she was sure to return by then, he said. Kōdashima could hardly wait until that hour. Until then, he had no desire to remain in his own room at this hotel alongside that woman’s sleeping form. Knowing Ibéte had gone out for her morning ride, he resolved to seek out the bridle path and meet her. Before long, that woman would wake up and—once she realized his absence—likely leave somewhere herself. Kōdashima quietly returned to his room once more, hurriedly changed into everyday clothes, and swiftly stepped outside. The cloudy sky released a mist-like drizzle that left the air stiflingly humid. On Eugène Cornuché Street, crowds mingled with tree-lined greenery within a frosted-glass haze, their bustling shadows blurred. During riding hours, most passersby were mounted on horses. He scrutinized each steed but found no sign of Ibéte. When Paul Weltheimer passed by astride Epinal—Europe’s most celebrated horse, its forequarters nearly suspended midair as slender forelegs kicked at the sky—people held their breath before erupting into fervent applause within the mist.

On the beach, girls in this year’s fashionable swimsuits—split open down to below the back—and youths covered only at the waist and otherwise completely naked clung to the waves only to be battered and knocked down; from afar, the Westerners’ skin appeared as tender as freshly peeled bananas. Kōdashima suddenly flushed crimson. Was he not, after all, still fixated on Ibéte’s physical body?—Cowardly and faint-hearted in his relentless self-scrutiny, he once again shook his head violently from side to side. And with a vigor as if defying something, he started walking briskly with defiant energy.

The luxury goods shops catering to tourists had their fire shutters down and remained deeply asleep. On their doors, crude caricatures of the Spanish Emperor were sketched in white chalk. Slipping through his nation's turbulent political affairs, His Majesty would occasionally visit here to amuse himself. His classically handsome countenance found admirers throughout France. Under morning lights still burning in the tailor's display window, mannequins proclaimed Persian wild sheep as this autumn's prevailing fashion. The misty rain had cleared unnoticed as the road ascended a crimson-soiled slope where autumn grasses lay tousled, until the polo field spread open before his eyes.

The final polo match between England and America was scheduled for this afternoon. Amidst the American team’s practice horses surging forward and retreating like foaming waves, green-striped and pale pink uniforms flickered. Sensing the herd of horses suddenly surging toward the roadside fence as they chased a thrown ball, one horse—neighing loudly and stamping its hooves—stood in the shade of an elderberry bush along the path ahead of Kōdashima. As he carefully circled around the roots of the elderberry bush, a man stood dazedly holding the horse’s bit. The man was the forty-year-old ticket clerk who had seen Kōdashima stationed at the casino ticket counter the previous night. The horse was a slender white mare fitted with a side-saddle; seeing the ribbons adorning the saddle, he thought it might well be Ibéte’s. Kōdashima intuitively thought that Ibéte might have somehow managed to train this man well enough to entrust him with such a duty.

“Good morning.” “Isn’t this Mademoiselle Ibéte’s horse?” “Where is Mademoiselle Ibéte now?”

The man answered without showing any particular surprise.

“Oh, you happen to know Mademoiselle Ibéte?” “Mademoiselle has gone down the cliff over there and is heading to the temple.” “She said she had an acquaintance among the monks and was going to inquire about the amount of offering money collected.” “That girl is truly a zealous sociologist.”

He offered a perfunctory nod. Indeed. She really is a zealous sociologist.

At the same time, there was something he wanted to casually probe this know-it-all man about. Kōdashima feigned a casual air and asked: “I also have business with Mayor Machip. Where can he be found?” “The Mayor? The Mayor was with that girl and Mr. George, the wealthy Scotsman, at Ruji until five-thirty this morning—the three of them having a late-night supper together.” “The three of them plan to depart for Spain tonight.” “So Mayor Machip has returned home to make preparations.”

Kōdashima felt the devoured remnants of Deauville—consumed by her—before his very eyes. Was she already departing for Spain? Did she no longer have business in Deauville—? As Kōdashima stared blankly at his shoes for a while, the man now inquired with a puzzled look.

“Are you Mademoiselle Ibéte’s friend?”

A sudden impulse to hate Ibéte welled up in Kōdashima. Ibéte—why had she summoned him to this place amid such an urgent situation? In a fit of anger, he wanted to say something reckless. “Even so, I am her lover.”

Then the man—contrary to his earlier gentleness—let out a sharp laugh and said.

“Everyone who becomes acquainted enough with that girl ends up as her lover, I suppose. But who among them could truly become her real lover? Speaking from twenty years of experience watching women from the casino ticket counter—that girl is first and foremost one to be seen and savored. Get too involved, and well...she’s precisely the sort who’ll bring about your ruin.”

Kōdashima said without understanding what any of it was about.

“Thank you for the warning.” Anyway, I should go meet Ibéte.

Kōdashima's anger toward Ibéte had already vanished. With heartfelt emotion, he descended the single path along the cliff toward the temple to meet Ibéte.

VII

After expressing her thanks to the temple’s officiant priest, Ibéte tucked the small notebook into the inner pocket of her riding attire. After confirming the officiant priest had concealed himself behind the door beside the altar, she approached Kōdashima.

“You’ve come all this way, haven’t you? I too suddenly found myself with circumstances that made me want to see you. But when I returned to the hotel earlier and inquired, your room was closed—you still seemed to be asleep.”

The dim altar’s long candles illuminated half of the lily flowers and the Virgin Mary statue’s chest; beyond that lay only impenetrable shadow. Ibéte’s slender figure in riding attire—cinched so tightly her waist seemed ready to snap—was visible only through faint light filtering past repair scaffolding that obscured the stained glass. “So you’re leaving, I hear.” “Oh my—where did you hear that? …That’s right. Suddenly this morning—it had been settled.” “Why was it decided so abruptly? Did someone force this? Yourself?”

“It was everyone who decided—starting with the Mayor and all the people of Deauville.” “So you’re leaving this evening, I hear.” “I heard it from the talkative man who’s watching the horses over there.”

“Yes, that man is talkative but relatively kind and honest.” “And I suddenly found myself wanting to see you this morning.” “Then I wanted to savor one last ride with Mont Blanc—that horse called Shirayama.”

She had drawn nearly flush against Kōdashima. “And have you already completed your investigation?” “Yes—for the most part—”

She looked around and lowered her voice.

“Let’s walk while we talk………… I’ve managed to get a rough estimate of the revenue from the gambling establishments that the French Ministry of Finance has kept secret.” “Admittedly, I’ve only managed to confirm numbers from nine major establishments out of over a hundred gambling venues—but once you know those nine, you can extrapolate the rest.” “How much do you think that amounts to?” “Even from just nine gambling establishments last year, the total revenue amounted to over 260 million francs.”

260 million francs! Converting that at Japanese parity would amount to over twenty million yen. If that was the revenue from just nine gambling establishments, then the total from over a hundred would be extraordinary indeed. Yet he found himself with no capacity left for mere astonishment at such figures. Seizing the advantage of this deserted spot beneath the cliffside, he pressed Ibéte with sudden intensity. “Mademoiselle Ibéte! Why go through all this trouble uncovering secrets only to spill them recklessly to me?” “And dragging me out to this incomprehensible den of luxury—subjecting me to nothing but torment—what amusement do you find in this?” “What exactly do you demand from me?”

In Kōdashima’s words lingered the resentment of having been hounded by that woman from the very moment he arrived—all mingling unconsciously within him. Ibéte’s body trembled slightly, and the hand that carried that tremor came to rest on Kōdashima’s shoulder. “So you too were the type to say such things after all.”

She mustered all her vitality into her eyes, gazed intently at Kōdashima’s face, and continued speaking. Could it be that Easterners too—just like Westerners—simply cannot endure mysteries? Up close, when scrutinizing Ibéte’s body through the woolen fabric of her riding attire, one could sense in the swell of her chest and hips a childish constitution that somehow resisted fully becoming "woman." That very quality transformed into an uncanny allure, quickening Kōdashima’s amorous impulses. He clamped Ibéte’s wrist and shoulder, emitting a tormented sound.

“―Tell me, I implore you.” “Tell me more clearly, I implore you.” “I still don’t clearly understand what you’re saying.”

“Monsieur Kōdashima! Since it’s the last time, let me say everything.” “But ‘last time’—just because we part here doesn’t mean you and I can never meet again.” “No, it’s the last time. If I tell you everything, you’ll understand………… Come now, let’s sit there, Kōdashima.”

She found an old bench beneath a tree some distance away at the cliff's edge—one that appeared to have been abandoned there without being much soaked by rain. The two of them sat down. The surroundings were enveloped in profound silence. From time to time, cheers showered upon the herd of horses at the distant polo grounds could be heard.

“I thought my past work fit my nature perfectly, Kōdashima.” “I’m not the kind of woman suited for work or such things.” “Even with this current assignment—rather than them counting on me being a woman of skill—it was my childish nature that made people like me or let their guard down, which caught the eye of those who gave the orders.” That I could understand too. “This nature of mine made me happy up to a certain point in every job and showed me fascinating sights.” “But in the end, it’s work.” “If it’s work, everything becomes painful.” “That’s why I wanted someone who would silently accept my grumbling when suffering, my sighs, my occasional excited chatter when carried away, and even the mischief made when craving comfort.” “Otherwise, I’d lose my very reason to live.”

“Hmm.” “But there wasn’t a single European who could endure such things for me,” she said. “Europeans are a race that won’t commit to anything without first understanding it. Even if I explained this peculiar nature of mine, they’d never bother to understand. And once they did understand after my explanations, they’d start acting all fatherly or motherly toward me, pampering me in such a simplistic way. It may sound demanding, but men who pamper me like that lose all charm to fulfill the ‘conditions’ I desire.” Her voice dropped lower. “I grew disappointed in so many Europeans... and found you.”

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

“Well, listen… Up till now, you remained silent to the point of seeming indifferent about what I did—letting me have my way with everything.” “And yet, you never once acted as though you had no interest in me.” “You’re the only man who’s endured my strange desires—I’ve been grateful for that in my heart.” He understood. Ibéte. He clearly understood. “Well, listen… Truly, you’ve accompanied me all this time without ever demanding explanations for my whimsical mysteries.” “I thought that was characteristic of your nature as an Easterner.”

—Wait a moment, Ibéte. Kōdashima hurriedly wiped the sweat from his brow and firmly grasped Ibéte’s shoulders, shaking her.

“I’m sorry. I’ll remain as I’ve always been toward you, Ibéte.” “Yes, thank you… But if I were to truly understand your real self… Then this would truly become our final farewell.” “My fault. I’m sorry.” “No—it was I who was too presumptuous to think I could keep someone at my convenience like this. I was the one who was wrong. But though I’ve said it many times—I may appear a spirited, cheerful woman on the surface—there are moments when I turn into something like an impenetrable wall of a person. And there are times when I shut my lonely self inside that wall and don’t let myself breathe.”

“I often met you during those times too.” “I preferred the cold you of those times over your cheerful self.”

Kōdashima audibly gulped a single mouthful of saliva.

“Hey, Ibéte.” “Being a state spy is far too weighty a role for you.” “You should extricate yourself from such dangers and assume a more carefree station.” “Isn’t there even some old man drafting a will to bequeath you an inheritance?” “Make haste to Paris—become that elder’s adopted daughter or such—and secure yourself an untroubled position.”

The handkerchief Ibéte had gently pressed to her eyes appeared to Kōdashima as though she were wiping away tears. “Thank you.” “But everything’s too late now.” “I can no longer stay in France.” “As a female state spy, I’ve landed on France’s blacklist.” “I’m being deported—to Spain.” “And even if I’m returned to my homeland of Spain, there’s no telling when the anti-Primo faction that ordered my espionage will be overthrown.” “Either way, it’s a foregone conclusion—I’ll face execution by firing squad beneath the elm tree before the prison wall.”

―Ibéte—is that true?

“Yes—it’s true indeed.”

Ibéte glanced around briefly. There was no one. But Ibéte leaned forward and drew her whisper close to Kōdashima.

“Spain’s former Prime Minister, Primo de Rivera, banned gambling in resort areas under the pretense of justice,” she said. “Not only did the government lose revenue, but every resort area ended up as desolate as extinguished flames… San Sebastián across the border along this coast makes for a perfect example. For years that port had been a bustling playground, but after the ban it swiftly transformed into just another ordinary industrial harbor in Spain. So the current government plotted a grand revival of gambling.” She leaned closer, her whisper turning conspiratorial. “My secret mission was to investigate French resorts’ prosperity strategies for that revival plan. Well—I did everything I could, but it seems I first caught the eye of Boris Nadel, the casino’s Chief Inspector.”

—Hmm. “So you’re absolutely being deported to Spain tonight?” “Yes—absolutely I must. And even if I were to return—as I just said—Spain is a country where political upheaval could erupt tomorrow. I think it’s wise to bid you what may be the final goodbye of my life now.”

She looked intently at Kōdashima’s face and extended her hand. He grasped her hand in return, but there was no strength in it. There’s nothing to be done—if that’s your fate.

Ibéte relaxed the tension in her face and stood up from the bench. Then she stroked the waist of her riding habit, lightly tapped her skirt two or three times, and began walking with her gaze turned downward. But when Ibéte turned back to look at Kōdashima—who remained seated on the bench, still unable to rise as he sat lost in thought—her face had already regained its usual lively composure. With even a hint of coquetry in that expression, she returned to Kōdashima’s side and peered at his face over her shoulder.

“Mr. Kōdashima! Is there nothing you want from me?”

He was flustered at being told so abruptly.

Hohoho—can’t you tell? “Monsieur Kōdashima.”

Kōdashima flushed red all the way to his hands and feet.

——……………….

“I would never lift a finger for men I despise or those who gave me nothing, even at the bitter end—but you’ve rather splendidly fulfilled my hopes.” “Monsieur Kōdashima.”

Kōdashima flushed even redder.

I’ll give you my thanks. “Between half past ten and twelve today………… I’ll come visit your room, all right?” “Kōdashima.”

VIII

Suddenly, Kōdashima—now an utterly pitiable despondent who had bid eternal farewell to Ibéte—returned to the hotel having simultaneously become a profoundly shameful beneficiary of fortune. There was not even an hour left until half past ten when Ibéte would come to visit.

When Kōdashima opened the door to his hotel room, the woman he had completely forgotten about was still there. The woman—seemingly having emerged from the bath in a sturdy-looking state of partial nudity—was having her morning meal. On top of the wheeled silver table, a tin of caviar was enveloped in a mound of crushed ice. Then a half-finished glass of white wine—Kōdashima stood frozen in astonishment beside it. When the woman saw him, she nevertheless hurriedly pulled on her socks. And she embraced his body as if he were a familiar man, making him sit 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 then she tucked a napkin into his chest. So, what are you going to eat? “Because you went for a walk, you must be hungry.”

He now lacked both the courage to get angry and the strength to resist.

—I prefer this. Kōdashima poured wine into his glass and drank. One glass wasn’t enough to quench the thirst in his chest. The woman, spreading cheese on black bread while watching him gulp down wine, felt a faint shudder run through her body—the kind peculiar to women of her sensitivity—before finally loosening her distorted eyes listlessly and, with spent strength, throwing both bread and knife onto the table as she spoke. “I knew it. You went to meet Ibéte.”

Kōdashima, slightly flushed, did not stop his hands and kept gulping down wine from the glass, so the woman was somewhat overwhelmed and stared blankly. But eventually, she left the chair and began listlessly putting on her kimono.

Well, fine then. You could at least finish the meal you started before leaving. To this Kōdashima, the woman gave no reply; she finished putting on her kimono completely and quickly fixed her hair. And she came to Kōdashima’s side and extended her hand.

“What’s gotten into you? You’ve become far too docile all of a sudden.”

“I’ve figured it all out.” “Ibéte is going to come to this room after all, right?” “And she’s going to become the queen of this room.” “If I stayed in this room until then—no matter how much I hate her—I’d have to be all smiles like some lady’s maid.” Kōdashima was slightly surprised. How does this woman know that Ibéte is coming to this room? “It’s always that flower that drives me out.”

The woman pointed at the geranium flowers in the vase before the mirror and said this. This flower had always been an ill-omened bloom for her. It was always the one Ibéte used to adorn the room when permitting men their final indulgence. The men this woman tried to claim always ended up going to Ibéte. At times she had tried to beat Ibéte to the men she was pursuing, but she always lost. Even when Ibéte didn’t deliberately try to defeat her, her peculiar charm overpowered this woman. The terror she held toward geranium flowers had become instinctual. This woman had originally been a sister model alongside Ibéte at Jean Patou’s boutique. They had also been members of the Otome Club together—a strange collision of fates between these two women. She had just emerged from the bath when she saw the geranium flowers before the mirror. She started, thinking this was happening again. But she reconsidered whether it might just be a coincidence. It was only natural for hotel room attendants to use these flowers blazing with seasonal fire. Wanting as much as possible to believe it was so, she did not question the bellboy who had brought them. However, Kōdashima’s current attitude proved these were not mere coincidental geranium flowers but ones Ibéte had sent to this room via a bellboy. I will leave. But this will be the last time I back down from Ibéte. I’ll keep competing with her until I die—her voice was low, alternating between shouts and complaints without pause.

While Kōdashima listened keenly with his ears to the woman’s words, he was now deeply stirred in the depths of his chest by the blazing geranium flowers before his eyes, and the sorrow of parting with Ibéte also mingled strongly in his heart.

The clock struck ten o’clock. Then the woman brusquely moved toward the doorway. Kōdashima, slightly flustered, blurted out carelessly.

“Ibéte was departing from here tonight to return to Spain. She’s never coming back to France again.”

The woman turned around, thrust out her chin, and spoke as if addressing Kōdashima himself.

“Well then, I’ll go to Spain too. I’ll take on Ibéte for the men there!”

Nine

The early autumn morning sun streamed through the window in chartreuse hues, illuminating the dreamlike room where geranium flowers before the mirror moistened their crimson lips.

Ibéte did not permit the man to speak.

“Now we are ‘things’.” “That’s all there is.” “‘Things’ demonstrate their highest value.” “That’s all there is.”

Even if that was all there was to it, even if it stemmed solely from gratitude, Ibéte’s efforts to become a woman toward a man with regard to the present Kōdashima—to Kōdashima, this was unbearably poignant.

Kōdashima sighed repeatedly. And whenever he tried to say even a word, Ibéte would drown it out with a song. Kōdashima had fallen asleep before he knew it.

An hour and a half had passed. In the space between dream and wakefulness, he felt as though something were wrenching him away entirely. When he started awake and raised his upper body, Ibéte was no longer by his side.

At the hour of Ibéte’s departure that night, Kōdashima stood in the hotel entrance.

The car arrived. However, neither Mayor Machip nor the wealthy man was riding in it. Instead, Chief Inspector Boris Nadel sat dressed in travel clothes. Ibéte emerged accompanied by a throng of hotel staffers, her calm-hued lightweight attire lending her a forlorn dignity. Before her commanding beauty, Boris presented three bouquets.

“Mademoiselle.” “Unfortunately, Mayor Machip and Mr. George cannot accompany you to Spain.” “Instead, I will see you off to the border.” “These flowers are gifts from Mayor Machip and Mr. George.” “Both gentlemen asked me to convey their regards.” “And one bouquet is a gift from the Deauville Police Station.”

The police?

Even Ibéte turned pale. However, she quickly regained her composure.

“Understood.” “I express my deepest gratitude for everyone’s kind consideration.”

She settled comfortably into the car. With the Chief Inspector seated beside her, she held herself with more authority than usual. To Kōdashima's greeting, she now gave only a perfunctory nod.

As the car was about to start moving, the man from the casino ticket counter rushed over in a fluster. The man presented bonbons to Ibéte. “Safe travels, Mademoiselle.” “Please take good care of yourself during your journey.”

To this as well, Ibéte made only a perfunctory acknowledgment.

At this moment came the woman rushing over as if about to fall—that very woman who for two days had clung to Kōdashima and ceaselessly vilified Ibéte before him. The woman must have rushed out in considerable panic—her kimono worn in disarray, shamelessly leaning her upper body into the car before clinging to Ibéte.

“Ibéte—are you really being sent back to Spain?” “Then I’ll go back too.” “Ibéte.” “If you’re not here, there’s no point in me staying alone.” “Take me back with you too, please.” “Ibéte.”

Then, instead of Ibéte, Chief Inspector Boris Nadel spoke in a slightly stern tone.

“That won’t do.” Ibéte’s car was specially made. The woman showed none of her usual haggard appearance; for an instant she wilted and looked blankly between the two in the car, then clung to Ibéte even more pleadingly than before and said— “Then I’ll take the train back… but I don’t have any money right now.” “Ibéte, sorry to ask, but could you give me just enough for the payments at my current cheap inn, the train fare to Madrid, and some spending money for now?”

Ibéte said nothing. She hardly turned to look at the woman, but when the woman finished speaking, she silently nodded, opened her handbag, and handed over a mix of gold coins and paper bills to her. The woman grasped Ibéte’s hand in its clinging white gloves and rejoiced as if receiving a sacred offering. “Thank you, Ibéte.” “Then I’ll leave this place as soon as I’m ready.” “Let’s meet in Madrid.” “Right? Definitely.” “And I’ll come visit your old home right away, okay?”

The woman, having secured what she needed on her own, dashed back as though fleeing. Of course, though Kōdashima—who had clung to her so persistently—stood right before her eyes, she did not so much as glance his way. The hotel staff who had seen off the car all withdrew into the building. Yet Kōdashima remained standing in the shadow of the great column, gazing at the wheel tracks Ibéte had left behind under the eaves lantern's bright light. Then a man still lingering there approached Kōdashima's side—the forty-year-old from the casino ticket counter.

“How pitiful Ibéte is,” he said. “Deported to the border at last under suspicion of state espionage.” Kōdashima tried to form some response, but his voice caught in his throat. “She’s a rare girl, but we can’t keep her in Deauville any longer. With that clever darling about, even things France couldn’t spare would end up stripped clean to the roots.”

“Do you know if that girl actually stole anything?” “Ha, ha, ha… What a sweet lover you are. You don’t really understand the French, do you? Especially the people of this Deauville. From the Mayor on down, we’ve known all along that that girl was a detective.” “So you kept that girl here until today.” “But you see—if we’d driven her out right away, she was too lovely a girl for that. She was an oddly captivating girl, you see. So we kept her here just until she stopped being too much of a nuisance. For the decorations of Deauville’s gardens, we need butterflies with all manner of altered wing patterns, you see.”

“Have you been associating with that girl for quite some time?”

“Yes, from shortly after that girl came here, you see. We knew all along and humored that girl’s schemes. We even taught her the casino’s secrets—secrets that wouldn’t deal a mortal blow to France, you see. Since that butterfly—unlike ordinary butterflies—required such nourishment… Thanks to that, during the three months that girl stayed here, this Deauville buzzed with excitement and saw extra money flow. But Deauville’s season will soon close anyway, and if that adorable girl stayed any longer, we’d likely end up letting her investigate national affairs to the point of betraying our patriotic duty. And so it was unanimously decided to deport her, you see.”

After being dumbfounded, anger surged up in Kōdashima’s chest.

Crafty bastards. The French were truly cunning... They had used Ibéte—who had come as a detective—contrary to her purpose in Deauville. They were taking us for complete fools.

“Ha ha ha—getting angry so quickly, you. Please understand well that we people of Deauville loved that girl apart from any business motives. Drawing a line between French calculation and sincerity is exceedingly difficult. You see, even today, having the Chief Inspector personally escort her to the border was protection—so that girl, now listed as a state spy on France’s blacklist, wouldn’t get apprehended along the way. And now that that girl will be gone, just imagine how disheartened and lonely everyone—starting with Mayor Machip—will feel. So tonight at Mayor Machip’s residence, all those who were fond of that girl will gather and hold a memorial gathering for her. They’ll swig hot gin and sigh together—those men—no doubt about it.”