Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“If you were to commit murder and show me your hands smeared with fresh bloodstains—then dangle that frog-mouthed purse before my eyes with those truly blood-soaked hands while boasting, ‘I’ve even stolen! Just a minute ago, I suddenly strangled a friend I’d been chatting amiably with and pulled this from his breast!’—do you think I could hate you?”
“Could I tremble in fear and run from you?”
“No—I would only grow unbearably fonder of you. That’s certain.”
“I’d find you so unbearably adorable I’d want to place you on my tongue and swallow you whole like a breath mint—it’s certain.”
“At that moment, I’m certain I’d say this:”
“‘You’re truly an honest soul—but why must you strain yourself as if some catastrophe has occurred? Why act bashful and hesitant, gazing downward as you speak?’”
“‘Why not straighten up, face forward properly, and declare it proudly?’”
“Then I’d hug you with all my strength and give you twenty kisses in a row—until you couldn’t breathe and began to suffer.”

I clearly remember saying such things to him.
Then that person—like some country village mayor’s son—remained silent, his face expressionless, staring blankly as though he hadn’t heard a thing.
And yet, in reality, a storm of joy was raging within his heart.
I understood that well.
That person’s face would grow more expressionless the more his emotions grew agitated.
Surely his facial muscles were convulsing and becoming immobile.
And so I found him—the more he fumbled, unsure how to respond—all the more endearing, until despite it being broad daylight, I threw my arms around his neck.
Yet that person, though he wanted to stay like that forever, remained silent as a mute and tried to shake off my hands.
Moreover, he used all his strength.

At first glance, that person appeared like someone who had mislaid his nerves somewhere. He seemed like a man who might have had a lump of brass lodged in his chest instead of a heart. Even when I hear how he was a brilliant economist—how magazine reporters from all over Tokyo made pilgrimages deep into Shinshu’s mountains just to obtain one of his papers—I still find myself, even now, scarcely able to believe it. When with me, he was clumsy and obstinate, utterly lacking composure—like some seven- or eight-year-old country child wandering through a department store.

Why I came to love that man—even now, when I think about it, I still don’t clearly understand. He too seemed utterly perplexed by it—though he wasn’t one to question me often—for on that first night we met, he said this:

“Why do you take an interest in someone like me?”

Because he couldn’t bring himself to say “love,” he resorted to that peculiar phrasing—“take an interest.” That was his way. I was so flustered by this abrupt question that I even blushed. That man rarely spoke, but when he did, it was always something that left me at a loss for how to respond.

But I still believe it now.
And if I had any merit as a human being, I pride myself that this alone was my merit.
For I was the only person in the entire world who had noticed the extraordinary virtues in that person’s character.
Though perhaps I was merely fortunate—and my noticing them might not have been due to any exceptional keenness of sight beyond ordinary people’s.

That person rarely met others ordinarily, and even when he did, he would adopt an unfriendly expression as if annoyed by them (though this wasn’t truly the case) and hardly speak a word, so through normal means, no one could have approached him. Thus, even if he had possessed the most beautiful character imaginable, it would have been like a diamond lying in the Sahara Desert’s heart—only those granted miraculous fortune to pass by its side could ever have recognized it.

It was merely that such luck had been bestowed upon me. Later though, that very luck became a terrible misfortune.

II

It was the beginning of April.
There was a welcome home celebration for Dr. Sugai at the Imperial Hotel.
It was said he had been researching Danish villages, and around that time, interviews commemorating his return were featured in various newspapers, you know.

Perhaps because I was slightly acquainted with the doctor’s wife, I had received an invitation, so I decided to attend that welcome party.
When I arrived and saw that not a single woman had come, I immediately regretted it. However, since I couldn’t very well leave now, I endured the discomfort and finally entered the dining room, taking a seat at the table on the far end.
Then, as I later realized, the one who had sat in front of me was that person.

It is said that the philosopher Pascal once remarked that had Cleopatra’s nose been a fraction lower, the course of world history would have changed. Had either of our chairs been just one seat over that day, our own history would surely have taken a different turn. We would surely have remained strangers; I would not have killed a national-treasure economist as easily as one might dispatch a stray dog; and I—though never tasting such dizzying bliss—would also have been spared this unbearable suffering now crushing my shoulders.

During the meal, various people stood up and showered the returnee with every conceivable word of praise; finally, as per custom, it was decided to propose a toast for the returnee.
I felt overwhelmed and flustered, but even so stood up, took the beer glass (though I was a woman who drank), and hesitantly raised it forward.
At that moment, the one who stood before me holding a beer glass in the same manner was that person.
I saw his face for the first time then—just as our gazes locked perfectly—and I hastily averted my eyes.
My face must have flushed red as well.

But at that time, that was all there was to it.
However—it must be what one calls fate.
After finishing the meal, I meant to give Dr. Sugai a brief farewell and leave straightaway, so I went downstairs to collect my coat from the cloakroom.
Then—wasn’t that person just one step ahead of me, right in the act of presenting his ticket?

“Are you leaving already?”

That person said this upon seeing my face.
Since we had been sitting face-to-face in the dining room, he must have felt compelled to say something.
Later, he truly said it was so.
I too had been silent as a stone for over two hours, and since it was a moment when I desperately wanted to talk about something—anything—I ended up chattering away about all sorts of things with that person.
By nature I am a chatterbox, and if I stay silent for even two hours, I tend to grow melancholy.

Even after stepping outside, I kept talking.
That person had no choice but to follow me because I kept talking to him.
Before long, that person too gradually began to speak.

“There’s nothing as pointless as these so-called welcome home celebrations.”
“At the event, everyone showers you with insincere praise, and then on their way home, they all badmouth you.”
“When I attend such gatherings, I immediately become uncomfortable and have made it a rule to leave first.”

I remember that person saying such things.

“But isn’t that gentleman an esteemed person?” I said, and that man grew slightly agitated,

“Oh, he’s just a worthless government scholar. We call those types ‘clay scholars,’ you see.”
“They’ve prepared formless clay and know only the skill to mold it into any shape their client demands, you see.”
“With the money they waste sending scholars like that all the way to Denmark, the Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry would do better to raise the janitors’ salaries instead.”

When we arrived at the Sakurada-Hongōchō intersection, we turned left without any discussion or consultation.
Originally, my house being in Ushigome meant we shouldn't have come this way.
Yet talking all the while, we'd ended up heading in the opposite direction.
I'd thought he must have had some purpose in coming here—only to later learn when I asked that he too had followed because I walked that way.
In other words, neither having been first to start walking, they'd moved in shared direction as if toward some destination—that's how it happened.

“You drink alcohol, don’t you?”

He said this with startling abruptness.
He must have recalled how my glass at the gathering had contained beer rather than citron.

“Yes, a little.”
Though I had only begun drinking about half a year prior and felt no particular shame about it as a woman, his earnest observation flustered me. Yet since concealment proved impossible, I answered truthfully.

“There’s a bar ahead that serves excellent drinks. Would you care to stop by?”

“Well then...”

If that person lacked common sense, then I too lacked common sense. For a man and woman who had just met to start such a conversation within barely twenty minutes— But now that I can confess, I believe there is absolutely no chance that a man and woman will come to love each other after spending a long time together. The moment we met, our fate was already sealed. At least in that person’s and my case, it was so. I somehow felt I wanted to stay with him even a minute longer, and he—as I later heard—had said such things merely to delay parting from me for a little while.

That person suddenly quickened his pace.
I too quickened my pace to follow after him.

By the time we left the bar after drinking three King of Kings cocktails each, both he and I were quite drunk.
As our conversation progressed, the honorifics gradually disappeared from our speech, growing bolder and more explicit as we laid bare our hearts to one another.
Friends with whom you can speak freely, setting aside societal formalities—you don’t make many of those in a lifetime.
Yet through pure chance, we had found precisely such companions.

“Why would you take an interest in someone like me?”

That person had said this on our first night together.
It was after we left the bar, walked through Ginza, turned toward Hibiya, and entered the park.
When we reached a shadowed area, our hands were already clasped.
Though he had been the one to extend his hand first, he grew self-conscious within seconds and tried to pull away—but once I seized it, I tightened my grip and refused to release him.

“Well, I don’t know why either.”

No sooner had I said this than I abruptly brought his hand to my mouth and kissed it.
That person maintained a blank expression and silently allowed me to do as I pleased.
As though that person had fully anticipated it, he didn’t show the slightest surprise.

I remember every word we spoke during those nearly two hours of aimless wandering, but recounting it all now would be endless.
In any case, it is certain that during that time, we ended up feeling that we could not possibly live apart from each other going forward.

That person sent me home by taxi, and while we were in the car, his right hand and my left hand were tightly clasped, as if the capillaries at our fingertips had connected our veins, mingling our blood so that it flowed into each other’s bodies.

At the moment of parting, we finally exchanged business cards.
Until then, both of us had known nothing of each other’s names or anything else, speaking of love simply as a man and a woman, like primitive beings.
And yet, in reality, there had been no problem.
To me, that person was masculinity incarnate, and to him, I was the sole embodiment of womanhood.
Moreover, considering the outcome, it would have been better not to exchange business cards at all.
Had we done so, given how vast Tokyo is, we would have had no means to learn each other’s address or name thereafter, and those mere two hours of interaction that day would have remained both the first and last—never to be repeated before or after.

From the moment I stepped out of the taxi, I was tormented by the struggle to suppress the urge to immediately chase after that person.

III

I must offer a brief explanation here.
This was necessary for my own sake, but more than anything, it was necessary for that person who had left this world and could no longer defend himself.
It was necessary for that person’s honor.
Of course, that person had found things like honor bothersome though.

The reason is this: society will surely despise us beyond measure for the way that person and I came to know each other so abruptly—without even learning each other’s true natures or circumstances—only to plunge at once into lovers gripped by madness. They are certain to conclude it is because we are habitual practitioners of such wanton affairs.
After all, even I—had I heard such a story from a third party—would surely have thought the same way.

However, I swear by his soul that still lives within my heart—but that person was never that kind of man. That was something everyone around him knew. That person was as solemn as Christ. I know with absolute certainty that before or since, that person was moved by emotions resembling love only in my case.

I had lived through considerable temptations up to that point, but I had never felt such a powerful love—one that shook me suddenly from the depths of my soul—as I did with that person. Therefore, until that time, I had been able to resist any temptation. Now I have become the lowest of women—unqualified to speak of anything, unable even to utter God's name—but at least until that time, I had possessed unwavering confidence that in purity of heart and strength of will, I would yield to no woman.

Thus, in our case—unlike some slovenly man and woman falling into a frivolous affair—we had been fused as firmly as alloy through an irresistible force beyond human power, given not a moment to deliberate.
Unless you can believe this much—however implausible it may seem—I shall lose all courage and motivation to continue my story.
Were this to be dismissed as merely some wanton woman's confession, I would sooner die this instant.

Now, that night, I thought and thought about that person until from my shoulders down to my chest stiffened like a board and I began to feel a pain near my heart that seemed to crumble away at times—but eventually, I fell asleep.

When I awoke in the morning, even so, that brief period of sleep made last night’s events feel as if they had occurred a century ago, leaving me even slightly self-conscious.
I still sometimes think how truly strange sleep’s influence on human consciousness can be.
But within thirty minutes of waking, the calmness my heart had regained through sleep was utterly shattered.
I could no longer endure even a single minute without thinking of that person.

I took out the business card I had received at our parting last night and looked at it.
“Takeuchi Sen’ichirō”… On the lower left, the address was also printed.

I could no longer contain myself. Facing the desk, I spread out letter paper.
And then I took up the pen.

"Last night was most improper," I began writing. "Having partaken of alcohol I rarely drink"—here I lied, for I had been drinking small amounts nightly to numb my loneliness—"I may have behaved or spoken discourteously. Please forgive me.
If there should ever be an opportunity to meet again, I will offer my apologies properly—but for now, I beg your forgiveness through this hastily scribbled note."
I wrote just this much, hurriedly sealed the letter, and with my heart pounding, dropped it into the neighborhood postbox.

I regretted mailing the letter the moment I dropped it in.
He might have already forgotten everything about last night, yet for a woman to send such an indiscreet letter...

I felt the impulse to drag my heart before my eyes and beat it mercilessly—if only it had physical form. At the same time, I thought that if I was going to write a letter anyway, rather than such a perfunctory one, I should have written down everything in my heart exactly as I felt it. In any case, because of that letter, I felt certain that I would be utterly despised by that person, and I could not sit still for a moment.

However, that afternoon, a special delivery letter arrived.
The sender’s name was not written on the envelope, but I immediately intuited it was from that person.
I had never even seen that person’s handwriting before, yet somehow I intuited it at once.
When I opened the envelope, not only was there no signature inside, but it proved to be a truly peculiar letter.

"I am scheduled to go to Ginza’s S Café at 1:00 PM today and remain there until 2:00, wait for the train’s departure in Tokyo Station’s second-class waiting room from 2:30 until 3:30, and dine at the Imperial Hotel’s grill at 4:00."

With just this, the letter's contents ended abruptly.
If anyone were to receive such a letter from an anonymous sender—and a first-time one at that—they would surely conclude it was a case of mistaken identity.
It merely listed the sender's own schedule for that day.
However, I clearly and fully understood not only that it was a letter from that person but also what it truly meant.

I immediately concluded that that person must be aching to see me. By informing me of the times he would be at S Café, Tokyo Station’s waiting room, and the hotel grill, he had undoubtedly communicated his intention for me to come to one of those places during those hours. My heart leapt. Suddenly, self-confidence and courage pulled my utterly withered heart upright. When I checked the clock and saw there was still time, I resolved to go straightaway to the first designated location—S Café.

That person was smoking at a table facing the street.
A half-finished lemon squash with its straw still inserted sat before him.

“Having received your letter earlier, I suddenly found myself wanting to see you.”

As I said this, I took a seat in the empty chair before that person.

That person silently looked at my face.
That person wore a look as if angry—as if utterly despising me.

"But am I intruding?"

My heart, which had just been leaping up, seemed about to shrivel.

“I waited seventeen minutes,” that person said without even glancing at his watch.
“But why did you come?”
“To a place like this?”

“I couldn’t stand not seeing you—from the very moment we parted last night.”

“Would you care for something?”
He hurriedly changed the subject.
It wasn’t because a group of middle school students had begun noticing us—he later explained—but because my response had satisfied his expectations too completely, leaving him with nothing more to say and only an awkwardness to feel.

When I had sipped about half the soda water, I removed my mouth from the straw and spoke.

"Isn't it already time for you to go to Tokyo Station?"

Half-serious intent and half-teasing implication were contained within these words.

That person remained silent for a while with a displeased expression, then suddenly moved as if about to stand up and spoke.

"Let's leave already—it's too noisy here, and far too crowded to relax."
"When you mingle with foolish people, you become foolish yourself—forced to hold back, put on airs, tell lies."
"I've done nothing but lie since earlier."
"By the time words reach my throat, every truth warps itself into falsehoods."

That person pressed the bell and settled the bill.
And then we took a taxi to Ryogoku Station, got off at Ichikawa, and walked all the way to Kōnodai.
It was merely to escape people.
For when human beings see their own replicas before their eyes, they tend to transplant that ugliness even onto the most sacred partner.
When a man and woman speak of love, an environment utterly isolated from all companions is absolutely necessary—as though they were humans freshly emerged from nature’s embrace. Or rather, such an environment itself inevitably binds their hearts together.
The bedroom likely provides these conditions most conveniently—albeit quite incompletely—wouldn’t you say?
Therefore, a bedroom equipped with soundproofing like a talkie studio and capable of blocking light like a photographer’s darkroom when needed could be called an ideal bedroom in that regard.

On that day in Kōnodai, we found a place that partially satisfied these conditions. True, we had to wait until evening for them to fully materialize—the harsh midday sun being an enemy to all mystery. And love is, as someone once remarked, "the most mysterious thing of all."

There was no need to explain how this environment affected our hearts. It suffices to say I had wholly become his, and he had wholly become mine. Even through skin contact smaller than one-hundredth of a square centimeter at our fingertips, I felt we'd merged into one complete being—both physically and spiritually.

These rendezvous continued nearly twenty times thereafter.
Their hearts—which they believed could draw no closer, having already become one—found their bond growing infinitely stronger with each meeting.
There were times when we seemed to have utterly exchanged souls—that person's soul transferring into my body while mine was carried away by them.
Moreover, this process unfolded not through monotonous repetition,
but with every conceivable variation and nuance, charging headlong from yesterday to today and today to tomorrow toward that final inescapable dead end.

“Let’s never meet again.”
I once said such a thing to that person.
Of course，it was precisely because being apart even for a second was unbearable that I said such a thing.
And then，even though that person knew it full well，that person grew somewhat anxious（for a lover’s nerves are more sensitive than photographic plates）.

“I had been thinking the same thing.”
“Meeting you only increases the pain.”

He said this with a perfectly straight face.
Then, as anxiety doubled and spread through my heart, I would fire back with cutting words.
Yet after repeating this cycle of mutual wounding, without exception, we would always end up locked in an embrace—pressing together with all our strength for three full minutes.

We had made no particular promises, yet it was the same as if we had. No—it was more than that. The very idea that the two of us could live separately was something we couldn’t even imagine. To put into words—“Let us love each other forever, let us be together”—and expressly say such things felt like a desecration of our love.

IV

Could you ever imagine such love one day growing slack?
But it wasn’t a matter of whether one could imagine it or not—in reality, their love suddenly foundered upon the rocks.

One evening—it was to be our final rendezvous—we met at Hibiya Park.
That person was deeply gloomy.
To an outward glance, others might not have noticed, but with a single look, I clearly perceived that a change had occurred in that person’s heart.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Today your face looks exactly like someone who crawled out of their own grave—completely rusted over, all luster gone.”

That person remained silent.
I grew increasingly agitated.
This was because, in those days, even when we met in broad daylight, we would immediately at least hold hands—yet on that day, that person remained standing rigid as a rod.

“There’s something worrying you, isn’t there? And it must be related to me, I’m sure.”
“There’s no reason you’d be worrying about anything else.”

I said this and touched his right finger.

“I had forgotten,” that person replied calmly, as though it were nothing unexpected.
“That I have a wife and children.”
“To explain in more detail—it’s not that I had forgotten that fact—but I believed such things held no power to become obstacles to our love.”
“Because our love was absolute, I believed we could conquer any obstacle.”
“But—”

As I listened this far, I felt my vision blurring. To this day I marvel that I didn’t collapse on the spot then. When that person perceived how my heart had received this unforeseen, violent shock, he rushed to speak.

“Of course, this means nothing at all.”
“My love for you is absolute.”
“It has merely encountered a minor obstruction.”
“A trivial one.”
“But that obstruction proved unexpectedly formidable.”
His words tangled incoherently.
Proof positive of his profound torment.

“Then what will you do?” I countered with feigned composure.
“You needn’t spare me a single thought—simply do as you wish, act as you deem proper.”
Naturally, the tears pooling beneath my eyelids betrayed this veneer of calm.

“I simply cannot do it.”
“I am a coward.”
“You must command me.”
“Whether you tell me to run away with you right now or to cut you off completely, I will do exactly that.”

“Then let us part ways now.”
“Let’s become complete strangers once and for all.”
“There’s no other way but to do that—and at the very least, you should do so.”

Even as I said this, my heart was torn with anguish.
Until just thirty minutes ago, I had believed with all my heart that two souls were bound together for all eternity—yet another soul had slipped between them.
I had believed until this very moment that I was a strong woman who could endure any suffering, but this alone I could not bear.
No matter how much I might be resented, hated, scorned by society, or ridiculed, I thought I must not loosen my grip on that person's soul.
But the words that left my lips ended up being the opposite of what was in my heart.

Then, that person suddenly leaped at my neck and violently kissed me around the left ear—
“I can’t do that,” he said in a trembling voice.
At that moment, I blindly brought my lips to his lips.
But then immediately let go and, weeping, fled into the glistening arc light’s glow.
I no longer knew what I was doing.
The too abrupt change in circumstances must have caused some derangement in the workings of my mind.

Then I frantically rushed to the ×× Theater. That day marked the dress rehearsal for Carmen scheduled to begin its run the following day. I was to play Carmen. I realize I've jumped ahead in the story—at that time, I wasn't formally affiliated with any theater company, though I would take on guest roles for various troupes through existing connections when requested. It had been arranged for me to appear in Carmen, which would run for one week at the ×× Theater starting in late June.

The man named Tanimura, who played José opposite me, was among the most prudent of our colleagues, but I realized from the very first day of rehearsals that his heart had begun to stir toward me. Once, Tanimura had made advances toward me in an extremely indirect way. From then on, attending these rehearsals became a burden to me. This was because, at that time, that person and I were standing at the peak of happiness, so there was no room for other men to enter my heart. Of course, given that we were performing together, I could not simply shoo Tanimura away like a fly—yet even so, after sharing those rapturous hours with that person, facing Tanimura at rehearsals filled me with an indescribable pressure mingling disgust and contempt. Had Tanimura not been both the troupe’s leading figure and director, let alone my co-star, I surely would have made my feelings blatantly clear to him. However, in theater—especially in plays like *Carmen* where the two leads’ timing must align perfectly—if there’s any emotional conflict between co-stars, it simply cannot succeed. So I endured it in silence. Even so, whether because my feelings weren’t sincere or not, the rehearsals simply wouldn’t go smoothly. During rehearsals, there were even times when I suddenly remembered that person and forgot my lines.

By the way, that night—the night of the dress rehearsal—was truly splendid in its execution.
Carmen and José’s timing aligned perfectly—Tanimura had completely transformed into José, and I seemed to have fully become that bewitching Bohemian woman.
Not only that, but I must also confess I had suddenly come to feel an intense passion toward Tanimura—something I had never experienced before.

“Hey officer, where do you plan to take me?”

“To prison, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, what shall I do? What will become of me? Oh officer—young and kind officer—please take pity on me! Won’t you let me escape?”

In scenes like this one, it felt completely natural—not Carmen pleading with José, but me entreating Tanimura in my own unadorned words.

After the rehearsal ended, Tanimura—immersed in supreme satisfaction and happiness—said to me with his eyes blazing.

“Ms. Ryūko”—though I go by that name—“is truly different.”
“Even when ordinarily unprepared, you transform entirely come dress rehearsals—charged with vigor, your artistry seamless. Should tonight’s performance be reproduced verbatim tomorrow onstage, it would prove magnificent indeed.”

I didn’t truly register what the other person was saying—only managed to recall fragments of his words lingering in my ears after a full minute had passed. Not that I was dwelling on that person either. I simply remained in a daze, thoughts utterly vacant.

Late that night, on my way home—what a thing!
Until yesterday, I had been discussing passionate love in a frenzy with the person who had been unbearably bothersome.
As capriciously as Carmen herself.

When I returned home, I hurriedly spread out letter paper and began writing furiously.

—I have obtained a new love.
Now I am exceedingly happy.
You must return to where you rightfully belong—to the person you must return to.
Let us forget everything between us as if nothing ever happened.
Let us become blank paper.
Farewell.

Ryūko

Sen’ichirō-sama

Ryūko

Sen’ichirō-sama

Without rereading it—for I thought I mustn’t dawdle and risk my resolve wavering or my determination dulling—even though it was already past twelve, I carried this two blocks to the postbox and mailed it.

V

When reason’s command not to think of him clashed violently with passion’s demand that I could not stop thinking of him—when these two forces began their blood-soaked struggle within my heart—I found myself utterly incapable of enduring such a mortal wound alone.
It was too sudden, too abrupt; I had no time to consider what to do.
I could only flail blindly, seeking solace in anyone’s embrace—there existed no other means to temporarily numb the pain of my soul’s laceration.
Had some brute accosted me then, I might have leapt into his arms.
That my heart fled to Tanimura became inevitable under these circumstances.
Yet I harbor not the faintest desire to justify this brazen act.
For I know better than any living soul that it defies all justification.

Now, the next day was at last the opening night.
Carmen was scheduled as the second act with an eight o'clock opening, but I arrived at the dressing room at six-thirty.
Since it was opening night, the whole group were already properly assembled.

“You have to treat us, Ms. Ryūko!”
The moment he saw my face, Tanimura suddenly said this.
Now that I can be honest, at that moment, a vulgar expression—something between sarcasm and spite—had surfaced on his face.

“Why?”
I asked back half-heartedly.

“Because of your wonderful popularity,” said Tanimura with a deliberate smirk.
“A splendid floral wreath has arrived.”

“It’s their doing—I don’t have to treat anyone at all. More importantly, how’s the attendance?”

“Well, I’d say about eighty percent.”
Tanimura was still wearing a creepy smile.

“By the way, if another floral wreath besides theirs had arrived, it’d be worth treating us.”
“And it’s from an anonymous person, they say—delivered by the florist around five o’clock, without any card or anything.”
“It’s displayed at the front now—it’s splendid.”
“And isn’t an anonymous person romantic, don’t you think?”
“You’ve got such a secret patron—I had no idea!”

“Don’t tease me—I’ll really do it, you know.”
I was brushing it off as a joke.
Of course, I did not believe such a thing was true.

However, it was indeed true—a large, splendid floral wreath from an anonymous sender, simply labeled "Anonymous." Naturally, that person came first to mind. I couldn't believe he would send such a thing, yet there was no reason for strangers to anonymously gift me wreaths, and no other candidates existed.

Before long, the curtain rose.
I showed white silk socks beneath my short red hakama, tied scarlet ribbons around red Morocco leather shoes, deliberately spread my shawl to bare my shoulders, let a large acacia bouquet protrude from under my undergarment, held an acacia flower between my lips, swayed my hips coquettishly, pushed through the crowd of Spanish women, and emerged onto the stage from the left.
At the center of the stage, Tanimura’s José—dressed in a gaudy corporal’s uniform—was sitting on a stool beside the factory gate.

Before long, the play progressed to—“Won’t you let me escape?”
the play had reached the line—

“I’m not here to exchange jokes.”
“Come on, off to jail you go—this is an order, you see. There’s no way around it.”

“Oh, how nostalgic—you’re from my hometown, aren’t you?”

Then my Carmen used every conceivable word to manipulate Tanimura's clumsy, honest José.

In all my short stage career, there had never been a time when I could express myself as satisfactorily as I did then, even upon later reflection.
With the words flowing smoothly from my lips, I could practically feel the heart of the armed José gradually unraveling right beside me.
I was hurling my heart through the play at no one in particular.
I swear—unlike the previous night—that day, it was not necessarily José.
It was to no one in particular.

Just at that moment, I noticed something in the audience seats that pierced my gaze.
It felt as though a giant magnet existed somewhere, turning my heart to iron irresistibly drawn to it.
When I instinctively turned my gaze in that direction, there in the front row of the second-floor seats sat that person wearing an indescribable expression—both eyes nailed in place as they glared at me on stage.
The expression on that person’s face at that moment remains vividly etched in my mind to this day—a look of profound agony beyond all description, like someone who had lost a beloved child while dying themselves.

My mind reeled, and just as I tried to leap over José’s fallen body, I too collapsed on top of him. And then I could no longer get up. The play was, of course, a complete and utter disaster.

But the commotion didn’t stop there. And almost simultaneously, a great commotion began in the second-floor audience seats as well. A guest in the front row had suddenly begun writhing in agony and, without time for treatment, passed away in less than thirty minutes. That this was truly to be that person’s end— It was in the next morning’s newspaper that I first learned of it.

Of course, even now, not a single person knows that I had any connection to that person’s death. Only I alone clearly know that it was I who killed that person.

On that memorable final night, that person thought I had resolutely fled from everything.
And the next day, upon seeing my letter, he concluded that his imagination had been proven correct.
In truth, I had not resolved myself in the slightest—it was simply that the overwhelming turmoil had driven me to such an act.
The conflict between the thought that I absolutely had to part with that person and the emotion that I simply could not part with them made me forget everything and robbed me of my ability to judge.
When I think of this, even now, I am overcome with anguish as if being scalded.

That person had lost all reason to live once I was gone.
The void left by my departure was something no one could ever fill.
Why did I not think more deeply about that at the time? I was only thinking about that person’s family and had completely forgotten about that person themself.

That person had made up his mind completely—after sending me a final commemorative floral wreath, unable to meet me anymore, he resolved to at least breathe his last while watching my figure on stage.
The expression on that person’s face when I noticed it was due both to the agony of seeing me and my new lover Tanimura on stage and to the torment of morphine addiction.
The relationship between Tanimura and me must have been intuitively sensed by that person.

Of course, I stopped appearing on stage and meeting Tanimura from that day onward—(since my feelings toward Tanimura had been nothing but a momentary reaction, not seeing him afterward caused me no pain at all)—and clinging solely to the memory of that person, I have lived until now only to make this matter known.
Whether I can go on living from now on is something only God alone knows.
If I may be allowed to speak God’s name.