Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Fever-Stricken or Madman? Though my wound had not healed, in the sixth month after leaving my hometown, I nevertheless returned to Madrid.

I did not meet anyone. Nor did I even want to meet anyone again. However, I felt as though I wanted to meet only my dear friend Don Murio.

Meeting Caspina wouldn’t be bad. I don’t care who it is. I want someone to comfort me.

Don Murio’s one sister, nineteen-year-old Caspina, had loved me for a long time. I knew that. And I too had not loved that maiden in merely an ordinary way. Yet even that vanished after that night—after I saw the figure of the Foreign Minister’s second daughter, Princess Maria, at his soirée. Not only did my ordinary affection disappear, but even her fervent attentions came to feel as annoying as swarming flies. And even now, I showed a heartless attitude that I still regret.

Now, however, I was being shown a similarly heartless attitude by Princess Maria. Both I and Caspina were unfortunate. An unfortunate woman and an unfortunate man—should we not comfort each other?

On a pleasant May evening when the winter roses had begun to fade, I visited Don Murio. Like my own house, Murio’s house belonged to one of the oldest families in Spain, and at the end of a long avenue of trees stood a seventeenth-century-style Chinese gate, built with truly elegant grace. No sooner had I entered that gate than Nero—a Spanish dog as large as a calf—seemed to spot me instantly. Letting out a high-pitched bark, he came running to my feet and rubbed his shaggy-flanked belly against my knee.

No sooner had the second-floor window curtains of the stone building been vigorously thrown open to both sides than a small, lovely face—framed by jet-black hair—peered through them down at me. It was Caspina’s face.

“Oh!” No sooner had I heard Caspina’s voice—taut with joy as if ready to snap—than her face withdrew from view.

She and I soon clasped hands together at the entrance. “Oh! Oh! You really came back. You’ve truly returned.” Her voice quivered like a kokyu’s string with passion. “Yeees, I have returned indeed.” “Here I am, back as promised!” While somewhat overwhelmed by her passion, I said this with affection. “How I’ve waited!” Her voice grew tearful. “You didn’t send me a single letter.”

“…………” It was truly so—I had not sent even a single letter to her, to Murio, or to anyone else. I could not even write a letter. For I had been a fever patient, and remained one still. All love is a fever. And what is this but a love lost? Yet should I not at least have sent her word? “I must apologize,” I said gently running my fingers through her hair, “for being such a hopeless fool.”

“No, no,” Caspina said, smiling as she composed herself. “I’m the fool, right? Isn’t that so?”

I could not reply. The reason was that when she said this, her pure, maidenly eyes posed a riddle to me—as if they were saying: “The fool is me, right? Isn’t that so? I love you. Yet despite that, you do not love me in the slightest. So I’m a fool, aren’t I? Or will you love me from now on?” How could I possibly reply? Am I not still desperately in love with Princess Maria?

“Is Murio at home?” “Yeees, he is at home indeed.” “What would we do if he weren’t at home?” “My brother must have been waiting so eagerly for you.”

Her voice grew tearful again, but she turned around briskly and guided me into the house. When we arrived before Murio’s room, she gazed at my face with a meaningful look. “My brother has changed greatly.” “I don’t know why… but he has become so melancholic.” “Then again, he would suddenly become cheerful.” “Whether he’s a fever patient or a madman—there are times when it is truly frightening.” "A fever patient or a madman?…" I murmured inwardly. Then isn’t he just like me? What on earth had happened? This once-vivacious Murio—that bastard?

We entered the room.

He, Murio—ah, truly, how incredibly he had changed!

He had a pallid face (hadn’t it once been a vivid pink?) and was sunk deeply into a long couch adorned with a Persian-patterned rug, his head hanging low. His hair remained glossy and black, but his eyes were dull and devoid of light.

II. With a single shot, I’ll blow you away—mark my words.

The beauty of the Spanish dusk!

The midday heat had vanished without a trace, and a cool breeze swept over the gardens and around the houses. The pearl-colored evening darkness regretfully enveloped the large, pure white rhododendron blossoms and flame-like pomegranate flowers, while a choking lily fragrance flowed into the house through the windows.

From the direction of the old pond, the cry of a water rail could be heard, as if suddenly remembered. And in the sky, large stars like jasper twinkled.

Murio, Caspina, and I conversed in utmost quiet within a dreamlike room illuminated only by faint moonlight through the windows, not bothering to light the evening lamps.

When Caspina left her seat, I took Murio’s hand. While passionately gripping his hand, I earnestly said to him: “Hey, you, Murio, please talk to me. Why have you changed so much? You truly have changed. What has changed you so much?”

However, Murio remained silent. He kept his dreamy black eyes fixed vacantly on the window, persisting in his stubborn silence. “Were we not close friends?” While seized by sorrow, I tried to sway his heart. “No—we are supposed to be close friends.” “Our hearts were one.” “We felt both joy and sorrow together, comforting each other.” “You were first to notice my pitiful heartbreak.” “Was it not you who urged me to take that journey?” “And so I set out.” “Though that journey brought no happiness—though I returned to Madrid bearing the same wound—at least while traveling, I found moments of peace… Yet now I find your once-robust body wasted away; your mouth, which once spoke ten words for my one, sewn shut like thread through cloth, refusing to share your heart’s secrets.” “Can we still be called close friends?”

"Can we still be called close friends?"—These final words seemed to strike Murio’s heart, for his eyes—which had been fixed on the window—flickered toward me. His eyes were brimming with tears. And in those eyes, there was, unexpectedly, a pleading air. The imploring look in his gaze startled me deeply. Then, alongside terror, a dread surged in my chest—suddenly, I glimpsed a certain truth.

“Then Murio—ah, you too?… You’re in love with someone, aren’t you?”

“…………” Murio stared fixedly at me, his ashen lips trembling, then abruptly knelt on the floor. “I was once your close friend! But now we are mortal enemies!” Murio wailed vehemently, “You must say that! I’ll accept those words! Yes, I’ll accept those words! I will confess everything! I love her! For so very long—since long ago. From that time at the soirée when the two of us went together and saw her there! ……I tried to approach her in every way I could devise. To me, you were a hindrance—so I sent you on a journey. I coerced her. Again, I knelt before her. For her sake I wept, for her sake I raged, for her sake I became a demon… She loved you. Yes, at first—at first, you see. But today she loves me like fire! Why? Because even she—she is a Spanish woman after all! For just as she delights in the cruelty of bullfighting, so she delights in the cruelty of love. To be honest—though I say this—how terribly I spoke ill of you before her!”

“You’re an idiot—unprincipled and devoid of any romantic fiber!” Thus I spoke. She was initially terrified of my words as if they were a demon’s curse. But before long, she came to delight in those words. After all, human beings are creatures who delight in speaking ill of others. “As for Spanish women… By speaking ill of you, I gained her love!” “Now that I’ve won her love, I’ve taken to praising you effusively.” “I praise you in her presence.” “Then she says this: ‘Poor Danchon, poor man.’ You see, Danchon? Hmm, Danchon? You are pitied by her.” “Pity!” “That is the graveyard of love!” “Princess Maria may shed a tear for you, but she’ll never permit a passionate kiss.” “Since I stole the lips meant for you from the side, I’m likely a scoundrel! But you should know this—Spanish men become scoundrels for love’s sake, selling even parents and close friends.” “Because you too are a Spanish man.” “So, listen well, Don Danchon—the bond between us will never again be that of close friends or anything else.” “Now then, if you were to throw your glove at me, I would gladly prepare a pistol.” “Let’s shoot it out Spanish-style…”

Murio’s voice gradually took on a mocking tone. And his eyes became filled with a cruel light like that of a wild beast. He smoothly rose from the floor and began pacing around the room. While waiting for my answer.

With him before my eyes, I muttered inwardly: Was this man my former close friend? Was Don Murio—who had been so loyal to me, so cheerful and honest—truly this man before me? No, no—this was utterly unbelievable. The man here was not Murio. He was a demon king from hell disguised in Murio’s form. To mock this pitiful self of mine—clinging to a lost love and living without a shred of humanity—the devil had taken my close friend’s shape and now walked here like this.

At that moment, Murio stopped abruptly before me and crossed his arms. He flashed his white front teeth in a smile so filled with malice—one that, with just that single laugh, could enrage a person’s heart to the point of making them want to strangle the man who laughed from pure hatred. Indeed, I flew into a rage. I too rose smoothly.

“Murio!” I called out. “I’ll refrain from throwing the glove.” “Why?” Murio retorted.

“A duel is something gentlemen should engage in.” “So you won’t do it?”

“I won’t do it.” “The reason is… you are no gentleman… You betrayed your close friend.” “And you don’t regret it.” “Rather, you seem to excel at that.”

“I am a Spaniard.” “And you dare call yourself a gentleman?!” “But I refuse to acknowledge it.” “I name you—Dog!” “he declared.” “Dog?” Murio stepped forward. “One cannot duel a dog.” “I shall not throw the glove.” “I will take time to deliberate.” “And when my resolve hardens, I shall kill you with one shot—as one slaughters a dog.” “Mark this, Murio—guard yourself well.” “For I will butcher you.” “A duel of honor would be squandered on your kind.” “A single bullet shall end you.”

Hearing Murio’s shouts behind me, I left his room.

Caspina was standing in the corridor. A lead-like ashen face! She seemed to have eavesdropped.

“Danchon!” she cried out, staggering toward me. I supported her with one hand and looked at her face with eyes cold enough to freeze even fire itself, saying nothing. She pitifully lowered her head and stood there like a stake.

I slipped past her side and exited through the front door.

III. Childhood Friends

(Diary of Caspina, Murio’s Younger Sister……)

I am tormented by nightmares. What else could it be but a nightmare? This is a terrifying nightmare. Even recalling it makes me shudder. How can such things exist? How can such things be allowed? God, God, O Almighty Lord. Please save him. And please guide the souls of those two who have passed away. Even now, when night falls, I am tormented by the sound of the silver flute. And I am tormented by strange hand drum sounds and a goat’s cries. No matter how I think about it, I cannot understand. Why was Elder Brother playing the silver flute that night? And where on earth did he get that silver flute from? Everything seems like an inscrutable mystery. But before long, if a letter comes from that great detective Mr. Ibanes, this mystery will surely be solved. What a splendid detective he is!

The police and other detectives had concluded that that person was undoubtedly the culprit, but he alone shook his head and addressed me thus. “Just watch.” “Miss, the culprit lies elsewhere.” “I will surely apprehend them and prove it.” “The culprit lies in a completely unexpected direction… You did indeed hear the hand drum sounds and the goat’s cries, did you not?” “By the way, did you not hear the sound of bells mixed in with the hand drums?” “This is an important point, you know.”

And, after thinking a little,

“Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall hearing something.” “Amidst the hand drums circling the house again and again—thump thump thump—sounding so gloomily and incessantly, every now and then I could hear faint jingling noises like small bells.” “You say you heard them occasionally?” Mr. Ibanes fell silent for a moment after hearing this response—

“That night, the wind was blowing, wasn’t it?”

“It was stormy weather.” “I see. In that case—unlike the hand drums—since the bells’ sound was very faint，even if they rang incessantly，they might not have been heard as clearly as those of the hand drums. And another thing：the goat also cried occasionally，correct？”

“It was indeed occasional.” “Moreover, that night, I didn’t realize it was a goat making the noise.” “I thought perhaps someone had caught a cold and was walking around the mansion—um, that is to say, taking a stroll while coughing—and so I paid it no mind.” “However, when the next morning came, there were distinct goat footprints all around the mansion, so I concluded that those cough-like sounds from last night must have been the goat crying.”

“Your observation is excellent.” “It was likely the goat crying… However—and I do apologize for the imposition—I must ask you to recount the events of that fateful night and the preceding day in as much detail and with as much honesty as— Ah, forgive my discourtesy.” “From what I discern, you are certainly not one to speak falsehoods, Miss—yet I must nevertheless request your testimony.” “Of course, I presume you have already recounted this matter to the police and prosecutor. However, as you know, I am a private detective. Moreover—much to my present regret—I was not involved when the incident first occurred here.” “Yet now that Princess Maria—indeed, just last night—has perished in such circumstances, with her cause of death deemed suspicious, the Foreign Minister, her father, with whom I previously resolved a political matter, has engaged my services. Thus I pursue an independent investigation separate from the police… According to my deductions, there exists a profound connection between this case and Lady Maria’s death.” “Therefore, though I must beg your forbearance for this inconvenience, it is with this conviction that I seek your account.”

“There’s no question of refusing to tell you.” “I will tell you as many times as necessary.” “Even so, truly Princess Maria—that Princess Maria who was so beautiful—passing away in a single night… It feels just like a dream.” “How should I put this… It concerns that night, does it not?” “And the day before that night?” “In that case, I shall proceed to recount in detail from the day before.” “That day—though I say ‘that day,’ it was only about twenty days ago from today—feels as if it were yesterday.”

That evening, after a long absence, Lord Danchon came to visit. Lord Danchon had been traveling for about half a year. Because it was such an unexpected visit, how delighted I was! I immediately escorted Lord Danchon to my brother’s room. My brother looked utterly astonished. And rather cross. Here I should mention that my brother had been in ill humor since before then. At that moment particularly, his face twisted as though in physical pain. My heart pounded as I agonized over what to do, but thinking they might relax more alone than with me present, I left the room. “Yet feeling uneasy, when I returned shortly afterward...”

“Were they arguing in the room?” “They were speaking in raised voices.” “What were they discussing?”

“Well…” I faltered, then fell silent. How could I possibly speak of what happened next? That terrible argument between those two! Above all, Lord Danchon’s final words to my brother: “I’ll blow your brains out with a single shot!” How could I possibly utter such words? “If you are unaware, then so much the better. It’s nothing important anyway.” “You say it’s nothing important? Even so, the police…” I hurriedly shut my mouth.

“Ah, so the police considered that important?” “Then they must have pressed you persistently with their questioning to extract it.” “Since you wouldn’t even tell me, naturally you likely told those people nothing at the time either.” “I told them nothing.” “So they abandoned you and turned to interrogating the servants instead—is that right?”

“Yes, that is precisely correct.”

“That’s just their way of doing things. Well, whether they found anything… But never mind that. You made a mistake, didn’t you?” “What kind of failure could that be?” “Leaving just the two of them in the room and stepping away yourself was indeed a mistake… For is that not so? If you leave two love rivals alone together in a room, an argument is inevitable. ‘I’ll blow your brains out with a single shot!’—you would hear such words, wouldn’t you?”

I turned pale. He knows everything! Thinking this, I turned pale.

“How could you even know such a thing…” I asked breathlessly.

“Are you asking how I know such a thing?” “I knew nothing at all, but I’ve just now figured it out.” “That’s right—when you, young lady, turned pale and said in such a grave tone, ‘How could you even know such a thing…’, I realized, ‘Ah, so that’s how it is.’” “Admittedly, I did have my suspicions.” “Wouldn’t anyone suspect as much?” “Though your brother and Mr. Danchon were childhood friends since infancy, for Mr. Danchon to pick a quarrel immediately upon returning from a long journey—there had to be a grave reason.” “Yet both men belong to noble houses with no financial want.” “If not money—and given how young they are—it must concern a woman’s matter by common reasoning. Though most impertinent of me, I pressed you accordingly.”

“Even so, how could you possibly know the exact words Lord Danchon spoke to my brother?” “Ah—so it was Mr. Danchon who said such things to your brother? ‘I’ll kill you with a single shot…’ That came from Mr. Danchon’s side, then?”

The detective smiled amiably.

“But Miss, these are just ordinary insults people blurt out when they get a little worked up. Especially in a warlike country like Spain… So I merely stated it offhandedly, based on common sense. This is not a serious matter. It’s not at all serious, but if it were to reach the police’s ears, they might deem it significant. How about it? Do the police know about this?”

“I don’t believe they are aware.” “I didn’t say a word about it, and since the servants don’t know about my brother and Lord Danchon’s argument—” “That was extremely convenient.” “That is for Mr. Danchon’s sake.” “If they were to learn even such a thing, those police wretches would surely grow even more suspicious of Mr. Danchon.” “Oh dear, there’s no reasoning with the blind.”

IV. Subtle Tones of the Silver Flute

Detective Ibanes smiled wryly, then asked anew.

“Well, Miss, what reason did the police have for arresting Mr. Danchon, I wonder?” “That…” I said in a tearful, pleading voice. “That is how it is.” “That Lord Danchon was arrested must certainly have been a mistake on the police’s part, but there were various pieces of evidence that made suspicion unavoidable… I will explain from the beginning.” “From the beginning of that night’s events—as I have described—when Lord Danchon returned, I immediately rushed into my brother’s room.” “Then, while crying—I truly cried.” I told my brother.

“Brother is no gentleman! Brother is no gentleman!...” Then my brother said: “No, I am a gentleman.” “That’s Spain for you,” he added. “Brother, you must apologize.” “If you don’t, you’re a villain,” I pressed further. Brother fell silent without another word, sinking deep into thought as he settled into the chaise longue. I too silently sat down on the same chaise longue and kept watch over his demeanor. And so we remained—for what felt like an eternity—until midnight deepened around us. Suddenly, my brother spoke again.

“You’re exactly right.” “I must apologize to Danchon.” “My attitude was wrong.” “I’ll go now and apologize.” “Brother!” I cried, overwhelmed with joy, throwing myself into his chest. “Now *that’s* the gentleman you are!” “But Danchon won’t forgive me.” My brother muttered anxiously, yet still prepared to go out and hurried off.

“Ah, well, now I can rest easy.” “With this, the two of them will surely reconcile and return to how they were before.”

Thinking this way, I waited for my brother’s return while staying in his room for some time. The air held a stormy tension; when I approached the window to gaze outside, the sky stretched crisply clear before me. Countless stars shone a phosphorescent blue in the distance, their brilliance almost refreshing, while tattered fragments of clouds occasionally raced across the expanse. A mist had settled over the ground—it too seemed driven by the storm—its swirling form appearing somehow pitiful, like a young bride clad in pure white fleeing from a villain. Buried in pale mist, the winter rose bush just below the window stood thick and luxuriant, adorned with both withered and full-bloom flowers like hairpins.

As I gazed at such outdoor scenery, I grew sad. And then I grew frightened. There was no reason for it. Yet despite that, I clung to the window and wept quietly. It must have been an omen, I suppose. When I suddenly came to my senses and looked out, my brother—who had left earlier—was walking dejectedly through the Chinese-style gate that stood before me. Perhaps he had returned too soon, changed his mind along the way, grown reluctant to apologize, and turned back—I waited for my brother’s arrival with a certain unease. Unable to wait for him to enter the room, I asked my brother.

“Did you meet Lord Danchon?”

“Danchon wasn’t home.” My brother’s reply was thus. As his tone held no deception, I believed him at once. When I glanced over, my brother was clutching a slender package in his right hand.

“Brother, what...? And that package?” When I asked, wonderingly, “This?” Brother looked at the package. “I don’t really know either.” “When I reached the row of trees just ahead, a young girl popped out.” “She asked me for money. When I saw she was a pitiful beggar, I gave her some coins—then she offered me the package she’d been holding.” “Even though I refused, saying I didn’t need it, she insisted I take it.” “Wasn’t that explanation clever? ‘This amulet contains blessings so your lordship—born under a lucky star—may continue enjoying good fortune,’ she said.” “So I ended up taking it, but I wonder what’s inside.”

When my brother untied the package, a flute came out from inside. Moreover, it was a splendid silver flute, its entire surface carved with mysterious shapes of birds and beasts—a masterpiece of exquisite craftsmanship.

“What the devil is this?!” “It’s a flute!” “That’s no cheap silver flute.” My brother stared at the flute, looking utterly astonished—or rather, completely dumbfounded—as he spoke these words.

“You’re telling such nonsense about receiving this from a beggar girl.” “You must have purchased it somewhere.” Since I believed the flute was no cheap trinket but rather something valuable, I couldn’t accept my brother’s story. While beggars often exchange tokens for alms—crude wooden whistles or clay dolls at most—bestowing an ornate silver flute adorned with carvings defied all plausibility.

But even though I said that, my brother kept stubbornly repeating the same words he had just spoken. “This has to be Bohemian carving.” “An exceptionally rare piece of work.” “The tone should be quite fine too.”

“With such words,” my brother meticulously peered into each hole and held it up to examine the carvings.

Before long, I bid my farewells and left my brother’s room. And then, I returned to my own bedroom two rooms away and went to bed. As I was fatigued, I drifted off immediately.

And then—what do you know? Through sleep—through my pleasant sleep—a delicate thread of music began to reach me. Ah—my brother was playing the silver flute—I thought this even as I drowsed. And while drifting off, I remained entranced by my brother’s skillful playing. Though it was an exceedingly lonely melody—mournful enough for a funeral, rendered in such an eerie manner—and though I kept thinking he ought to stop so late at night, I nevertheless strained to listen intently. Just then, from outside came a sudden strange noise that pierced through the raging storm while keeping time with the flute’s melody—thud-thud-thud. Moreover, though rare, there was indeed—exactly as you had mentioned—a jingling like small bells that accompanied it. The cry of a goat—resembling a human cough—also reached my ears. It seemed someone was beating a hand drum—though I only realized those thudding sounds were indeed from a hand drum some time later.

Before long, I noticed the sound of the silver flute gradually growing fainter. In contrast, the sound of the hand drum grew louder and louder. At first distant, it circled around the mansion before seeming to emerge near the entrance; then this time, moving before my brother’s room close to the entrance, it began ringing out clearly—as if overwhelming the silver flute’s ever-weakening tones. And then suddenly, the utterly diminished sound of the silver flute ceased entirely. At that same moment, the hand drum’s rhythm also stopped short. And then, the surroundings fell into a silence so profound it chilled the blood.

And then what happened next was the sound of a pistol.

V. The Scarless Corpse No sooner had the pistol shot rung out than the entire household erupted into uproar. Though everyone must have been terribly flustered, detailing their panic would serve no purpose—so I shall omit it.

The entire household jumped up and rushed toward the direction from which the pistol shot had come. To tell you where it was—it was my brother’s room. I also rushed over.

My brother remained seated on the chaise longue—he hadn’t gone to bed yet, you see—still holding the silver flute in one hand, with his head drooping limply as though he were sleeping. The window glass was shattered, and a large hole had opened. From there, the dawn wind blew in. Before we knew it, night had faded into dawn, and a pale light was dimly illuminating the flowers in the garden. Looking, I saw that the flower bed had been trampled, and particularly, the winter rose bushes had even been crushed.

At that moment, Mother’s scream—a maddened voice of terror—resounded throughout the room. “Anyone, come here! Touch this Murio!” “Isn’t he cold as ice!” “This child is dead!”

Mother fainted. If only Father had been there at that time, what a help he would have been. At that time, Father had gone to England on official business and was absent.

I immediately ran over and touched my brother’s forehead; it was truly cold as ice, just as Mother had said. My brother was dead. “No, he was murdered.” “But no blood was coming out from him anywhere, and there were no signs of bullet wounds whatsoever.” Amidst the shock and sorrow, we did not lose our composure. I immediately called the police. We did not move my brother’s corpse from its position at all until the coroner arrived.

Before long, a prosecutor, an investigating magistrate, two superintendents, four constables, followed by detectives and a police doctor arrived by car and began their on-site investigation. First and foremost, they proceeded to examine my brother’s corpse. There were no wounds anywhere. No bullet wounds, sword wounds, or injection marks.

“The heart has been severely compromised. Indeed, this must be the fatal wound… But how could it have been attacked so suddenly?”

The police doctor tilted his head slightly.

“Could he have drunk poison?”

A police superintendent asked.

“I cannot state definitively without an autopsy, but externally, there are no traces of having ingested poison anywhere.” “Something like a heart attack, I suppose?” “Hmm,” the police doctor pondered once more, “if we attribute it to a heart attack, the symptoms are somewhat inconsistent…” Then they searched every corner of the room, but there was not the slightest trace of any struggle anywhere.

Then, the prosecutor, while pointing at the broken windowpane, asked me in this manner.

“Was this here before?” “No,” I answered. “It had not been broken until last night.”

“Ah,” the Prosecutor nodded. “In that case, Miss, does your household leave the curtains open and the shutters unclosed like this even at night?” “No, we usually close them, but I believe we carelessly neglected to do so last night.” “If you say it was mere carelessness, then does that mean there was some concern regarding your brother’s person that required such negligence?”

I thought, “Oh no!” And so, somewhat flustered, “I don’t know anything about that,” I said in a quivering voice. The prosecutor, then, with an air of suspicion, stared intently at my face, “There is one more thing I would like to ask: who was the last person to leave this room—that is, your brother’s room—last night!”

“That would be I.”

“Ah, so it was you, Miss?” “And what time was that?” “I believe it was around 1 AM.” “Wasn’t that rather late?” “Do you usually converse until such a late hour?” “No, that is not the case.” “But last night, there were circumstances…” “Then, would you kindly give me a brief account of those circumstances?”

I was being pressed harder and harder, and had grown somewhat desperate, so "I shall explain then. Yesterday evening, my brother had an argument with a friend and became terribly agitated, so I stayed up late comforting him that night." "Oh ho? He had an argument with a friend?" The prosecutor exchanged a fleeting, meaningful smile with the investigating magistrate standing beside him.

“And what is the name of this friend?” “That would be Don Danchon. He would never normally quarrel with others.” “I see.” The prosecutor said with a smile, “You must know the reason eventually, I suppose. The reason for the argument between the two of them?” “No, I don’t know.” “So then, you were not present at that scene?”

“I was away from the scene.” “That is regrettable… Now, I would like to hear in somewhat greater detail about the relationship between you and your brother and Mr. Danchon.”

And so I explained that relationship in as much detail as possible. [I explained] how they had been close friends since childhood; how they had been classmates of the same age; how both had shared interests in painting, music, and sculpture… and how Lord Danchon had departed on a journey six months prior and had only recently returned after this long absence.

After hearing my account, the prosecutor nodded silently but then paused to consider for a moment, “So, you have no definite knowledge of why the two quarreled last night… In that case, I shall question the servants next… Now, regarding another matter—this silver flute. It belongs to your brother, does it not?” Having said this, the prosecutor pointed with his left hand—at the silver flute my deceased brother still clutched in his own left hand—and inquired:

I was growing desperate under this relentless interrogation—even if I were to say my brother had received that silver flute from a beggar along the tree-lined avenue last night, they would surely find it suspicious! Firstly, given our family’s standing, I found it distasteful for others to think we’d accepted anything from a beggar, so in the end, I said what I did.

“Yes, this is my brother’s silver flute.” “Surely your brother was playing this flute and, last night, did not even attempt to sleep but remained seated here.” “That would be when someone broke the window from outside and fired a pistol into the room.” “If it is indeed true that everyone in the household heard that sound…” “That is certain.” “If it hadn’t been for the shock of a pistol shot, there would be no reason for the entire household to awaken all at once.” “I said firmly.”

“Even so, it’s strange that there are no bullet wounds anywhere on the corpse.” “Even so, my brother is dead! The fact that he’s dead is proof!” “In that case, perhaps it could be this—though the pistol’s bullet did not strike him, upon hearing that dreadful explosive sound right by his ear, your brother was startled, suddenly suffered heart failure, and passed away.” “Doctor, what do you think of this theory?”

“It is not entirely impossible.” The doctor answered gravely, “Of course, while extremely rare, there have been several precedents.” As if to corroborate the words of the Prosecutor and the police doctor, a detective who had been examining the room earlier extracted a small object from the picture frame—from the gilded frame of an oil painting hung diagonally on the egg-colored wall directly opposite the shattered glass window.

“What is it?” asked the Prosecutor. “It is a pistol bullet.”

“Show me,” said the Prosecutor as he took the pistol bullet from the detective’s hand. “Indeed, this is a pistol bullet. Then, as the young lady stated, someone must have fired into this room from outside. “In that case, let us first examine the garden…” Having said this, the prosecutor took the lead and guided everyone toward the garden. I also followed along…

6. The Half-Human, Half-Beast Monster

Under the window was a flower bed. As I had mentioned earlier, the flower bed had been trampled. The beautiful flowers—lilies, balsams, water mallows, hibiscuses—had mostly been mercilessly crushed underfoot, and above all, the winter roses I cherished lay scattered across the ground without a single trace remaining. What surprised us most were the shoe prints covering the entire area. They were remarkably elegant and delicate shoe prints. One of the detectives immediately sketched them into his notebook. But what proved even stranger was how goat footprints mingled with those shoe prints. The prosecutor, police inspector, and examining magistrate all wore puzzled expressions as they silently studied the goat tracks—until suddenly, the judge burst into laughter and made this quip:

“No matter how you look at it, surely a goat couldn’t fire a pistol.” At the judge’s witticism, everyone burst into laughter. Then they all conducted another thorough search of the area.

“Oh, there’s a glove lying here.”

Another detective bent down and hurriedly picked up a single yellow deerskin glove from the thicket of winter rose bushes. Somehow, I felt that I had seen that glove before. “This is an excellent clue.” The prosecutor said this and showed the glove to the judge beside him.

In this way, the people circled the house multiple times and investigated, but found nothing else. Before long, everyone discontinued their investigation and proceeded to gather once more in the room where my brother’s corpse lay.

Everyone was silent. No one said a word. As I was worried about my mother—who had secluded herself in her bedroom since fainting, refusing to answer anyone’s questions and doing nothing but weep—I decided to check on her condition and attempted to leave my brother’s room. Then came footsteps in the corridor, and suddenly there stood Lord Danchon. Ah, how shall I describe Lord Danchon’s strangely terrifying countenance at that moment! A face paler than linen—not a trace of color—eyes crimson and blazing like flames, lips twisted leftward by spasms. Lord Danchon entered the room like a specter. When he reached my brother’s corpse, he stretched out his hand, removed the shroud from the face, and pressed his lips to the forehead. Then he approached the judge, drew a pistol from his pocket, flung it upon the desk, and began speaking calmly.

“I am the culprit.” “Please bind these hands.” He thrust both hands forward.

Suddenly, the room erupted in commotion. The judge, while attempting to restrain it,

“Excuse me, but what is your name?”

“Incento Don Danchon.” “Ah, so you are Mr. Danchon?”

Then, in an instant, my brother’s room was transformed into a temporary inquest chamber. “Since you yourself claim to be the culprit, there must be a reason for it.” “What is that reason?”

“The reason is extremely simple.” “Because I bore a grudge against Murio, last night I stole into the garden and shot him dead with a single pistol shot.” “Do you truly believe you killed him?”

When Lord Danchon was told this, he made a surprised expression and,

“I believe I certainly killed him.” “As evidence, Murio lies dead here before us... Though I must admit, until receiving that telephone call from this house earlier informing me of his death, I remained half-convinced and half-doubting.” “Why were you uncertain?” “The reason... it was too bizarre...”

“Bizarre! What do you mean by bizarre?” “Even if I were to tell you, you likely would not believe me…” “Belief aside, I must hear it regardless.” “Since you insist so strongly—I believed I shot not Murio, but a supernatural being.” The room buzzed again. “Ho ho! A supernatural being? What do you mean by a supernatural being?” “From the torso up, it was human; from the torso down, an animal—that is what this supernatural being was.”

“What happened to that supernatural being?” “That supernatural being was standing outside the window and peering into this room.” “You claim you fired at it? Where were you at that time?” “I was in the shade of the winter roses.” “A supernatural being? You fired at a supernatural being? A supernatural being?”

The judge exchanged glances with the prosecutor and allowed wry smiles to form at the corners of their mouths, as though to say they couldn’t believe such a thing.

After that, the interrogation still continued tediously and at length. And what was conducted last was the examination of evidence.

The shoe prints left on the ground. They matched Lord Danchon’s shoe prints perfectly. One of the yellow deerskin gloves found among the winter roses. The other glove came out from Lord Danchon’s trouser pocket. The pistol bullet from the picture frame. That too was a bullet from Lord Danchon’s pistol.

And so, in the end, Lord Danchon was taken into custody on the spot as the most significant suspect. “Yes—as the most significant suspect…”

Seven: A Letter from the Detective

“Now I completely understand. Thank you very much indeed.” Detective Ibanes had been listening to my story with great attention, and at this point he politely spoke as follows.

“Now I completely understand. Yes, completely—everything… But Miss, even so, why did you give the silver flute to Princess Maria?”

“Ah, that silver flute?” “There was no particular reason.” “I simply gave it because Princess Maria insisted she wished to keep it as a memento and earnestly requested it.”

“That was a grave mistake.” “And why would that be?”

Detective Ibanes looked at me resentfully and made no attempt to explain. And so, for a while, we stared at each other in silence. “By the way, Miss—do you have your elder brother’s old diaries?” Detective Ibanes, for whatever reason, suddenly asked such a thing.

“Yes, I believe there are some.” “I would very much like to see them… as it is a matter of great importance.”

“Then I will go and bring them.” I went to my brother’s study and searched for the old diaries. And in the back of the storeroom, I was able to discover a bundle of diaries bound with a silk cord.

“This is everything, sir.” When I said this and handed the diaries to Detective Ibanes, he thanked me and began reading voraciously. Thereupon, I took up a position directly in front of Detective Ibanes, resolved to discern something from his expression, and was intently staring at his face. Detective Ibanes continued reading. I was staring intently. And so, an oppressively silent time dragged on dreadfully long. Detective Ibanes’s eyes, which had been calm until a moment ago, suddenly blazed like flames. But that, too, lasted only an instant, and his stony face regained its composure.

“This will suffice. “I have put you through a great deal of trouble.”

Detective Ibanes stood up and made his farewells.

“I intend to depart Madrid immediately and set out on a journey—to corner the culprit.” “Just watch, Miss. The culprit lies elsewhere.” “I will surely capture them and prove it.” “The culprit is in a completely unexpected direction… And once I apprehend them, I shall inform you… Miss, rest assured.” “Mr. Danchon is absolutely innocent.”

The detective left the room. And clearly，Detective Ibanes has not shown himself to me. He must not be in Madrid anymore. He is probably on a journey.

What has become of the culprit? He must not have caught them yet. When will Lord Danchon be vindicated under clear skies?

I’m so impatient for Detective Ibanes’ letter that I can’t bear it!

(A letter from Detective Ibanes given to Caspina, Murio’s sister)

Dear Miss (please allow me to address you thus), I must first and foremost express my joy. The reason is that the culprit has finally been found. Yes, they have finally been found. It was this Ibanes who made the discovery.

Now, you must be impatiently asking, “Who is the culprit?” That is only natural. However, I wish to explain matters in due order. The reason is that, were I to inform you of the culprit’s identity at this very moment, I do not believe you would credit it.

After parting with you that day, Miss, I first returned home and entered the disguise room. There, I donned tattered rags, applied laurel powder to my face, placed a horsehide hat upon my head, hung a nickel cylinder filled with mare’s milk beneath my left arm using a wisteria vine, and concealed a pistol with a cherry wood handle within my coat’s hidden pocket. Then I left the house.

The first place I sought out was Doni, the master of the street performers, and at that time, he was in his room eating roasted rice. When he saw me, he leapt up and began laughing with an obsequious laugh. “Doni,” I said in a stern voice, “there are a few things I want to ask you.” “It was exactly about twenty days ago now—those Bohemians came here, didn’t they?” “Where’d they run off to?” “Bohemians? I don’t know nothin’ about ’em.” Doni said playing dumb.

“What’s this? You’re saying you don’t know? Don’t lie to me! If that’s how you want to play it, I’ve got my own resolve. Doni, you’re the one who kidnapped a girl about three months ago, aren’t you? This makes your eighth kidnapping! Doni, how about you and I take a little trip to the police station?” “You got me there, boss. Yessir, yessir! I’ll spill everythin’.” Doni immediately folded under my intimidation and surrendered.

“Are they the Bohemian scoundrels?” “Well, uh, they just up and said somethin’ like headin’ to the Andalusia region, they did.” “Ho ho, so they went to a grand place… So how about it, eh, Doni? There were some beautiful girls too, weren’t there?” “As for the Bohemian girls who came here—well, every last one of ’em was pretty as a statue! Hmm… among ’em, what’d they call her again?” “Ah, right! There was this one girl named Gossan—she was something else.” “She was truly beautiful.” “Even the daughter of a Madrid marquis couldn’t hold a candle to her, I tell ya.”

“Alright, alright. That’s quite enough.”

I grabbed a handful of silver coins from the hidden pocket of my pants, flung them onto the table, and stormed out of Doni’s house. Then I immediately departed for Andalusia.

Eight: The Voice of a Beautiful Girl

As you know, Andalusia faces Africa, so describing its heat would be utterly futile. Basking beneath the blazing sun, my first destination was the town of Seville. From there I proceeded to Granada. Yet neither Seville nor Granada yielded even a shadow of the Bohemian troupe. Thus disheartened yet resolute, my final destination became Cordova. You may recall this town once served as both religious and political heart of the Saracen empire that ruled most of the world—a place where their majestic mosque still stands to this day.

One day, I made my way to that mosque to pay my respects. As it was a structure built by Arabs with profound expertise in astronomy, geography, mathematics and suchlike, every part had been crafted both geometrically and yet with utmost decorative flourish.

Dazzled by resplendent decorations—enormous marble columns, ceilings sheathed in copper, stairways paved with gold, stone statues inlaid with rubies, canopies embroidered on silk cloth—I wandered ceaselessly through the hall.

When I reached the front of the sanctuary, I found a girl pressing her forehead against a stone bench there, fervently praying in the Arab style with "Il, Allah, Il." Draped in a robe about her body and a turban around her head, the girl’s appearance left no doubt she presented herself as an Arab woman, yet from her facial expression alone, I recognized at once that she was in truth a Bohemian. “Got her!” I thought. “She must be one of their crew.”

And so I resolved to follow her wherever she went.

Before long, the young girl stood up and headed out of the temple, so I followed her. The girl did not head into the town but veered eastward from the temple’s side; passing through a grove and climbing a hillock, then descending further to emerge at the bank of a modest river, after which she marched resolutely upstream along the riverside. Before long we approached a small village; however, the girl did not enter, instead passing by its side and slipping into a dense palm grove.

Then, from deep within the grove, the clamorous voices of women and men became clearly audible. Thus, in that grove, I finally found the band of Bohemians I had struggled to track down—a group of about thirty people, with every man wearing a horsehide hat upon his head. And they had nickel cylinders filled to the brim with mare’s milk hanging beneath their arms by wisteria vines. “Hey, brothers,” I called out and approached them without the slightest fear.

“Well, well, what’s this, lost little bird? You’ve gotten separated from your comrades, haven’t you?” One of them spoke thus. “Let me join your group.”

“Sure, come along then.” “I’m one bathed in mare’s milk at birth (their proverb).” In this manner, I effortlessly joined their group. They set up tents of animal hides and used them to block the setting sun while—the men began dividing among themselves the day’s spoils—items stolen from various places. Meanwhile, the women, while stoking a roaring bonfire by the spring deep in the grove, began preparing dinner.

Soon, night fell.

While blending in among them, I ate dinner. Then I went outside to look around. Tents were set up here and there. One tent per family, and approximately twelve or thirteen tents were pitched. From inside the tents, mixed with human voices, the cries of goats could occasionally be heard. The goats were their property.

I peered into each tent one by one from the edge.

When I came to a certain tent, I noticed a delicate silver flute sound coming from within.

Feeling a shock, I stood before the tent and did not attempt to move for a long time. Eventually, I resolved myself and spoke these words.

“Gossan, I have business with you.” “Step out of the tent.” “Who?” came a melodious voice. “I’m from Madrid… Do you know Murio?” Silence hung thick. The tent’s hem rippled like storm-tossed waves—and through it slipped a girl swift as a shadowcat.

The girl and I walked side by side in silence into the depths of the forest, away from prying eyes. Before long, the forest came to an end, and we emerged into a beautiful clearing where bright moonlight from the sky was scattered all across the ground. Both of us sat down on a tree stump, and as it seemed rain might fall tomorrow, we silently gazed at the haloed full moon for some time.

Suddenly, she said.

“So you’re from that line of work, then?” “No, it’s not exactly that… To put it plainly, I’m a private detective.”

She prolonged her silence. “You’re quite the skilled detective, aren’t you?” She suddenly began laughing, “How did you figure it out?” “How did you figure out that it was my doing?” “There were two pieces of evidence—the crucial one being the topushin poison applied to the silver flute’s mouthpiece. That topushin—its method of production couldn’t possibly be known except by Gypsies like you.” “And the other piece of evidence was the sound of the hand drum that rang out during Murio’s death throes—I’ve long known it’s your people’s custom to beat a bell-adorned hand drum while circling around someone you hold a grudge against, all throughout their suffering.”

“Truly, that is so.” “Exactly so.” Gossan said in a voice heavy with grief, “And then I—wanting to catch even a glimpse of Murio’s dead body—tried to peer through the window.” “But the window was high, and I couldn’t see inside the house properly.” “So I climbed onto the goat I’d brought with me and finally managed to see.” “By the way—the girl standing on the tree-lined path who handed Murio the flute—that was also you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was indeed me.” “Because I’d completely wrapped my face in cloth and altered my voice, that person didn’t notice… and he seemed to be in quite a panic as well.”

IX. I Had Loved That Person

“Now then, Gossan,” I asked solemnly in a grave voice. “For what reason did you kill the innocent Murio?” “Are you asking if I killed an innocent Murio? “I killed him because he was guilty!” “Yes, because he betrayed me!”

Gossan’s voice resonated in a tone that was both tearful and choked with sobs. “Oh ho, he betrayed you?” “What on earth does that mean?” I pressed further. Then Gossan proceeded to tell the following heartrending tale. “That person betrayed me.” “Yes, that person utterly betrayed me—this very person standing before you.” “Therefore, I killed that person with my own hands.” “I made him realize just how wicked an act betraying someone is… Yes, that was two years ago… in May, no less.” “I first met that person at a gallery in Madrid.” “It was an exceptionally clear and beautiful evening.” “That day, I had gone to the gallery on a whim.” “Even we Gypsies can appreciate the beauty of paintings and sometimes wish to see them, so that day, I had been touring the gallery alone.” “When the eggshell-hued sunlight streamed through the window and I entered the hushed gallery, I found a small painting depicting a single venomous snake.” “How delighted I was!” “I stood motionless before it, holding my breath as I gazed at the beautiful form of that serpent, which looked as though it might come alive and start moving at any moment.” “Our Gypsy guardian deity is none other than this venomous snake.” “Moreover, the topushin poison that we cherish is none other than what we extract from cobras.” “Therefore, for us Gypsies, the most precious thing in this world is none other than cobras—.”

And so I gazed at the cobra painting for a long time. Suddenly becoming aware of my surroundings, I found a person who had been standing beside me for some time—staring intently at my face. "I stared back at him." He was a splendid young man, and from his features and attire, I realized he was an aristocrat. Beside him stood another youth of similar bearing, who paid no heed to someone like me and stood earnestly surveying the various paintings on the walls.

This was my first meeting with Murio. The one who had been obsessively watching me was Murio himself, and the other person was his friend Danchon. That day passed uneventfully with just that, and I returned to my companions. At that time, we were staying on the outskirts of Madrid—when at night, the men would sneak off to plunder the town, and during the day, we would open our tents, where only us women performed acrobatics with goats to extort money from townsfolk with means and leisure.

“And so, the next day, when I stepped onto the stage to perform as usual, there before my eyes was the person from yesterday—that is, Murio—sitting in a chair, his large black eyes wide open and fixed on me with that same terrifying intensity as before. I was jolted.” “However, my performance that day simply didn’t go well.” “The next day, when I went out onto the stage again, Murio was indeed there.” “With that relentless gaze.” “On the day after that too, when I went out [to perform], Murio was there once more.” “And so it continued—day after day after day—Murio’s figure remained seated in the chair before the stage.”

Why did that person stare at me with such relentless intensity? Why did he come day after day to watch these tedious goat acrobations without growing bored? But I knew. I knew exactly why he gazed at me so intently—why he kept returning to watch these performances. If it had been any girl besides me, I thought, she would have taken advantage of his infatuation—squeezing him dry again and again until finally casting him aside without remorse.

*But I had no intention of doing such a thing to that person.* The truth was—I had secretly loved Murio from the very first day. That passionate face of his! That unhurried grace of his! I loved Murio. And so, I thought to myself that it was dangerous to let my heart—my feelings for Murio—burn any brighter, and from then on, I resolved to avoid meeting Murio as much as possible and even refrained from appearing on stage.

However, even that was futile. Among our companions was a hunchbacked youth named Piton, who—having apparently been bribed by Murio—invited me to a restaurant in town one evening. When I entered and looked inside, there sat Murio in the back room, his demeanor agitated. At that moment, I thought: I had finally fallen into the trap. After shoving me into that room, Piton fled. There we were—Murio and I—facing each other alone.

Then Murio said. "I love you to death," he said. I remained silent. "I spitefully kept silent for hours on end." Yet Murio refused to relent—kneeling before me one moment, threatening me the next, dissolving into tears and screams as he pleaded his case. And what do you think I did? In the end, I was finally swayed for Murio’s sake. "That was only natural—as I’ve said, I loved that person."

10. The Pure Maiden’s Curse

But before that, I made Murio swear one thing. "I said it right then." "Murio, I will do as you say right now, but before that, swear one thing to me." "That neither of us will love anyone else until we meet again." Then Murio swore it on his honor.

“Murio,” I repeated. “The moment you break that oath, my curse will come crashing down upon you.” “That’s right—my curse will.” “You’re aware of that too, right?” “My curse is terrifying.” “Because I am a Gypsy woman.” Then Murio smiled and said he understood that as well.

So, convinced, I did as Murio said. We were very happy. We loved each other mutually, but our happiness lasted only a brief time. The reason was that soon after that, our companions departed from that land toward Egypt. Both Murio and I, weeping, swore anew to each other that until we met again, we would never love anyone else, and parted in tears.

Our companions continued wandering for around two years after that. Then in the very May of the second year—the same month I had exchanged vows with Murio—we found ourselves miraculously returning to this land. How overjoyed I was! I immediately began covertly investigating Murio’s situation myself. But imagine this—ah! Murio had broken the oath we’d sworn together and was loving another woman besides me!

It was at that moment that murderous intent first arose in my heart! “I will make that person clearly understand just how terrifying a Gypsy woman’s curse can be!”

Yes, truly, it was at that moment that this terrifying murderous intent first arose within my heart. “And I carried out that murderous intent…”

“Well, dear Miss, this concludes the story Gossan recounted to me. If we accept this pitiful Gypsy woman Gossan’s account as truth, then was it not your elder brother Lord Murio’s own doing that he met such an end? Though I must say this is most impertinent of me…” “Be that as it may, the true object of pity lies in Gossan’s circumstances.”

Gossan committed suicide.

“And why is that?” And Miss would surely ask.

"I will explain concisely. In other words, Gossan had intended to kill only Lord Murio. To her surprise, she had ended up killing another person—Princess Maria—though she did not directly harm her herself, through the very same flute that killed Lord Murio. This filled her with profound grief, and she deeply lamented that suspicion had fallen upon the innocent Mr. Danchon. Moreover, she had already discerned my intention to arrest her and transport her to Madrid to clear Mr. Danchon’s name. Her aversion to this—coupled with the sting of her conscience—led her to resolve upon suicide."

That night, Gossan and I, having sat down on a tree stump like that and talked about various things, parted ways for the time being.

As she was leaving, she said. “Please lend me the silver flute just for tonight.” “This one?” I said as I casually handed her the silver flute I was holding—the poisoned silver flute that had taken two lives. That silver flute was a crucial piece of evidence I had brought from Princess Maria’s chamber, and that very night, I had even thrust it before Gossan’s eyes to have her verify it. She demanded to be lent the flute.

I carelessly lent it. It was because it had never even crossed my mind that she would play that flute and, like Lord Murio and Princess Maria, intend to commit suicide by the poison coating its mouthpiece. However, that very night, when the late hour had deepened and everyone lay fast asleep, a delicate melody began drifting from Gossan’s tent. And before long, its sound grew as thin as a thread.

What a fool I was! It was only when the delicate sound of that silver flute grew as thin as a thread and then abruptly ceased that I finally realized! Why was the sound of the silver flute coming from Gossan’s tent? Why had Gossan begun playing the silver flute at such a late hour? And it was then that I first understood what kind of flute Gossan was playing.

"Damn it!" I thought. Yet I absolutely did not leap to my feet or rush over. The reason was that I myself knew full well how potent the poison called Topushin was. The moment the silver flute's sound ceased, Gossan's life was cut short—this truth lay all too clear before me.

Yes, it was evident. The next morning, she lay fallen inside her tent as a corpse without a single wound anywhere.