Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Haniyū Tōkichi resigned from his Hokkaido post in less than a year and came fluttering back to Tokyo in that early summer when the long-familiar numeral sequence of 192＊ changed—when with mechanical precision akin to two calculator belts rotating in unison, a new '3' clicked into place as the second digit from the bottom. Since he wasn’t in a position to live idly, relying on his slight knowledge of Russian that he had dabbled in, he ended up working at a certain Oriental studies-related library in Koishikawa in a semi-remote capacity. The role involved organizing and translating catalogs of Russian-language documents dealing with Mongolian folklore.

While plodding through this work without particular interest, one day after that summer had passed its peak, a phone summons came from Mr. Obata—both his senior from school and in part his former mentor—urgently requesting a meeting. As he waited in the designated room of a certain club in Marunouchi, a familiar brisk voice exchanging farewells with two or three companions—among whom foreigners seemed to be mixed—echoed from the hallway, and soon Mr. Obata in his white linen suit entered with his usual brisk stride.

To put it simply, Mr. Obata was a precise gentleman somewhat rare among Japanese people. To speak of the British-style gentleman, the conventional image would be one tall and elegant yet with an indefinable seasoned quality—uncharitably describable as somewhat fusty, more generously as magnanimous—but Mr. Obata's version turned this inside out: a compact frame sheathed in crisp fabric, his gentlemanly manner being of an entirely different order, one infused with a kind of snobbism. This particular brand of dapperness could never quite escape sharing an affinity with a certain Southern European decadence. Mr. Obata was not exempt from this tendency, but through his innate impatience and competitive spirit, he kept the reins taut on that precarious line.

Until then, Tōkichi had only known Mr. Obata as a teacher. That said, the man’s career trajectory—beginning with service at a certain bank’s Rome branch before switching shores to spend years as consul-general in the Balkans—during that period when he eked out an existence lecturing on languages and trade conditions at a private colonial institute, presented such an incongruous appearance that it crossed into outright absurdity. At that time, Tōkichi—restless in his youth and caught in the whirlwind of linguistic wandering that had become fashionable among his peers—had capriciously enrolled in the night program of that institute, where over about two years he received introductory instruction in Serbo-Croatian from Mr. Obata.

The connection he had thought cleanly cut was swiftly reknit through Mr. Obata’s characteristically sharp memory. That became the club meeting. In his prime, Mr. Obata had once sat down with three diplomat colleagues in the dining car of the Kobe-bound limited express and literally cleared the shelves from beer to the last drop of whiskey—a feat that earned him certification from a dining car steward with ten years' service as the highest drinking record ever recorded—yet despite being such a prodigious drinker, he never touched tobacco. He brandished his peculiar theory that once a man indulged in all three vices—drinking, smoking, and spending—he was done for. A crisply taut, practical-minded nature that never overstepped certain bounds manifested itself there. For a young man like him, such figures were inherently uncomfortable to deal with, but there in that person’s presence—and overwhelmed by the club salon’s oppressive atmosphere—Tōkichi kept puffing away at his cheap cigarette as a nervous reflex while hearing out what amounted to a straightforward proposal: would he consider working at the J Country Commercial Office?

With efficient precision and a crisp, articulate tone, Mr. Obata continued his explanation. "What you intend to become in the future," he said, "is not for me to know." "It’s hardly my place to interfere." "You’re said to specialize in French and seem quite proficient in Russian as well—but at least regarding that language I gave you introductory instruction in—though my abilities were limited—I know no other young man who has reached your level." (Well now, Tōkichi thought with a wry smile, how many men in this country would even bother dabbling in such a peculiar language?) "In that field, I guarantee you could become Japan's foremost expert—though I doubt you'd be swayed by such flattery." "Sadly, I’ve grown unable to understand the sentiments of young men your age these days—but from what I observe, you possess a rather nervous disposition coupled with an audacious ambitiousness in your bearing." "Though I say that, it probably isn’t so different from a rough wind across the wilderness—something that could be blowing from anywhere." "I don’t respect such a young man’s ambition……but I do intend to respect it."

“Well, I imagine you’d probably say that language study was just a passing whim,” said Mr. Obata. “As for me, I’d like to recommend that you take advantage of that very whim to resolutely leap through that window into the inner world. The weakness of a young man lies precisely in having too many such windows—so many that he cannot bring himself to commit—don’t you think? If that’s the case, why don’t I serve as that chance substitute? To tell the truth, the J Country Commercial Office is something I essentially brought into being and had opened. In fact, the inaugural representative who was here until just recently was practically a friend from my time in Tsara. As long as I'm there, I don't think you'll find it too uncomfortable. Of course, as is customary for new nations, the political situation is still far from stable. No—it may well become increasingly so in the future. Moreover, as you well know—though called a Slavic state—it’s a motley household of various ethnic groups. I can't guarantee what lies ahead. Nor do I intend to make any guarantees. Because such things would rather injure you young men's self-esteem. No—rather, I want to hope for your present sake that you are the sort of person who would be tempted by its future and instability.” Here Mr. Obata's brow suddenly clouded with what seemed like shadows of long-ago regrets. “Let me repeat—I don't respect such a young man's ambition... but I do respect it.”

The work was busy. Since the political upheaval of the year before last—whether you call it the country’s or the party’s—the policy had been rapidly heading in the direction of domestic industrialization. Japan's low prices were now acting as a major factor there. This trade showed considerable promise. "In this regard," he thought, "my black eyes can be trusted to some extent." "Well for now I'll have you organize documents," he said briskly while straightening his cuffs with military precision. "Handle translations. Occasionally take on interpretation duties." "Of course," he added with sudden gravity that made his linen suit crackle starchily at the elbows, "as this concerns the international arena, I expect full responsibility and strict punctuality." "How about it?" His voice softened conspiratorially. "Don't you feel like giving it a try?…"

A few days later, Haniyū Tōkichi went to visit the J Country Commercial Office located in Shirokane-Imazato-chō. The story that this was the former residence of Baron N—a diplomat who had left significant achievements around the end of the Meiji era—was something Tōkichi had heard beforehand from Mr. Obata, and indeed, its exterior—with an iron gate set diagonally at the deeply recessed spot beyond a side street in that particularly tree-dense section of the quiet estate district—appeared every bit fitting of such description; to a man like Tōkichi who would immediately grow apprehensive at the mere mental image of conventional workplaces being those office buildings spanning from Marunouchi to Nihonbashi, this daily place of employment first struck him as quite agreeable. This seemed to stem in part from a kind of aristocratic aesthetic.

Because it was still a bit early for the appointed time, he wandered about on the gravel of that side street for a while. The scheduled entry hour should have passed, yet occasionally one or two foreigners still disappeared through the gate with unhurried steps. Eventually that too ceased. To stave off boredom, Tōkichi approached the ivy-covered stone gatepost and began examining the horizontal brass plaque affixed to it.

On the still-new brass surface, French text reading "DÉLÉGATION COMMERCIALE D'ÉTAT DES......" was shallowly engraved in four or five lines of conventional lettering. Following "DES" came three constituent ethnic group names, likely forming an extended national designation. The fact that only their initials—S, C, and S—were deliberately rendered in red seemed to epitomize the flamboyance characteristic of a newly established multi-ethnic nation. No—or perhaps this coloration reflected the political upheaval from the year before last—the overwhelming advance of leftist factions that accompanied it.…

As Tōkichi stood gazing at the gate plaque with peculiar admiration, there suddenly came from behind the faint, stealthy crunch of fresh footsteps on gravel. When he casually glanced back, a white-clad man had materialized beneath the eaves of the neighboring estate's timber-framed gate some twenty paces ahead and was making his way toward him. From the man's entire bearing, Tōkichi instinctively intuited something amiss and pivoted sharply to slip through the gate. The man gave no pursuit.

"What? Am I being followed even here?!"

It was a feeling that made him want to click his tongue in disapproval, yet left him strangely exhilarated. It was also akin to the thrill of that moment when he was about to set out on an unknown adventure. He walked with long strides, deliberately making the gravel crunch. Inside the gate, extending all the way to the densely overgrown carriage turnaround in the far front, both sides were a thick grove of trees. Enoki, zelkova, shii, konara oak, cherry... As he deliberately and meticulously enumerated these tree names, the grove came to an end, and finally, a ginkgo tree stood on each side like sentries. He stopped there and glanced at his wristwatch.

Passing beyond the carriage turnaround, he noticed the J Country emblem affixed to the gable on the second floor of the building's facade. Bathed in the morning sun, it shone golden. Rummaging through his memory, he recalled that the design was indeed three lions encircled by ears of wheat. Now that he thought of it, though the national designation text surrounding those wheat ears naturally couldn't be discerned from this distance, he somehow felt those three initials alone remained tinted red. Tōkichi suddenly contemplated these things and, without knowing why, felt his body grow tense.

A black-lacquered Cadillac came crunching energetically over the gravel. When he looked, there in the window was Mr. Obata’s face, smiling. After watching the car circle once around the carriage turnaround and depart like the wind—its rear license plate bearing crisp white letters reading "J Country Legation"—Tōkichi encountered Mr. Obata at the porte-cochère.

“Well, I’ve been bustling since I got up this morning—just made the rounds to two or three places.” “…but I was worried you might be waiting, you know.”

His naturally penetrating voice boomed deafeningly through the entrance hall. It was a brazenly loud voice, as if he had returned to his own home. "The truth is, I haven't even managed to have breakfast yet… you see."

As he spoke, he noticed a young boy of apparent Oriental descent who had appeared there and ordered him to prepare tea; then, abruptly telling someone to wait a moment, he disappeared through the side door.

“This gentleman is Mr. Mitoronik, the Import Department Manager.” “If hired, you’ll work in this department under him… They want to evaluate your character firsthand.” “I’ve already informed him about you—he isn’t particularly fearsome—so have a talk with him for a while.” “Don’t stiffen up.” “I likely shouldn’t remain here either…”

A small, bright veranda received the morning sunlight through its curtains. In one corner stood a large office desk completely covered with what appeared to be statistical tables. As Mr. Obata disappeared into the adjacent room, Mr. Mitoronik emerged in passing toward the central wicker chair set and sat down. Then, glaring sharply from under his brows, he signaled for Tōkichi to sit as well. I had been steeling myself for an ogre or viper to appear. I was plunging into unknown territory. I had resolved to accept whatever might emerge.

However, quite unexpectedly, this first-appearing individual turned out to be a refined gentleman who somewhat evoked an Anglo-Saxon-style businessman. He was still young. Around his slightly furrowed eyebrows lingered a hint of gloom, but from his sunken cheeks to the jutting jawline there emerged a sharpness that spoke unmistakably of a capable man. No sooner had he sat down than he lifted his hips again, stretched his long arm toward the office desk, rustled beneath the usual statistical tables, and pulled out a green Three Castles tin. He skillfully used the lid to pry open the inner seal. The tobacco’s characteristic subtle fragrance—the kind that seemed to seep directly into one’s heart—rose sweetly in the morning sunlight. Mr. Mitoronik’s long nose wriggled sensitively as it caught the fragrance. He pulled one out but didn’t light it, fiddling with it between his fingertips while—

"Mm, mm..." he murmured as if about to say something, then looked at Tōkichi. From below his once-again closed mouth down to his chin, the sharpness of his morning shave—so unmistakably that of a genuine razor—was strikingly clear to see. "It’s a professional-grade edge," Tōkichi suddenly thought.

“Mm, mm.” Once more mumbling something, he then struck a match and lit it. The gaze that had been hesitant was now fixed intently on Tōkichi. His eyes were unexpectedly kind, yet somehow skeptical. ...This man had shadows, Tōkichi thought. The oddly halting manner of speech—rather than resembling muteness, it reminded Tōkichi of Kōshirō’s speechless pauses, which struck him as comical—yet this very habit undoubtedly served as a potent element in deepening the shadowy aura this man possessed.

“Do you speak Serbian?” “Yes, a little.” Just as Tōkichi had finally found a thread of conversation and begun to relax—if only for a moment—the next instant they had run aground on a reef. It became clear that the “little” Serbian Tōkichi was supposed to command proved utterly useless, both his ears and mouth. Mr. Mitoronik floated a smile mingling equal parts bewilderment and sympathy, then cast a fleeting glance through the glass toward Mr. Obata—who at that very moment was munching on what appeared to be a breakfast sandwich while engaged with his desk telephone—but seemed to reconsider that deliberately troubling him would serve no purpose, and instead himself threw out a lifeline in Russian. Even so, for Tōkichi—who had no practical experience—it proved quite a struggle, but somehow his intent began to get through.

“I hear you studied humanities,” he said. “But can you develop an interest in commerce and economics?” “Yes, I believe I can.” “The work here is quite demanding... You’ll need to strictly observe punctuality...” “I don’t mind being busy.” He leaned forward slightly. “Your health?” “You seem rather pale...” “I’ve never been ill.” “This pallor is congenital...” Mr. Mitoronik smirked briefly before his expression hardened. Suddenly—

“What are your political leanings?” he asked.

Tōkichi was startled. He had been so perfectly caught off guard that at first he couldn't grasp the question's meaning at all. Then he remembered hearing how in Russia immediately after the revolution, the question "Which side are you on?" had become something of a trend among ordinary people, and it struck him that perhaps the same issue had emerged in J Country now that they too had undergone that revolution-like sudden political upheaval—but this time, he found himself at a loss for how to respond. A youthful vanity had briefly reared its head.

Seeing Tōkichi at a loss for reply, Mr. Mitoronik—apparently thinking this resulted from his own inadequate explanation—repeated his characteristic "Mm, mm..." while adopting the manner of one urgently searching for words, alternately bringing that morning's delivered Japan Advertiser on the round table close to his eyes or rotating the green tin in his palm; yet unfortunately, no suitable phrases that might reach his interlocutor seemed to surface.

At that moment, Mr. Obata—having judged the opportune moment—descended to the veranda while deliberately letting his shoes clatter sharply two or three times. Upon seeing this, Mr. Mitoronik began speaking at an alarmingly rapid pace, launching into some earnest explanation. As Tōkichi stared blankly without understanding a single word, Mr. Obata soon began in his characteristically crisp tone, “What they’re inquiring about isn’t your beliefs or anything like that. Political leanings—whether right or left—are each person’s freedom. Just take care not to bring those through these office gates… that is to say, we request you exercise restraint. Ever since that political upheaval, this office too has come to be viewed through suspicious lenses as if it were some political organ. There are even signs this perception might hinder healthy development of trade relations. Some Japanese have already caused this office trouble over trivial matters. Embassies are one thing—but the Commercial Office remains strictly commercial. Maintaining clear boundaries is our fundamental principle. I’m simply saying we’d like you to be especially mindful on that front.”

Mr. Mitoronik watched with apparent satisfaction as Tōkichi nodded at each point, but soon— “You understand, right?” he emphasized. “Yes, I’ll be very careful.” “...But to be honest, at present I don’t have any particular political leanings...”

The two adults exchanged looks and laughed. Tōkichi blushed.

The rest turned to minutiae, and Tōkichi’s salary was set at a rough amount that came as something of a shock, with his start date fixed for next Monday. Office arrival at 8:30 AM, departure at 3:30 PM. Excluding the one-hour lunch break, this amounted to a six-hour workday. Tōkichi thought it made sense.

The room adjacent to the veranda served as the Import Department’s office. It was likely used by the previous baron as a reception room—an antique Western-style room that easily exceeded twenty tsubo in size. A fireplace was set into the wall, and with his back to it sat a massive figure—rigidly upright before an antiquated grand desk adorned with Rococo-style carvings—feverishly sorting through documents. To eyes that had long grown accustomed to the veranda’s light, it felt as though they had suddenly leapt from an Impressionist world into one of Rembrandt’s.

Mr. Obata strode briskly over to the desk and spoke in a low voice. Whether listening or not, the face that had remained bowed without reaction finally rose with leisurely composure—startling Tōkichi. At last, he thought, the ogre had emerged. So formidable was the man’s countenance. No less imposing than his stately torso was his stocky neck supporting a face whose lower half lay buried under dark brown beard, its tips forming a J-shaped goatee. Ruddy skin covered strong jawbones fading to pallor where it met his closely shaven scalp. No—this surpassed Rembrandt altogether, Tōkichi thought. Even were this figure to materialize in the Nibelungenlied—spiked helmeted, leather-armored, trident in hand—he’d suffer no disadvantage of presence. [...] With that unsmiling face unblinkingly fixed on Mr. Obata, this was Brauenberg—the Import Department’s deputy manager bearing a German-style name. He was likely nearing fifty.

Suddenly, that face cleared its throat. A cough, then another—the kind that might make the four walls tremble—a dignified clearing of the throat beyond doubt. No sooner had this happened than he nodded quietly, then gradually turned his gaze toward Tōkichi and broke into an expansive smile.… It was that smile with which grandfathers contemplate a grandchild they would shelter in their very eyes without discomfort. As Tōkichi stood rigid with shock at this meteorological upheaval of human demeanor—Brauenberg rose from his chair mid-motion, seized four or five document folders in an eagle’s grip, orbited grandly around the desk to hurl them into a filing shelf, then materialized before Tōkichi’s eyes like an incarnate temple guardian, hands unburdened. With one hand working at his trademark J-shaped goatee and the other traversing his chest in repetitive strokes,

“Fortune... fortune...”

Nodding alternately toward Tōkichi and Mr. Obata, he repeated this about ten times over. Thus Mr. Brauenberg had descended with majestic ease from his heroic perch where thunderclouds gathered, transforming into a carefree old man one might find in some mountain village near Karamanken. There, in that expression of joy—antiquated yet grand, so heartfelt it threatened to overflow—lay what had likely been unearthed only after winding through the most circuitous paths. In this man’s soul, antiquity still slept.—Gazing intently at that imposing face now softened by a smile, Tōkichi suddenly thought. And he wholeheartedly clasped the enormous palm that had been extended to him.

A light tapping of footsteps approached from the entrance in quick, small steps, then halted abruptly as if startled. Mr. Brauenberg casually turned toward the direction, “Ah, Lilia!” he said, and quickly made a prompting eye gesture toward Mr. Obata. When Mr. Obata began introducing Tōkichi, the woman called Lilia emerged from behind Mr. Brauenberg’s massive frame—where she had momentarily shielded herself as if taking cover—revealing her petite figure in full. She was a full-cheeked girl with flaxen, tousled hair carelessly cut into a bob. Both her complexion and expression held a soft, Eastern ambiguity.

“Miss Illyria, this is our new colleague—” Mr. Obata began his introduction, but before he could finish— “Pleased to meet you,” she said in fluent Japanese, shyly grinning before hesitating slightly and offering her hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Tōkichi parroted back and grasped the small chilly hand. Gray eyes, surrounded by friendly smile wrinkles, blinked close by.…

2

A certain friend once remarked of Tōkichi, "He has far too much future." Another friend simplified this, dubbing him with future-overload syndrome. In truth, it seemed that boundless rejection of the present and boundless longing for the future formed the essence of Tōkichi’s being. When the latter functioned well, it would endow him with an almost ascetic patience and tolerance. When the former functioned poorly, a markedly fickle aspect of his character came to the fore. In striving to find balance between these two aspects, he was making efforts in his own way. The place where this harmony would be found would likely become his "present." As of now, this young man still hadn’t formed what might be called a present.

For Tōkichi in such a state, this new workplace served as the supreme outlet for his vitality. When Tōkichi arrived at the office in the morning, Mr. Mitoronik—with a Three Castles cigarette dangling from his lips—was already clattering away at a typewriter on the veranda, looking as though he had been planted there for over an hour. It was a fresh sound, like a signal opening that day toward the future.

Next came Mr. Obata striding briskly into the office, his arrival slicing through the air. Before long, Mr. Brauenberg came hurrying in while wiping away sweat, and after a short interval, Illyria Raguzana stealthily took her seat like a mischievous child. Mr. Brauenberg called Tōkichi over and assigned him the day’s work. The office boy bundled telegrams and letters and left them on Miss Illyria’s desk. She was in charge of maintaining the incoming and outgoing correspondence register. Soon, the telephone bell began to ring. Visitors too began to trickle in.

This marked the dawn of daily life for the five-member Import Department.

Time began to froth. It rapidly intensified in heat and noise, and just when the steam pressure inside the turbine seemed on the verge of reaching its limit, the clock struck twelve. That round-faced office boy of Eastern descent would walk around distributing large cups of hot tea along with meat-filled pirozhki, and at the same time, the machinery would abruptly come to a halt. And then would come an hour of profound silence—a stillness so deep where even a cat’s yawn might be heard.

1:00 PM. Once again, the turbine of time began to roar, though its timbre now differed from the morning's. From its first rumblings came a cadmium-yellow resonance that gradually dulled, shifting to an orpiment-yellow tone as three o'clock approached. Meanwhile, they attended to visitors left unresolved from the morning. By the time this was settled, draft telegrams began fluttering chaotically between hands. Delayed morning applications now brought an onslaught of long-distance calls. Typists driven half-mad by fractured drafts and disordered communications scurried about with shrill voices. Miss Illyria sealed outgoing documents with the office boy's help—sweat beading at her temples, dampening her knuckles. ...When this became their weekly mail day, literal pandemonium erupted.

The dizzying daily whirlwind folded truly unexpected combinations of events and people into its layers, and even this future-overload syndrome found himself so utterly consumed with welcoming and seeing off that at first, he scarcely had time to recognize his own satisfaction. Each moment frothed while carrying new futures, and no sooner had they bubbled up than they yielded their place to new instants surging forth the next moment, while he dissolved pleasantly into a sense of fulfilled duty. There was an endless succession of unexpectedness and satisfaction, resembling the rhythm of music....

In the midst of their absorption, the lingering summer heat had passed before they knew it, giving way to a nostalgic October filled with shadow-dappled sunlight. By that time, Tōkichi gradually began to find some mental leeway, and with it, he now also had the spare moments to occasionally close his eyes and listen intently to the surrounding sounds or open them again to quietly survey his surroundings. As his eyes grew accustomed—much like how the shapes on a rapidly spinning zoetrope gradually became discernible—so too did his pupils begin adjusting their focus from the hectic shifts of days toward the gradual transitions between months. Transcending the fleeting moments of each instant, the shadows of seasons and history began to sprout in Tōkichi’s mindscape.

By that time too, the human faces that had been wavering on time’s shifting surface or hiding in its shadows began to emerge gradually from the haze, becoming as distinct as flowers bathed in moonlight.

Thus, for Tōkichi, that workplace transformed into a “House in the Forest” filled with countless discoveries and *Märchen*. It may now be called the cradle of his youth.……

A corner near the entrance of the Import Department had been partitioned off with wooden walls and designated as the legal advisor’s cabinet. The legal advisor was a man called Yurman—another German-style name—whose age and build roughly matched Mr. Brauenberg's; a short-necked, round-shouldered figure with a completely bald head, his glossy oval face perpetually wearing a roguish smile. His overall bearing somewhat resembled a walrus, but in truth this man had long since transcended mere social adaptability, having normalized a state of habitual unconventionality; while the Import Department staff affectionately honored him with the title "The Tenant," they also found him somewhat tiresome.

Not long after Tōkichi had started working there, one morning before everyone had arrived, Mr. Yurman lumbered over to his side and began in an awkward-sounding voice—

“Ani-san, I’m sorry, but I have an important favor to ask.” he began (Haniyū being apparently difficult to pronounce, most people called him Hani-san—though with someone like Mr. Yurman, even the initial H disappeared). Bending his stiff bull neck with difficulty while repeatedly gesturing at his nape revealed a collar button that had come undone, leaving the collar protruding about an inch. It seemed he had already made considerable efforts on his own, but between his overweight frame and old-fashioned stiff-starched stand-up collar, his fingers likely couldn’t quite reach properly. From the sight of his flushed face and labored breathing—imagining how he must have stretched and shrunk in his exertions—Tōkichi couldn’t help bursting into silent laughter within. When the button finally fastened, Mr. Yurman appeared thoroughly relieved, gave his shoulders one grand shake to adjust the collar’s position, then stood with both arms dangling like a penguin.

“Thank you kindly, thank you kindly!” Repeating this in Japanese that seemed forced through his teeth, he fixed his utterly earnest eyes of gratitude directly on Tōkichi’s own, then retreated backward with the bearing of a musician summoned for an encore. Since this incident, Mr. Yurman had become one of those dearest to Tōkichi’s heart.

This person’s phone calls were terribly long. During daytime’s hectic peak they drew little notice, but in the still-quiet mornings, his booming voice enunciating every last syllable of those absurdly polite conversations would reverberate through the Import Department’s ceilings, becoming an immense nuisance to the surroundings. Mr. Brauenberg—buried in documents and sunk in contemplation—would occasionally click his tongue sharply in irritation, his characteristic grin accompanying,

“Good grief, the Tartar’s weather greetings have started up again!... ‘How hot it is! And how is your wife’s health?’... Look, he’s still at it, still at it...” he would interject mockingly. Whereupon Mr. Yurman immediately took notice and, setting aside the telephone,

“Wait a minute, Konstantin! The German-style greetings are just about to begin. It must be nostalgic for you—I’m listening closely now!” he would counterattack in such a manner. And thus the booming weather-related greetings continued at even greater length. We found ourselves disarmed, reduced to silent listeners. In this manner, though 'The Tenant' was more boisterous than lively—verging on downright bothersome—it was also true that thanks to his presence, the otherwise solemn atmosphere of the Import Department would be skillfully softened at precisely the right moments.…

Meanwhile, Tōkichi's world gradually—though steadily—expanded beyond the small realm of the Import Department, reaching outward into the wider world.

Among these expanding spheres of the outside world, the first that Tōkichi came to have close dealings with was none other than the typists’ room.

There were three Japanese attendants, but since two of them were partially assigned to the Accounting Department and the Agricultural Department occupying the annex within the gate's grove, a frail-looking young man named Nishikawa alone handled everything in the main building—from guest reception and second-floor affairs to Import Department chores. In the mornings he somehow managed to handle everything, but once afternoon came, no matter how many times they rang the bell, his figure would never appear. Thus, particularly reserved individuals like Mr. Mitoronik would take urgent documents to the typists themselves. Mr. Brauenberg seemed to find standing up too troublesome and kept patiently ringing the bell, but eventually, unable to wait any longer, he too hurried out, only to return moments later panting heavily. At first, Tōkichi had been cautious, but once he determined that they were not confidential documents, he came to handle the tasks with ease. Not only that, but there were also invoices prepared by Tōkichi himself that absolutely had to go through the typists’ hands. Among them were documents that required constant prodding to be typed up immediately on the spot. This was especially true on mail-day afternoons. Such being the case, Tōkichi had unwittingly become one of the regulars in that room.

The typists were crammed together—five or six of them—into a north-facing Western-style room located deep within the dark corridor at the far end of the downstairs. Because the lighting was poor, electric lamps remained lit even during daytime hours. No matter how sweltering it became, they kept the corridor doors tightly shut against drafts; stepping inside meant being assaulted by the stifling stench of young women’s sweat mingled with rancid face powder—an indescribably sharp acidic odor. Within this peculiar warmth, their hearing dulled by machine-gun-like clatter erupting from typewriters, the typists moved with only their eyes shining nervously—at times wilting like parched flowers, at others glaring with garish intensity as they jostled and swayed. That place was indeed a tropical “poisonous garden” that not only instantly exhausted visitors’ nerves but visibly corroded the very vitality of its young inhabitants.

Within this garden of women, the one who stood out most conspicuously through her cool crystalline radiance was a young typist called Nina. She was a tall, beautiful blonde woman with a slender, elegantly proportioned face, but around her lips always hovered a faint smile tinged with mockery. With that mouth still deftly holding a thin cigarette, she made her ten fingers dance across the keys like blue snakes, heedless of onlookers. She was an alarmingly fast worker and a spirited woman, and whenever something grated on her nerves, she would snap in a glinting metallic voice—

“Shut up!” She would mercilessly rebuke her colleagues and startle any outsider who happened to enter that still-tense atmosphere before the reverberations had even faded—yet she was never once seen pausing her work. Yet paradoxically, this woman remained most sensitive to comings and goings in the room. Even when Tōkichi entered, she would inevitably frown with a “here we go again” expression, her clear eyes emitting an amethyst-like light as she gazed piercingly at whoever approached……

The moment she sensed through his presence that the task brought to her was not her own, her attention would swiftly be sucked back into the keys; but just as he seized that instant to begin a nod, she—without a moment’s pause after typing five or six extra characters in her momentum—would forcefully slump both bare arms sideways onto the machine’s tablet and thrust her chin forward in a Romani-like pose, lending an ear to his faltering words with palpable impatience. At times she would spitefully point out each and every error in phrasing, letting out a shrill laugh every single time. Yet when convinced it truly was urgent documentation, she would snatch the manuscript from his hand as if wresting it away, pivot sharply to the spare typewriter beside her, and clatter through the task on the spot... Though an intensely difficult person to approach, her quick comprehension and above all her work done with breathtaking speed meant that as Tōkichi came to understand her temperament, he increasingly brought truly pressing matters to Nina.

When you came to know her properly, she turned out to be fundamentally good-natured—gallant yet meddlesome in her eagerness to please—a disposition that seemed to bring her nothing but trouble. Gradually, Tōkichi had begun to sense some misfortune hidden in this woman’s past. Speaking of which, though it was still sweltering early autumn heat, she had already taken to wearing a yellowish sleeveless woolen sweater—sweating profusely yet never once removing it—in a manner that felt quintessentially characteristic of her.

On one such early autumn afternoon, when Tōkichi left the office with Mr. Obata and was strolling toward the Hiyoshi Slope bus stop, Nina came up from behind and, as she passed them, flashed a perfunctory smile before quickly walking away. He had not entirely failed to notice it before, but viewed from twenty or thirty paces away, a slight lameness in one leg became apparent. The slight limp was not only unconcealed by her precise gait but rather amplified by the swaying of thin fabric at her hips and shoulders, rendering her entire petite figure with an impression of something jagged and bony…

When Tōkichi casually pointed it out to Mr. Obata, the man seemed to narrow his eyes and scrutinize her, but soon—

“Well now, she’s a good girl but pitiable… Surely it’s not lead poisoning…” he said something unexpected.

“Lead poisoning!...”

“No, no—that can’t be! “It's a joke. ...I hear that girl used to be an opera diva in Fiume before the political upheaval. “At one point she apparently even performed at theaters in Budapest... Though she looks that way, she must be quite advanced in years... Perhaps Japan’s humidity has brought on some neuralgia or the like.”

As Tōkichi remained distracted by her figure retreating around the corner, Mr. Obata gave his cane a brisk twirl and— “She’s another victim of the political upheaval… A spirited, good-natured girl like that!”

Musing pensively to himself, he abruptly shifted the topic to another typist. It concerned an old woman named Sofiya Verkhovetskaya, but it was at this time that Tōkichi first learned from Mr. Obata’s account that she had formerly been a Dalmatian Countess. She had long resided in Yokohama, but having been widowed from a husband who had run a fairly extensive trade business, lost her homeland property in the political upheaval, and for some reason had long been out of contact with her only son whom she had sent to study in America, she had finally come at her age to strike typewriter keys.

“That old woman—saying I’m the only one who understands an old man’s feelings—she often comes to me with complaints and consultations.” “...I do look after her piano students and such, and lend an ear as much as possible—but when she starts insisting I must have countless connections in America, wide-ranging contacts with consular officials and press circles, demanding I comb through every blade of grass to find her son’s whereabouts... it always leaves me at my wit’s end.” “As a parent myself, I understand her feelings profoundly—but America is such a vast place after all!”

Following Mr. Obata’s deliberately joking yet evasive words, Tōkichi found himself vividly recalling the old woman’s appearance. She must have been nearing sixty. She always sat deep within that room, separated from the others, typing with reverent gestures. Her keystrokes differed from Nina’s frantic rhythm—smooth and measured—yet now that it had been mentioned, those movements indeed retained traces of bygone elegance, as if she were quietly playing a clavichord in some twilight salon of a Dalmatian nobleman’s mansion. When Tōkichi had first joined the office and floundered through linguistic difficulties while being toyed with by Nina and others, it had been this old woman who rescued him by addressing him in gentle French from the shadows. Since then, though rarely interacting directly with this specialist in English documents, he made sure to exchange nods whenever their eyes met. She too would respond with a solicitous gaze and nod in return. During lunch breaks when the import department emptied, he had occasionally glimpsed her hovering near Mr. Obata’s desk—clinging to its edge while anxiously glancing backward—whispering some urgent plea……

"The tides of our times are... how shall I put it... an utterly shameless thing. Not that each soul bears guilt—I do pity them—but there's simply no remedy for it." "Yet paradoxically, there's also something inexpressibly bracing about it." "An old saw perhaps—new growth after the storm... Or rather, the changing of old and new." "Though I may not appear so, I still brim with youthful spirit. While this emerging generation fills me with peculiar unease, I can't deny feeling an indescribable allure..."

“Even if you call it a new generation… To tell the truth, I too had steeled myself expecting to encounter it abruptly, but hasn’t it still not appeared at all? Whether it’s Mr. Brauenberg or that Mr. Yurman…” “No, no—your horizons remain too limited. The fog will clear before long. It’s not a Croatian proverb, but a mountain heralds a mountain… Even now, the tide swells rapidly where unseen. I can nearly hear its roar. Moreover—let me state this plainly—this regime may seem fragile, but it shall neither collapse nor falter… Well, you’ll simply have to trust my intuition on that count. Before long, even someone as faint-hearted as you might find yourself trembling with dread…”

"What’s next—a demon?" “Surely not to that extent… Ah, if only I were twenty years younger as it stands!”

He dissolved the rest into laughter.

3

The girl named Illyria remained somehow unfathomable. The desks were positioned at right angles to each other, so raising his eyes would immediately bring her profile into view just before his nose. Between them lay not a single barrier. And yet, he still couldn't quite grasp her. Moreover, hers was a face that seemed only to grow more inscrutable the longer he looked. Now, if one were to ask whether there was anything complex about those features, that wasn't the case. Her face was relatively large for her stature, with plump cheeks that possessed an almost Eastern-style simplicity. Her skin also had a slightly muddy yellowish tinge. Her nose was a fleshy aquiline shape with obtuse angles, yet somewhat closer to a snub nose; when she tightened her lips into a smile (indeed, Illyria was never one to laugh aloud—), two or three vertical wrinkles would etch themselves along the bridge of her nose, exuding a kind of approachable, gentle charm. Her chin was neatly compact, the tip slightly receded. As for her eyes—which he had secretly observed from the side—the skin of her upper eyelids formed folds hanging over the eyeballs, creating a structure resembling what anthropologists call the Mongolian fold. This seemed to impart to her gaze a shadow of quiet meditation and affectionate benevolence.

When she stood up, her petite yet slightly plump figure was not what one would call particularly trim, to put it kindly; perhaps trying to conceal this, she always wore loose-fitting clothes. Her entire figure gave Tōkichi an indescribable sense of comfort and relief—or rather, a feeling of respite. After having tangled with that obstinate Nina or been dispatched to the accounting department on some errand—emerging drenched in sweat from exchanges laden with interminable numerals he still struggled with, whether facing Stefanovich (the accounting section chief who combined an unhurriedly optimistic demeanor with a sharp tongue) or Safron (the hard-of-hearing cashier and avid angler who always leaned a full set of fishing gear against the wall behind his seat)—this sense of respite grew all the more pronounced. Having fled the West and returned to an Eastern hideaway—he even felt something akin to that sentiment.

He liked to position Illyria's profile within the autumn morning's backlight streaming diagonally from behind her through the veranda, occasionally lifting his eyes from documents to steal discreet glances. At such moments, her long eyelashes - softly shadowed - made that characteristic Mongolian fold appear profoundly meditative.

Occasionally in the afternoon, when old man Brauenberg was away at a meeting or such and work was slow, she would hesitantly take out a cigarette and quietly light it. The smoke, now tinged purple through sunlight slanting diagonally forward, formed languid rings as it brushed past the delicate earlobe peeking halfway from bobbed hair ends and drifted upward. A book lay open on the desk. It was the thick book with a mouse-gray stained cover that she would occasionally pull out from the wooden file holder filled with account books before her and read furtively. As he gazed at the profile of her face fixed upon the page, he fancied he could discern a smile lingering in her eyelashes. What a calm and composed, earnest woman she must be, Tōkichi thought. The term "female university student" felt ill-fitting for her; one might rather call her by the old-fashioned designation of "woman scholar." There was something strangely alluring about this conflict between her modest, earnest scholarly dedication and the passionate, sorrow-laden heart concealed beneath her breasts. Tōkichi pondered the youthfulness of her country. And he tried comparing her to the woman scholar types depicted in Meiji-era novels or the likeness of Anna Marl from The Lonely People. Perhaps this was even what one might call a new archetype of woman emerging in this newly emerging nation... Yet beneath this assumption lay something unresolved, something that refused to sit right with him.

One day, after Illyria had left her seat with her book still open, Tōkichi—returning from a summons to Mr. Mitoronik’s office—quietly picked up the volume to examine it. To his surprise, it was a Russian edition of Pushkin’s complete works. A close inspection revealed not only yellowed pages but stains from spilled drinks and hand grime throughout, with binding threads loosened or snapped in places—an antique so aged that its journey through generations of hands defied imagination. Tōkichi felt an abrupt, piercing tenderness constrict his chest.

When he returned and sat down quietly, he gauged the right moment to address Illyria, who had once again lowered her eyes to her book.

“Do you like Pushkin?” he asked. She showed a flicker of unease but didn’t turn toward him, instead folding the wrinkles along her nose into that characteristic enigmatic smile. “Well… I don’t really know.” “…But I must study Russian.” she murmured in Japanese as if speaking to herself, then folded the page and returned the book to its holder. She was a girl of few words…. Illyria was a woman of many transformations. At some trigger, she would become like an entirely different person.

At first he thought her hair was flaxen. However, depending on how the light struck it, that could deepen markedly, sometimes appearing almost chestnut in color. Generally speaking, he felt what had been distinctly lighter hues during summer gradually grew duller from autumn's onset onward—though not conspicuously—their tones steadily dimming to approach darker shades as the season deepened. In truth, her hair was rather chestnut brown in color, and this was likely merely a matter of it being sensitively affected by light and shadow's interplay.

At times, Illyria’s complexion would blow away the dull haze that thinly veiled its surface, suddenly appearing translucent with a rosy glow. At such times, youth would radiate from her forehead, and Tōkichi found this truly beautiful. Yet conversely, there were times when her complexion would cloud into an indescribably unpleasant ocherous hue. That rosy hue would vanish without a trace in an hour or so, yet once it turned sallow, it stubbornly persisted for two or three days. Even her gaze would grow glassy, and all vitality would utterly vanish. Usually quiet, she would become conspicuously sullen, even knitting her brows in displeasure. He found her ugly in those moments. He found himself dragged into that oppressive mood as well. At first, he thought she might have caught a cold. He also wondered if it might be due to quinine or some other medication she had taken for that reason. Gradually, he began noticing that this phenomenon appeared almost regularly over the span of about a month. However, Tōkichi was neither so idle nor so inquisitive as to verify this clearly...

Come to think of it, he realized Illyria's eyes were not the simple gray he had first perceived. Rather, a color one might call greyish-blue seemed to form their base tone. They took on subtle nuances with each shift of light and shadow throughout the day. What proved particularly strange was how at certain moments, those eyes would even appear deep brown. Then her face would almost completely take on East Asian features... From her surname Raguzana, Tōkichi had mentally connected her origins to that port of Ragusa - a beautiful coastal city facing the Adriatic Sea, surrounded by olive trees. When he noticed that streak of blue flowing in her eyes, it seemed to him like a reflection of her homeland's sea light, making him feel his imagination had gained some credible validation. But subsequent betrayals occurred all too frequently. He gradually came to envision various pathways by which her family's bloodline might have drifted north from the Adriatic Sea, mingling with local lineages until finally crossing Slovenia's mountains to blend with Hungarian blood. The more deeply he studied her skin tone, facial structure, and especially those ever-changing eyes, the more this imagined lineage seemed closest to truth. To put it plainly, what she possessed was beauty born of extremely complex racial blending - and might that not also be the source of her ugliness?...

Even in that year when the summer heat had lingered unusually long, by late October, mornings and evenings had indeed grown noticeably chilly.

On one such morning, when Tōkichi arrived slightly late to the office due to a train accident and was hanging his overcoat on the nail at the entrance to the Import Department, he noticed an unusual commotion inside the room. Peering out from behind the screen, he saw Illyria standing in the open space at the room’s center, tapping her feet in a steady rhythm—*tap, tap, tap*—as she spun round and round on her heels, coming to a stop just now facing forward.

Old Man Brauenberg stood blocking the fireplace that still held no fire, arms crossed, his typically imposing features crumpling into a broad grin as he observed the scene with mock solemnity. As for Illyria—being observed—she wore a brand-new navy blue blouse he had never seen her wear before, elbows slightly spread and hands placed on her hips. In that stance, she stamped her feet once more—tap, tap, tap—and though one could hardly call it nimble even out of politeness, she spun around once, then again, with a dexterity modest yet fitting for her build. Tōkichi recalled a Croatian folk dance said to resemble that Cossack dance.

Just as he thought it might continue and kept watching, she abruptly halted her movements, lowered both hands, and—with a bashful retreat—began approaching her seat while speaking in an uncharacteristically bright, buoyant voice: "What do you think of this cut? ... Quite comradely, don't you agree?" she prompted for a critique. “Ha ha ha... Comradely, you say? I see, I see... Ah, well made indeed! Well made indeed!” A faint wry smile tinged her response to Mr. Brauenberg’s praise. Unaware of this, he—innocently, with apparent concern—

“Does it look odd from behind?”

“The back looks quite well done too. Illyria,” said Mr. Brauenberg, his booming voice softening slightly, “...did you make this yourself?” “Yes, I did,” she replied, chin lifting with pride that couldn’t quite mask the tremor in her hands. “...It took me a week.” Her triumphant declaration faltered mid-breath as she suddenly noticed Tōkichi’s presence. A flush bloomed across her cheekbones—raw and unguarded—before she turned wordlessly to her desk, the wooden chair creaking under her abrupt descent. From that day on, Tōkichi grew accustomed to seeing that blouse’s amateurish seams peeking through her office wear. Each crooked stitch whispered *So this was proletarian chic!*, while memories of her spinning dance—clumsy yet earnest—lodged deeper in his mind, making her shifting colors more inscrutable than ever.

However, those peaceful days could not last forever. As Tōkichi had intuitively sensed when first passing through its gates, this office faced formidable external pressures while internally—within its very walls—large and small storms of tension ceaselessly brewed. It was simply that Tōkichi had placed himself in a relatively calm zone for now. Of course, even so, thunderstorms would occasionally erupt before his very eyes.

The Commercial Representative was a slender, mild-mannered gentleman named K who, as he also held a position at the embassy, rarely made appearances at this office. In the afternoons, there were times when one might spot him alighting from a car with a racket in hand and heading up to the second floor, but as for where exactly on that second floor the representative’s room was located—even that much Tōkichi did not know well. The second floor remained nothing less than a mysterious realm for him, and also a kind of taboo. (Regarding this matter, Mr. Obata had given him a certain warning beforehand.)

Since the Commercial Representative carried himself in such a manner, full authority over the office’s daily affairs rested with Deputy Representative Zirkovich. A towering figure of medium build, with a receding hairline and veins of irritability perpetually visible at his temples; eyes less piercing than coldly penetrating; a resonant, broad voice; an imperiously striding gait—though according to Mr. Obata, he had been general manager of Agram’s renowned Niš Department Store before the political upheaval, his bearing now overflowed with such visibly rugged vigor and military-style severity, so incongruous with that background yet so thoroughly wrapped in an air of seasoned dignity, that it saturated every furrow of his brow and every gesture he made. The cabinet was a small north-facing room adjoining the typists’ quarters where Tōkichi had entered two or three times to deliver documents, though each time he couldn’t suppress a chill running down his spine.

On Saturdays, even after twelve o'clock when work remained unfinished and every room from the Import Department onward was seething with activity colored by the typists' shrill voices, Mr. Zirkovich would tuck a composed faint smile into his delicate mustache and wave his hands as if herding people along,

“Wrap it up, wrap it up!” At times, he would go around every room and desk. During such moments Mr. Zirkovich appeared positively buoyant and cheerful—his voice never overtly threatening—yet achieved the full effect of someone cracking an imaginary whip across the desktops. Should anyone show the slightest hesitation, his eyes would flash instantly; even the formidable Mr. Brauenberg, once ensnared in this manner, had to rise with a strained grin and hurriedly begin closing shop. It likely wasn’t that Mr. Zirkovich cherished discipline itself. One might more accurately say he savored the brisk satisfaction of seeing his frost-and-blaze commands promptly obeyed. In any case, after this man had passed through, there lingered a freshness like that following a sudden evening downpour’s swift departure.

This fierce autocrat too would sometimes display a remarkably childish and comical side in full view.

One day, Mr. Brauenberg—who had been away from his seat for some time—returned with an unusually excited expression, stomping on the floorboards. Then, after a brief interval, the pale-faced attendant Nishikawa entered hesitantly carrying a chair and began earnestly pleading with Mr. Brauenberg in hushed tones. In the midst of this, the name "Mr. Zirkovich, Mr. Zirkovich" kept coming up repeatedly. The old man didn't even look his way. The fingers roughly flipping through documents trembled violently with anger, clearly visible even from a distance. Finally at a loss for words to explain, Nishikawa placed his hand on the back of the chair where the old man sat and made a gesture indicating he wanted to replace it with the one he had just brought in. The moment he did so, the old man let out one of his thunderous coughs and indignantly shook off Nishikawa’s hand. Nishikawa scurried off, huffing and puffing.

After a while came Kurimoto, an older attendant who knew a smattering of Serbian. This quick-witted young man scattered genial smiles around as he desperately tried to coax the old man into compliance, but Mr. Brauenberg's fierce demeanor showed no signs of softening. At last, he violently shook his head sideways and, “No—I absolutely refuse to move!” he declared with solemn finality. Exasperated by this, Kurimoto retreated while scratching his head and approached Tōkichi’s desk.

“This is quite the predicament, Mr. Haniyū. Can’t something be done? ...The truth is, since Mr. Zirkovich is suffering from hemorrhoids, he’s been insisting we retrieve that chair without fail—he’s been quite persistent about it since earlier.” Hearing this made it all the more impossible for someone like Tōkichi to intervene. The desk Mr. Brauenberg used was in fact a relic from the previous baron’s era—a considerable antique with elegant carvings reminiscent of Baroque. The chair too had been crafted to match it, its backrest high, its legs forming an elegant curve—the design quite elaborate. “The Baron’s Chair” served not only as a collective name for this desk and chair set, but also as a title for the Deputy Import Manager’s position, having become an object of both ridicule and envy among the entire staff. Moreover, since that chair’s seat lacked any cushion and remained bare wood, it stayed refreshingly cool and comfortable to sit on during summer months—but one must understand that in humid lands like Japan, this very quality made it an especially alluring presence for foreigners as a sort of ward against hemorrhoids. It would seem Mr. Zirkovich had seized upon this sudden flare-up of his condition as the opportunity to finally realize his long-cherished ambition of conquest.

In the end, the attendants never reappeared, and Mr. Zirkovich himself did not take the field. Our old man’s resolute struggle had thus splendidly succeeded in keeping the Baron’s Chair in its original position...

Such minor farces serving as prelude, a storm of crisis soon descended upon the Import Department.

It was early November—a day so dim from morning that electric lights had to be lit—but by afternoon, even a chilly drizzle began to fall. Mr. Brauenberg, having had someone light a fire in the fireplace for the first time, kept letting out booming coughs while sitting alone in a state of perfect contentment.

Late that afternoon, as the room grew comfortably warm and the sound of rain still persisted outside, even when quitting time arrived no one felt inclined to rise. Tōkichi too was half-dozing while entering numbers into last month’s import statistics table when suddenly a loud voice erupted on the veranda.

Before anyone realized, Mr. Zirkovich had come and was talking with Mr. Mitoronik. Perhaps none in the room had noticed their arrival. So drowsy and dreamlike was everyone's state. By the time they startled into awareness, it had already escalated to shouting. Mr. Zirkovich's tall frame now stood upright, pacing violently across the narrow veranda's paving stones before glass panes clouded by warm air. Meanwhile Mr. Mitoronik remained seated, neck stiffly raised as his gaze relentlessly followed the other man's face, maintaining rebuttals in a low yet uncharacteristically forceful tone that wove between the shouts. He displayed a rarely seen resolute attitude suggesting profound determination. Since everything had erupted so abruptly, none could grasp the dispute's substance. In the room, all held their breath. The exchange between suppressed voice and angry shouts persisted awhile longer.

Before long, Mr. Mitoronik too rose to his feet. He was seen leaning one hand on the rattan table, face lowered, chest heaving as he repeated his characteristic "Mm, mm..." under his breath. At that moment, Mr. Zirkovich sharply stamped his boot—then crumpled the documents on the table into a ball with a harsh rustling noise before slamming them violently onto the floor. With the momentum, he nimbly leapt onto the threshold of the room's step and stood there like a fierce temple guardian statue, glaring down at those below.

“That’s why I… I can’t stand Juu!” “That’s why I… I can’t stand Juu!”

Having hurled a continuous stream of abuse, he then turned on his heel and strode across the room to leave.

This time, the calm after the storm did not come to pass. In the awkwardly tense air, for a while, everyone remained utterly silent.

Before long, Mr. Obata rose from his seat with an air of resolve and left the room with loud footsteps, as if pursuing Mr. Zirkovich. As that disappeared beyond the door, the room returned to its oppressive silence.

Suddenly, from beyond the wooden partition, the Tenant’s shrill voice erupted. That—

“That’s why I… I can’t stand it, I say!” “That’s why I… I can’t stand it, I say!” He repeated the words with exaggerated emphasis like a parrot, emitted a dismissive “Hmph!” as if spitting it out, then roughly slammed the bureau’s clattering cover shut—likely heading home. Then, peeking his red-rimmed face from behind the screen partition, he offered a forced “Goodbye!” and left with loud footsteps echoing behind him. The room returned to silence thrice.

It was now a suffocating, unbearable silence. In the midst of this, Mr. Mitoronik shifted his position. He picked up the remnants of documents that had been lying at his feet, placed them on the rattan table, and sank heavily into his chair. He fumbled a cigarette out of the can before him but kept it pinched between his fingers as he propped his cheek on that hand...

At that moment, Illyria—who until now had been sitting with eyes narrowed like a cat upon the hearth, gazing fixedly ahead—rose from her seat without a sound. Tōkichi started. She half-rose, gathered the documents on the desk, then descended to the veranda. She placed the documents on the rattan table and, in a voice whose intonation and tone were no different from usual, “Leonid, sign.” Having said this, she waited for him to lower his hand from his cheek, pulled the ashtray on the table closer, casually struck a match, and held it out toward Mr. Mitoronik.

The room had grown so dark that the flame’s glow cast a reddish flicker across their faces. Tōkichi turned and noticed—amidst the dim gloom—the look of relief that had appeared on old man Brauenberg’s face as he too watched the flame’s glow……

4

The color of the sky had cleared completely, and beautiful autumn weather continued day after day.

The sprawling garden—estimated at roughly a thousand tsubo—stretched endlessly as lawn, its only features being four Himalayan cedars spaced far apart at slightly irregular intervals to form the vertices of a quadrilateral. Somehow, it evoked the image of four medieval noblewomen performing a quadrille—each lifting the wide, hoop-skirted hems of their robes ever so slightly, tilting their heads adorned with tall wigs, and exchanging nods diagonally across the formation. The fifth cedar stood apart from this group, growing solitarily midway up a slope at the garden's front that would soon descend steeply at its edge. Beyond that point formed a steep cliff, so even if one stood at the garden's center, nothing could be seen in that direction save the color of the sky.

From summer to early autumn, during lunch breaks and such, the shade of those four Himalayan cedars was bustling with activity. Now everyone had come out from there, and the hustle and bustle of the tree shade had been taken over by the lawn. The cedar shadows grew longer with each passing day, and the autumn sunlight lay mellow across the entire lawn.

The staff of the Import Department all commuted from outside, while a considerable number of employees' families appeared to reside in the Japanese wing. This section connected via a short covered corridor to the Western-style building housing the offices consisted almost entirely of two uniform floors, capped by what resembled a castle keep-like third floor perched at the roof's center. Though an antiquated structure, it could likely accommodate about ten families if packed tightly. At nine each morning—in the sunlit corner where the Japanese wing's western edge jutted at a right angle—two bed mattresses were invariably spread to dry as daily custom dictated. Arranged in an inverted V-shape, their dazzling white surfaces drinking in sunlight would sting the eyes when viewed from the veranda. He didn't know which family occupied that room, but there was no mistaking it housed a punctual housewife with fastidious habits. The quiet pleasure awakened by orderly routines.

At ten o'clock—having finished their late morning tea and completed their preparations—the wives appeared centered around the two Himalayan cedars on the western side. Some had children in tow. There were also those pushing baby carriages. It was at this hour that they—clad in refreshing morning dresses—most purely revealed themselves, whether standing still or sitting sideways, the robust lines of their hips on full display. They weren't tired. They were brimming with vitality—a savage vigor after deep sleep.

By twelve o'clock—the wives had all gone out and hardly showed themselves on the lawn.The sole exception was Mrs.Mitoronik，though this was not a social visit.Yet without fail every three days，she would come around from outside to the veranda.When the French doors were closed，she would knock on them with slender fingertips．And she would engage in some whispered conversation with Mr.Mitoronik during his lunch．These conversations could drag on quite long at times，but throughout them，only Mr.Mitoronik’s voice could be heard offering perfunctory replies that seemed devoid of interest．Soon，the clasp of her handbag snapped shut，and Mrs.Mitoronik squared her shoulders before retreating back through the garden．Her posture at times showed clear satisfaction，at others clear dissatisfaction．She was a tall woman with a somewhat stiff demeanor．

Three o'clock—the lawn bustled with wives returning from shopping, as lively as a promenade. Clusters formed here and there, their colorful presence growing steadily. Among them were those who had just come from the beauty parlor and were constantly adjusting their hats. Mrs. Brauenberg would also occasionally appear. Holding her children's hands on either side, she would come to wait beneath the veranda when it was time to leave. A relatively petite woman, her face—free of face powder and neatly defined—looked remarkably young. Were she not accompanied by children, she could easily be mistaken for Mr. Brauenberg's daughter. Presumably, this must be because Mr. Brauenberg either appeared older than he was or had married late in life. When closing time came and everyone rose from their seats, the children would come up to the office. They were a girl and a boy. Mr. Brauenberg now took their hands on either side, his stern demeanor softening as he chatted with them while walking home at a leisurely pace—his hat tilted back like a halo—a sight too delightful for words. He had never seen Mr. Yurman's wife. He might be single.

Illyria had left for Kobe on a two-week assignment. Kobe was originally the birthplace of this Commercial Office, but now it remains in a form resembling a branch office, primarily handling cargo loading and unloading as well as chartering-related work.

During Illyria’s business trip, a portion of her duties naturally fell to Tōkichi’s shoulders. However, as this coincided with the recent conclusion of a major procurement phase and the impending preparations for the next project, mornings in particular remained remarkably quiet. As part of these preparations, there was work organizing old documents and extracting relevant information. This involved perusing document files accumulated since the office’s founding—analyzing seasonal price fluctuations of essential goods, investigating past clients’ transaction volumes, verifying whether domestic buyers had raised objections post-transaction, and assessing those establishments’ current credit standings. Having been entrusted with this work by Mr. Brauenberg, Tōkichi came to spend increasing amounts of time in the document archive.

The document archive had been assigned an earthen storehouse. The earthen storehouse stood at the westernmost edge of the Japanese building. To reach it required traversing a long central corridor that twisted like a serpent. This dim passageway—further marred by warped and creaking floorboards—made for an unpleasant commute. Yet through daily repetition of this journey, he gradually came to observe Japanese Building life from its hidden side. Though its interior remained firmly closed off...

The scenery along this corridor (to Tōkichi, it felt that way—) was truly rich in variation. First, there was a sprawling kitchen. When passing by with a sideways glance, there might be an Oriental-style portly cook building a mountain of sliced eggs with that familiar round-faced boy. Sometimes they would be vigorously frying piroshki. There were times when bread slices slathered thickly with caviar would be crammed onto a serving table that looked about the size of three tatami mats. In the late afternoon, the dishes became more complex and authentic. They were hard workers. However, there were times when the two would amiably nod off together.

Except for the kitchen, every other room remained shut tight with walls and sliding doors. They consisted entirely of ill-fitting sliding doors—their gaps patched with wooden planks and secured thoroughly with five-inch nails. In the early mornings, the sudden fragrance of baking bread might strike one's nose from behind unexpected doors. At times, the rich aroma of coffee would waft through as well. Could it be some bachelor student? Or perhaps wives sleeping late? Come to think of it, even past ten o'clock they seemed to have just awoken—beds creaking now and then. Sometimes he heard the distinct thud of feet landing in slippers. At such moments, Tōkichi would startle at the thought that his own careless footsteps might have shattered someone's peaceful dream, then hurry past on tiptoe. As he moved along, he felt the little demon nesting in his mind's corner begin whispering absurdities—was that sound's source fat or thin? Male or female? If a woman, perhaps around... He smiled wryly despite himself, oddly captivated by these imaginings. Yet with each passing day, he sensed this discernment growing within him—a development that filled him with peculiar dread.

It was rare to encounter anyone in the corridor, yet he eventually came to recognize the faces of about two women. Or rather, it was as if two heads had finally been attached to the torsos of women whose distinguishing features he’d previously discerned from afar among the strolling crowds on the lawn. One had a fair-skinned, plump round face, her already large eyes opened impossibly wide—a blonde woman with a compact, rounded body whose gait exactly matched that of a rubber doll. The other was a woman with a mature, round-chinned face always thickly painted in dark ochre, chestnut hair forming truly magnificent spirals as it coiled upward. Had someone exaggerated the wigs of the Louis dynasty era, they might have taken such a form. When passing through slightly brighter patches, he could see countless hair coils—each about an inch in diameter—twisted into spirals that created an eerily magnificent spectacle, every single ring remaining taut as if crafted from wire, never losing its shape. If this had been natural hair, it would have been remarkably strange indeed; but upon later reflection, it seemed to represent the primordial form of what we now call a permanent wave.

The ethnic groups forming Country J could be broadly divided into three categories from east to west: those preserving medieval Turkish military customs from Balkan plundering campaigns; those wearing red-and-black Greek caps over blended Greek-Turkish-Slavic traditions; and those topping this synthesis with Hungarian-style wide-brimmed hats—or so went the prevailing theory. Yet women alone stubbornly maintained ancient Ukrainian-Slavic customs through gaudy festival robes and plain work clothes—a steadfastness academic treatises praised as proof of unshakable moral fiber. Regardless, these people’s first act upon disembarking in Japanese ports saw both sexes racing to commission the latest Western fashions. How intriguing it would be—Tōkichi mused—to mentally strip away those European-style garments and clothe these gentlemen and ladies in their authentic attire instead... In idle moments, such fancies would suddenly seize him. Sometimes he even indulged them for amusement.

Even as he sat alone in quiet solitude within the earthen storehouse—battling skittering hordes of mice while brushing away heaped dust and sorting through document binders—those fanciful imaginings would occasionally resurface unbidden, drawing an involuntary smile to his lips. The binders also contained many documents from the Kobe era. As he sorted through them, Illyria would naturally come to mind. Yet for some reason, whenever this happened, the image conjured in his mind was not of her adorned in Ukrainian maiden’s traditional attire, but rather of her real self—clad in that casually worn work uniform—walking down an actual port street in Kobe.……

One afternoon, as Tōkichi returned from the earthen storehouse carrying an armful of document binders, the telephone in the entrance hall suddenly began ringing shrilly. After putting down his load and picking up the receiver, the telephone operator informed him it was a long-distance call from Shimonoseki. This telephone was directly connected to the second floor, and the switch should always have been flipped up. Tōkichi found this puzzling. However, with no attendants in sight, he had no choice but to listen intently until someone finally answered on the other end. It was a foreigner.

Phone calls with foreigners were challenging enough even on local lines, but with the other party speaking frantically through what sounded like a thick Croatian accent, he could hardly make out a single word at first. As he kept shouting "Slower! Slower!" he finally grasped that the caller needed to speak with Kaumōvichi, the representative's secretary. Since the second floor was strictly off-limits, he called out for an attendant, but unfortunately no one appeared. Anxious about the call disconnecting, he dashed up the stairs. The large room at the landing housed the Export Department. When he inquired about the secretary’s room, someone indicated it lay at the corridor’s left end. He knocked on the door but received no response. Turning the knob revealed a locked mechanism. He tried opening the adjacent door while retreating, but found it equally vacant. The space apparently served as the representative’s cabinet—a grand, expansive chamber. He scurried back down the corridor and rapped on the small room’s door beside the staircase. When no answer came, he pushed it open. No one occupied this space either. Noticing a door in the left wall, he steeled himself to approach and knock. After a pause came a response from within— An unfamiliar man’s gravelly voice that carried, he later realized, an undeniably ominous quality.

Tōkichi shoved the door open with force and stepped inside, “Where is Mr. Kaumovich?”

he asked, sweeping his gaze around the room. He startled and recoiled, then stood frozen in place. The atmosphere inside held such extraordinary tension.

It was a small room. In the center was a table covered in blue serge, and it occupied most of the floor. A ruddy-faced, stout man sat facing him and fixed a sharp gaze on Tōkichi’s face. It seemed to be the man from the voice earlier. At the left side of the table sat a narrow-faced young man. Beside him stood a tall man in a bluish suit, rigidly upright. They were all faces he had never seen before. And on the right side, beneath the curtained window—a man was sitting hunched into an armchair, his face lowered. The moment the shape of that crown of the head caught his eye, he thought this seemed familiar. Sparse brown hair.……

At that moment, the man standing upright swung his arm outward in a wide motion. It was a signal telling him to leave. Regaining his composure, Tōkichi bowed and closed the door. Inside, an electric light was on.…… All of that was but a momentary glimpse.

As he descended the stairs, he felt a vertigo like having taken a blow between the eyes. He thought he'd witnessed something foul. Yet simultaneously—he'd finally seen it! That sensation lingered too. But paradoxically, as if fog veiled one spot alone, he found himself utterly unable to recall the sparse-haired man's face in that critical instant. Reaching the bottom, he noticed the telephone receiver had come off its hook. He wordlessly replaced it. No desire to speak remained. At the clatter of the restored receiver, the man's face flashed through his mind—Safron from accounting. That fishing fanatic...

The unpleasant aftertaste lingered until he went to bed that day. Tōkichi himself had business with the accounting department two or three times a day. Most matters could be handled by Safron.

When he went to check the next morning, he still hadn't arrived. By afternoon, he still hadn't appeared. The optimistic accounting manager, "Mr. Safron not here. I'm busy. What a mess, what a mess!"

With that, he spread both hands theatrically in his broken Japanese and put on a playful show. If Safron wasn’t there, Tōkichi had to bother this Mr. Stefanovich instead.

The accounting clerk did not come in the following day either. Nor the day after that. After about five days, the fishing gear bag hanging on the wall behind the empty chair began to take on a strangely lonesome appearance. After about ten days, a thin layer of dust that had accumulated on the leather seat of that chair became visible in the winter sunlight.

By that time, rumors of Safron's disappearance had begun to reach Tōkichi's ears. There were even those who spoke as if eyewitnesses—claiming his house had been boarded up. He had initially dismissed it as unthinkable, but having actually encountered that scene himself, it was Tōkichi—ironically—who now found himself least equipped to refute the rumors. Interrogation...punishment...Such ominous imaginings had been repeatedly suppressed, yet remained rooted in some corner of his heart since that day. But what could that man have possibly done? Though their work rarely intersected and they'd never shared any deep connection, Tōkichi had unwittingly developed something beyond mere goodwill toward Safron's unassuming nature—that aloof taciturnity perhaps born of hearing difficulties. Now that matters stood thus, he found himself belatedly reconsidering this. If that afternoon scene truly constituted an interrogation, then perhaps—in the worst case—he'd been discreetly repatriated right then; such premonitions faintly lingered. The fate awaiting him... Yet this proved untrue. He had vanished. Where? Through what cause?...

On a winter morning, Tōkichi remained alone in the office with Mr. Brauenberg, organizing the bookshelves with his back turned, when he heard the rapid clacking of footsteps crossing the room. The old man caused his chair to creak loudly,

“Oh, who do I behold! Who do I behold!”

With that hoarse shout, he sprang vigorously to his feet. When Tōkichi turned around with a sharp click of the clasp fastener, there against the veranda glass—pearl-clouded by frosty breath and flooded with glittering morning light—stood Illyria's figure in her overcoat, starkly defined. The old man spread his large hands as he approached, and she silently received his palms between both of hers, completing the moment as two silhouettes: one looking down from above, the other gazing up from below......

Thus, she had returned once more to where Tōkichi and the others were. Soon after removing her overcoat and changing into a simple traveling dress adorned with a lace brooch, she sat at her desk—holding a caviar sandwich between her fingertips while quietly stirring the bottom of her glass of black tea with a long spoon; narrowing her eyes, her long eyelashes cradling a smile, friendly wrinkles gathering along the bridge of her nose as she gazed fixedly out the window; even when he spoke to her from the side, she did not shift her line of sight—

“Kobe was a beautiful town.” She responded sparingly, like someone entranced by memory—and as he gazed at her profile, Tōkichi felt as though he were the one who had returned home. With this, their former life would resume. Busy yet calm, peaceful yet filled with freshness—he deeply felt that the life of this room would now begin. And he felt the dark shadows of his heart—shadows that had so often tempted him since the Safron incident—gradually being swept away, thinning and vanishing.

As if he had been waiting for Illyria’s return, old man Brauenberg summoned her and Tōkichi and assigned them an entirely new task. The first was to investigate Japan’s rayon industry, and the second was to lay groundwork for purchasing Japanese silk reeling machinery that an institution in their home country intended to acquire. For this purpose, a package of recently harvested silk samples had arrived from their home country. Naturally, this became a collaborative effort between them. For the first task, gathering literature became a fundamental requirement. Tōkichi and Illyria went out together every three days at most to Maruzen in Nihonbashi and Kanda’s used book district, searching for Japanese and English documents. They visited research departments at major rayon companies to seek investigative advice and obtain process manuals and evaluation reports. Through arrangements by a cooperative company, they also toured factories in Shizuoka Prefecture about twice. The second time, Mr. Mitoronik joined them, and by then they listened intently to explanations from those who had begun carrying themselves as full-fledged experts. But mostly it was desk work—summarizing collected materials and translating them into Serbian formed the core of their labor.

When it came to the second task, as both practical interest and responsibility in purchasing machinery were involved, Illyria’s attitude grew all the more serious. At times displaying an obstinate degree of research fervor—probing specialized minutiae until fully satisfied—her approach left Tōkichi, who had initially assumed he was spearheading the effort, breathlessly struggling to keep pace. There were even instances where they rode the legation’s bicycle to commute to the Yokohama Silk Inspection Institute as frequently as three times a week.

When passing through the basement laboratory's brick-laid corridor—where puddles always formed with an odd squelch—in steppingstone fashion, or when walking among the third-floor inspection room's arrayed precision instruments like Seriplanes, Serimeters, and Duplan-type cohesion testers, Tōkichi would suddenly be struck by the illusion that he and Illyria were sightseeing in some distant museum, perhaps in America. The raw silk sent from their home country was of rather inferior quality, tinged with an orange hue. The young technician at the inspection institute formed a wry smile after just briefly gripping it. And yet, he said this while teasingly comparing the two of them who showed interest only in high-end silk reeling machines like the Mihokawa-style or Koiwai-style.

“Well, improving silkworm eggs should be your first priority... For now, I’d recommend more rudimentary machinery.” “Ah yes—there happens to be just the suitable one available.” “They call it the Uchida-style. Since the factory’s in Tsurumi and not terribly far, why not go have a look?” At the factory they visited after obtaining his letter of introduction, as they watched the machinery’s operation—somehow appearing both naively primitive and laboriously cumbersome—the two exchanged glances and found themselves thoroughly disheartened.

But Illyria did not falter. She quickly regained her footing and now began earnestly researching silkworm eggs and cocoon varieties. She would catch hold of Mr. Brauenberg and engage him in earnest discussions that lasted until dusk approached. In this way, their work kept straying down side paths, and she would not resurface until each path was conclusively deemed a dead end. There lay revealed the tenacious strength of her character. At the same time, Tōkichi found himself envying the crisp intellectual curiosity of rising nations and the infinite realm of possibilities still open before them……

5

The ginkgo leaves had completely fallen. The old gatekeeper, in his spare time, had swept up golden leaves into two mounds built on either side of the gravel path. Most of the trees within the gate and around the carriage turnaround had also shed their leaves, so that on mornings when arriving at the office, one could see through the bare branches from far off—bathed in the late-rising sun’s rays—the familiar emblem on the gable glimmering.

On a Saturday afternoon just past noon, as they were returning along that gravel path with Mr. Obata, they saw a tall man and woman who appeared to be a married couple entering through the gate and slowly approaching. At a distance of five or six steps, the man stopped, removed his hat to exchange greetings with Mr. Obata, and introduced the woman accompanying him.

She was a young woman with a plump, rosy-cheeked face—her tall stature that didn’t draw undue attention, yet her figure was amply fleshed out—dressed in a cream-colored fur overcoat that hung long over her imposing frame. From beneath that, the hem of a white skirt with many pleats extended three or four inches, the tips of flesh-colored stockings disappearing into snug white leather shoes. The deeply pulled-down hat was also pure white, from beneath which peeked blonde, loosely bundled hair. All this white attire harmonized with her tall stature, full hips, and especially the rosy luster of her complexion to create an impression of serene elegance. Yet upon closer inspection, her facial features still retained a distinctly schoolgirlish quality—an air that strongly permeated both her mannerisms and her frank speech delivered in a slightly husky alto tone.

The man was even taller than her; aside from a white silk scarf wrapped around his neck, everything from his hat to his overcoat was entirely black. His oblong face exceeded mere swarthiness to a deep bronze complexion, where lips pressed with apparent solemnity and calm eyes first drew attention. The flesh of his jaw formed a double indentation, revealing upon closer inspection a remarkably full and distinguished countenance. Had his complexion not been so dark, Tōkichi would surely have more readily discerned in this young man's features traces of Michelangelo's sculpted David.

His voice was calm and weighty yet his diction was exceedingly polite; having explained to Mr. Obata that with his wife’s recent arrival serving as an opportunity, they had vacated the legation and would now be lodging here, he crossed his arms and walked away.

As they walked out through the gate toward the bus stop, Mr. Obata—as if he had suddenly remembered—

“Ah, right—right! Mr. Safron’s whereabouts have been discovered. “…Where do you think he went?” “Well…” “Shanghai.” “Quite unlike him—made a spectacular getaway, I must say.” “Though he appeared that way, it seems he was quite skilled in the art of moneymaking, you know.” “So, that cause… was it something like embezzlement or misappropriation?”

“No, that wasn’t the case.” “At first, even that carefree Professor Stefanovich seemed concerned about that angle, you know.” “But when he investigated, there wasn’t even a trace of such intentions.” “Yet how strange—here was a man who was a master of night fishing, shouldering his rod before dawn even on winter Sundays, yet paradoxically possessed remarkable talent for speculation.” “That must be why they marked him—why he found it impossible to stay, I suppose…”

Tōkichi deliberately kept silent about that scene on the second floor, "Anyway, it feels like... a leaf has fallen." "Hmm, whether that man counts as one of the falling leaves... Be that as it may, at this rate, one leaf after another may come falling surprisingly soon—right at our own doorstep." "...and thus we would come to know the world's 'spring.'" "I see—so it's not autumn after all?" "...So for now, that young man we just met might be what they call the harbinger of that spring..."

“Ah, that Nesterenko? …I’ve only met that man a couple of times recently at the legation… No—he very well could be.” “That might very well be the case.” “Even someone like me will soon find it hard to steer the ship.” “Indeed, even now I can’t help but occasionally sense such signs in the air.” “…Perhaps I should make a clean break here and now.” “That would be a problem.” “That wasn’t part of our agreement,” Tōkichi hurriedly protested.

Mr. Obata waved his white chamois gloves, hailed a passing clean-looking empty rickshaw, then turned to Tōkichi with a somewhat enigmatic smile.

“How about we head out to Ginza now? How about having dinner together and catching a movie for the first time in ages?…”

After the New Year had begun and mid-January arrived, Tōkichi at last found himself with an opportunity to observe at close quarters the young man called Nesterenko. He had been dispatched to his private quarters on an errand from Mr. Brauenberg. The man resided on that third floor resembling a castle keep. To reach it required ascending an unsteady narrow staircase from the second-floor rear corridor. Climbing this steep crude ladder left Tōkichi feeling as though he were making his way up to some attic storage space.

When he reached the top, there was a small wooden corridor. Light came only from a small east-facing window, leaving it strangely dim. At the immediate front stood two aged sliding doors, while the corridor's far end appeared to have a single-panel sliding door. A deep silence permeated the space.

Tōkichi hesitated for a moment, then knocked on the sliding door at the front. A forceful voice responded.

He opened the ill-fitting sliding door and peered inside. A large north-facing glass window filled the interior with chilly brightness. At the center of that brightness sat Nesterenko, his long torso reared up over the small desk as he solemnly stared in this direction. When he saw Tōkichi’s face, his expression flickered with surprise before quickly softening. “Please come in.” “Close the door behind you…” He ushered him in. A small kerosene stove burned in the corner, but he kept his overcoat on. As Tōkichi settled into the offered chair and prepared to state his business, a faint rustle came from the shadowed recesses to his left. The spot had been too dark to notice earlier—there in that corner sat that young wife. She rose from where she’d been sitting with her dark overcoat draped like a haori, nodded at Tōkichi with her characteristic rosy-cheeked countenance, then swayed slightly as she left.

Tōkichi placed the memo he had received from elderly Mr. Brauenberg onto the desk. He had been told to come and get the reply. The young man took it, slightly furrowing his brows in apparent puzzlement, then nodded and began to read. It was a rather lengthy memo. While he was reading, Tōkichi took another look around the attic room. On the desk were four or five large temporarily bound books and several sheets of newspaper folded into quarters, all stacked haphazardly. An ink bottle, a pen, and a red pencil lay scattered about. A block notebook lay spread open, densely filled with chaotic scribbles. It appeared he had been writing. On the side desk pushed to the left lay five or six brown rabbit pelts piled haphazardly. From where a long narrow label peeked out, these seemed to be product samples. In the dimness beyond hung overcoats and suits haphazardly draped, their shadows revealing the small plain wooden bench where the wife had been sitting until now. Upon it lay a forgotten black leather handbag. Beside it sat a tattered dictionary discarded in a somewhat incongruous manner.

The right wall was entirely covered by a map of Asia, with five or six photographs of American film actresses pinned near Siberia—all quite old relics indeed. Judging by the yellowed water stains blotting parts of the map, they appeared to be remnants left behind by whoever had previously inhabited this room. On the front window hung white curtains that had turned mouse-gray; drawn completely to either side, they laid bare the full expanse of the pallid overcast winter sky......

“Ah, understood.” “…Let me just draft a response.”

Having said that, Nesterenko tore a page from the block notebook, scrawled something with rough strokes of his hand, folded it in two, and passed it to Tōkichi. Just as Tōkichi was about to stand up, Nesterenko extended his sturdy hand across the desk to stop him in a restraining manner, and while gazing amiably yet intently with his brown-tinged eyes, “What are you studying?” he asked. As Tōkichi hesitated slightly and evaded the question with vague murmurs of “Well, economics or something...”,

“Ah, right. You are remarkably skilled in Serbian.” “……I am studying Japanese. “Since my wife is more proficient than I am, she’s currently teaching me using the newspaper,” he said, spreading open the Asahi Shimbun on the desk and showing the economics section densely marked with red lines. “But Japanese is terribly difficult.”

That day, they parted ways without further ado.

About a week later, Tōkichi was again asked by Mr. Brauenberg and went to this attic room on an errand. The request was to have the recent investigation documents fully completed by tomorrow. When he had climbed halfway up the ladder, he suddenly heard a man's voice from above raised in loud argument. He thought this awkward but climbed all the way up nonetheless and decided to observe the situation for a while. At first he couldn’t tell, but soon realized it wasn’t Nesterenko’s voice—a high-pitched, strangely shrill tone. The man sounded quite agitated. From his manner of speech, Tōkichi could vividly picture a young man with a pallid face and lips curled back in vehement argumentation. The expressions of debate-prone youths were generally much alike.

Before long, Nesterenko’s voice—still composed as ever—began to interject intermittently. He interjected brief remarks in a soothing tone. At times, that voice would faintly carry an ironic laugh. The other man’s voice grew slightly calmer, and the content of their discussion began to reach Tōkichi’s ears. “Hey, Comrade N (a name Tōkichi couldn’t quite catch), I’m not at all opposed to the mechanization of rural areas itself.” “But that must be considered in light of my country’s actual circumstances…” This was Nesterenko’s voice.

“That’s precisely why I’m talking about the current situation. To work, there must first be food—before your so-called national education or whatever issues. Listen. So to eat, one must cultivate—this makes sense, no? So to cultivate—it comes down to machinery first. What you’re saying—that this year’s food shortage is merely a temporary phenomenon caused by the great drought in Vojvodina—might indeed be correct. That we can manage this emergency through imports is indeed exactly as you say. But look, famines are admittedly natural disasters, but they’re also a force majeure that could recur. That’s where science comes into play. Why must those vast wastelands in the eastern and southern coastal regions be left untouched? Why do you oppose cultivating that area? I simply can’t understand it. Given how cautious you are, are you fearing even a food surplus in a normal harvest year? Then why aren’t you afraid of famine? I repeat: science will resolve everything.” He articulated each word distinctly: “Now—agricultural products arise as the result of humans applying metal and oil to the earth—this was the phrase Comrade Yakovlev so aptly declared at the Sixteenth Party Congress. Metal and oil—especially oil! What are we to do about this oil? I’ve been emphasizing until my mouth goes dry!”

“Comrade Yakovlev’s someone I respect too.” “However, I want to calmly recognize that behind his famous words still stand Russia’s abundant resources—at least for now.” “...and the reality that our country produces mainly lignite even when we speak of coal—it’s from there that I wish to begin my considerations.” “So you gasify that coal… then take it a step further and liquefy it…” “Alright, understood, understood.” “Hey Comrade N, you’re the type who’s convinced that scientific possibilities can immediately become practical realities.” “...By that same logic, you could just lay pipelines straight from the Proesti oil fields in one go—this would be far more straightforward than something like coal liquefaction.” “If only those oil fields weren’t Rumaniya’s property… Well, being a farmer’s son… perhaps my thinking is far too leisurely.” “Well, we’ll discuss that matter in detail and hear your counsel in due time.” “By the way, Comrade N, I must be going now.” “Isn’t it time for you to return to the legation?”

“Oh, that’s right!”

Sensing the young man hurriedly rising to his feet, Tōkichi deliberately stomped down the corridor as he approached and rapped loudly on the sliding door. Upon entering, he found the man in question was indeed a young man with a pale face, his jet-black hair and lips as red as if painted with rouge striking the eye with vivid contrast. With a fleeting glance from moist, large eyes at Tōkichi, he stumbled down the stairs as if tumbling.

“Infantile disorder! What on earth are you going on about? I can’t make heads or tails of it!” Nesterenko, who had been standing up, muttered in a low voice as he saw his friend off, then turned his slightly flushed face toward Tōkichi and gazed intently at him with tea-brown eyes that held a gentle smile,

“Ah, good day, Mr. Hani. Do you have some business?” he said, extending his hand over the desk. Tōkichi, once again ruminating on the phrase “farmer’s son” he had casually overheard earlier, stared back into those eyes... After that, he had occasional opportunities to meet with Nesterenko. To be precise, while Nesterenko did reside in that Japanese building, he hardly ever showed himself in the office area, so their meetings were essentially confined to that small third-floor room. In that room, Tōkichi would always find him sitting composedly across the desk, either reading or engrossed in some train of thought. At times, the rosy-cheeked wife would be knitting or doing something similar nearby.

Following that vast lawn garden, at its western edge there was a mixed grove. Tōkichi had never ventured there before, but on a certain day nearing the end of February—lured by an unseasonably warm, spring-like day—he wandered into that grove during his lunchtime stroll.

Upon entering, he found the grove unexpectedly deep. The grove held many alder, chinquapin, and zelkova trees, most of them bare-branched, yet still unmistakably woodland where sunlit clearings lay quietly bright and fragrant. Tōkichi, ambling along the path, came upon an old well. It was an old-fashioned counterbalanced well bucket with a properly constructed frame. Perhaps this part of the garden might be remnants of something like a tea house from long ago. Now that he thought of it, even the way the paths were laid out seemed rather elaborately designed, and as he followed one of those inviting trails deeper in, he felt he might come upon one of those serene garden lanes. However, now when he peered through the branches in all directions, there seemed to be no trace of any roof-like shapes.……

As he sat on the well frame and gazed at his surroundings for a while, a dark figure eventually emerged from behind the thicket of a Japanese nutmeg-yew or some such tree ahead and began walking slowly along the path. The figure—one hand half-raised, head slightly lowered—was unmistakably walking while reading a book. From the figure’s posture and the white muffler around his overcoat’s collar, Tōkichi immediately recognized it as Nesterenko out walking.

No sooner had he vanished into the thicket to the right than he reappeared on the same path after a short while. He maintained the same posture and leisurely pace. After observing this back-and-forth movement three or four times, Tōkichi noticed it was nearly one o'clock and rose to approach the path.

At the corner where paths intersected diagonally, Tōkichi encountered Nesterenko. Even when he came within five or six steps, he showed no sign of noticing. He appeared perfectly composed and at ease, as if savoring the tranquility around him. In Nesterenko’s long-skirted overcoat, Tōkichi suddenly detected a resemblance to a Catholic missionary. If that black hat were flattened from above, he would look exactly the part…

“Good day, Mr. Nesterenko! Taking a walk?” “Ah, Mr. Hani! Good day!” Nesterenko looked at Tōkichi as if startled, though his eyes already held a friendly smile. He lowered the still-open book to his side. “I find it pleasantly quiet here. No one seems to come.” “Yes, actually this is my first time too. What about you?” “I’ve been coming here for about a week now.” He raised the book back to his chest, gave a slight nod with his eyes, and turned to walk back into the grove’s depths. Tōkichi felt himself gradually drawn to this young man—serene yet gentle, courteous yet seemingly fond of solitude, whose perpetually calm eyes gazed into distant profundities……

On their way back from visiting the research department of a certain rayon company in Marunouchi—now thoroughly familiar to them—Tōkichi resolved to ask Illyria about this Nesterenko. She, who seemed utterly absorbed in watching the streaks of sleet trailing one after another down the car window, cast him a brief, questioning glance before immediately lowering her eyes again, "Well, I don’t know for sure, but he must have come as an exchange student… exactly like me."

The fact that Illyria was an exchange student was news to Tōkichi. “When you say ‘exchange student’... would that be something like literature or art research?” “No, it must still be economics.” “The term ‘exchange student’ does sound rather odd, but… well, it’s really just practical research, you might say. There’s simply a certain deadline attached.” She hesitated there for a moment, then suddenly, as if muttering to herself—

“Now that you mention it, my deadline approaches.”

“Oh, that’s a problem. Hasn’t this work been finished yet?” Illyria—as if suddenly remembering—opened her palm still clutching the three rayon-manufacturing nozzles she had received earlier, gazing intently at their quiet golden light glinting like traditional fingerstalls. “Well, I might stay until this work is finished.” “So what will you do when you return? Do you have any work lined up?”

“No, not particularly. The institution that sponsored my study abroad will likely decide… As for me, there’s nothing in particular…” Having fallen silent, she gazed out the window of the car—now stopped at a crossroads—but as it began moving again, her voice suddenly brightened into an uncharacteristically cheerful tone, rapid-fire Serbian spilling forth: “Ah, that’s right—I had forgotten.” “Today was the day of the boxing match, wasn’t it?” “I remembered because of that poster on the utility pole… Horita versus Gonzago’s twelve-round match… Do you dislike boxing?”

When he was told this—indeed, today was Saturday—Tōkichi found himself somewhat taken aback by this unexpected combination of Illyria and boxing. “Well, actually, I’ve never seen it before…” “It’s quite interesting.” “When I first saw it—Horita’s… what do they call it, a double punch? That way of striking continuously with one hand… it landed so cleanly that the opponent’s nose started bleeding.” “The blood…” she murmured pensively, tilting her head back to gaze at the ceiling, “had splattered across the opponent’s snow-white chest in such a startling amount.” “When I saw that, my stomach suddenly turned, and I just stood up and left.” “I thought I would never watch it again.” “Yet after some time, I found myself casually going to see it again.” “And now I’ve come to think there’s nothing quite as fascinating.” “I usually watch whenever Mr. Horita fights… It seems people can’t truly come to love something unless they’ve first despised it…”

Over the past several months, they had driven around together in the same car quite frequently, but she had never once proactively initiated any sort of conversation. And now this volubility, this topic! Tōkichi was nearly dumbfounded, gazing absently at her profile from the corner of his eye. Her long eyelashes seemed to harbor their usual quiet smile. Her downcast eyes remained unchanged. Yet somehow, he thought he detected a faint reddish hue tinging her cheeks...

After some time, when the car passed before the Shirogane Legation, she suddenly remembered—as if struck by the thought—

“That man Nesterenko—his given name is Iakinto.” “Iakinto… The name of a flower—isn’t it lovely?” “It’s almost too lovely for someone like him…” “Not really.” “What do you call the flower named Iakinto in Japanese?” “It’s hyacinth after all.” “In Chinese, it’s called Fengxinzi”—he wrote out the characters—“the flower of wind’s tidings.” “The flower of wind’s tidings…” “That’s a lovely name.” “Around my home, those flowers bloom in abundance.” “It’s a small peninsula called Cavtat, much further south in Dalmatia… In just another half-month, it will be the season when those flowers start blooming.”

＊

Mr. Mitoronik was suddenly transferred to New York and departed. On the morning of his departure, at the veranda steps, Mr. Mitoronik grasped Tōkichi’s hand and declared in an uncharacteristically vigorous voice,

“I wish you success!” he declared, and with all his strength gave a vigorous shake. _I wish you success!_ The meaning of the character for “success” was progress— a firm sensation like treading step by solid step. In Japanese, that character for “merit” kept drawing his eye, carrying an ill-omened fixation on outcomes alone... While repeating this thought to himself, Tōkichi stood watching from behind as Mr. Mitoronik busily shook hands with one staff member after another.

“Before long, will I too end up exchanging farewell handshakes with Illyria here at this threshold?” Tōkichi found himself suddenly entertaining such thoughts, recalling once more the silhouette of her—there on that veranda bathed in morning light—clasping hands with old Brauenberg. He searched visually for Illyria. She stood modestly at the outermost edge of the group by the wall, awaiting her turn while following Mr. Mitoronik’s gradually receding figure with that gaze still holding its quiet smile. Her face seemed to say, “I remain here still,” as if repeating it to her own heart.

"I am still here." It seemed as though she were speaking these words to her own heart.