Pathway to Japanese Literature

I In publishing this most gruesome diary amidst the clamor of public opinion, I believed it necessary first to convey to readers, with unvarnished immediacy, the shock and horror experienced at the time. And to have readers receive these emotions, I considered it most expedient first to recount the circumstances under which this diary was discovered and the events surrounding it. As you are all aware, Portuguese West Africa Angola and Belgian Congo were colonies embroiled in perennial border disputes. This was because both nations lacked any particularly outstanding aptitude for colonial administration, and their home countries had dispatched indolent officials whose governance descended into utter disarray, with disciplinary enforcement remaining entirely neglected. To compound matters, this entire region had gained notoriety as the epicenter of native smuggling operations, particularly in the free trade zone established under the Congo Basin Treaty stretching from Sao Salvador north of Angola’s capital Luanda to Congo’s Matadi Port—an area drawing attention as the most rampant site of smuggling activity. However, given that the border areas comprised winding mountain ranges and were further encroached upon by the vast jungles demarcating southeastern Congo, maintaining surveillance proved utterly beyond the limited capabilities of the authorities. And when large-scale smuggling operations came to light, this border demarcation immediately threw both nations’ authorities into turmoil—yet as stated earlier, this so-called border amounted to nothing more than lines drawn on maps in 1912 by their metropolitan commissioners. In reality, it traversed lion-inhabited desolate wildernesses, pierced through shrublands teeming with venomous snakes’ nests, wound across vast jungles and the peaks of towering mountain ranges—terrain rendering it utterly impossible to survey in practice.

Consequently, there had frequently been discussions between the two nations’ authorities to revise the borders based on actual surveys; however, given the location’s remoteness from Europe’s political centers—a distant tropical miasmal wilderness—the endeavor would require years of labor and exorbitant costs, entailing considerable dangers that had to be confronted. Thus, even when formally debated, these proposals were invariably abandoned due to the prohibitive burdens involved, thereby laying bare both the home governments’ apathy and the colonial officials’ indolence—matters perpetually left unresolved. And thus, over the past sixteen or seventeen years, these border skirmishes had persisted—marked by frequent gunfire and bloodshed among surveillance personnel—dragging on until today. But in 1934, a forceful proposal suddenly emerged from the Congo Governorate, to which Portuguese Angola acquiesced, dispatching a large-scale survey team to conduct preliminary investigations for a joint border demarcation committee that would finalize the boundaries in Brussels five years later. As this on-site survey team, what the Portuguese Angola government dispatched consisted of twenty-six engineers and three hundred eighty laborers including technicians, fully equipped with ample provisions and supplies. Divided into approximately eighteen units, they were to engage in a border demarcation survey spanning 1,500 miles of winding eastern and western frontiers over a planned period of about one and a half years, using Bissau—the sole native town along the central border—as their basepoint.

Though I was not originally Portuguese, I was residing in Benguela at the time, having just returned from surveying the headwaters of Lake Bangweulu. As I wished to work a while longer to save money before returning to Europe, the prospect that this survey team—despite its considerable dangers—offered fairly generous compensation, and that after a year and a half I might grasp a substantial sum to return to Europe, led me to volunteer as the team’s survey engineer. And so I was successfully selected and assigned as leader of the 12th Team to oversee an area over nine hundred miles east of Bissau—between the survey sectors of the 3rd and 8th Teams—in a region commonly known as the Ojulano Highlands.

This constituted my reason for joining the Angola border survey team where I discovered this extraordinary diary—though how our survey of this uninhabited tropical region pushed us to extremes of hardship, how our full complement of twenty-three members faced repeated dangers from wild beasts and venomous snakes—all this would be superfluous to recount anew. Therefore I shall omit any discussion of our team’s activities unrelated to this diary. At any rate, as we neared completion of surveying the great jungle encircling the Ojulano Highlands—which is to say, when my volunteered service approached its planned eighteen-month conclusion—the time came when commissioners ignorant of local realities laughed at their own folly of having blindly drawn lines across maps while hastening to compile their year-and-a-half’s labor into survey charts. By then we had already lost seven native laborers to tropical plague and three members to wild beasts; six horses had perished; most remaining crew resembled mountain men with unkempt beards, their clothes caked in sweat, dust and grime until torn to shreds with no means of resupply, their skin scorched black by over a year of blazing sun until indistinguishable from Angolan natives.

Had this not been government work, one might well think no survey map of such perfection could have been produced—so indescribably severe were those hardships. It was precisely because this had been government work that there existed a supply unit which departed from the capital Luanda every three months to provision all eighteen teams and handle postal correspondence—it was only through taking scant comfort in this that we had managed to continue our work, but…

Now then, to proceed to the events of that very day when the diary was discovered: it occurred after our team had relocated our camp to a basin approximately seventy miles deep within the jungle of the Bolama Range—one of the mountain chains encircling the Ojulano Highlands—and were conducting daily surveys of the surrounding seven or eight miles from this base. Once we completed surveying this entire vicinity—to be precise, once we reached 19°3'E longitude and 8°4'S latitude—we could join forces with the 8th Team advancing from the east, and with just twenty more days of effort seeming within reach, our spirits lightened and our resolve to finish grew stronger. Yet on that very day, I had left camp at dawn with seven or eight laborers to survey two or three miles deeper into the jungle. Absorbed in my work, I lost track of time until it must have been around two or three in the afternoon. The laborer Nisutori, whom I had stationed earlier with a red-and-white ranging pole as a target marker, grew agitated, making my observations through the theodolite refuse to align. Given that he had always been a diligent and earnest laborer, I wondered while observing whether perhaps a Banta viper—said to be numerous in these parts—might have been near his feet, when now the ranging pole held by Jandoro, the second marker laborer, also began shaking violently.

“Hey! What’s wrong? Nisutori! Was something there?!”

It was the moment I shouted loudly. In the blink of an eye, both Nisutori’s and Jandoro’s ranging poles toppled over, and like wild beasts bursting from the undergrowth, the two frenzied men came flying toward me. They turned deathly pale, their limbs trembling so violently they couldn’t even speak. “What has happened here?! Jandoro! Even you?!”

Yet even Jandoro remained silent, merely tugging at my sleeve and pointing repeatedly as if urgently gesturing "There!" In any case, from the men's demeanor I too sensed something gravely amiss had occurred, so I immediately drew my pistol and cautiously followed them. The spot where Nisutori had planted his ranging pole lay ninety yards from my theodolite position, with Jandoro's post another thirty or forty yards beyond across steeply sloping terrain. Reaching this area revealed why - though appearing at first glance like natural thinning, this windless tropical zone showed no organic forest clearance. Every massive tree across the landscape had been violently uprooted, their splintered trunks oozing sap that pungently scented the air with raw timber. Oaks requiring three men to embrace them, primeval mahoganies that would have defied weeks of human effort - all lay shattered in chaotic swathes. The very earth bore witness: tough grasses lay trampled into soft soil depressions as if some titanic force had wrestled there.

“Gorillas! “It’s a gorilla, Hamra!” The two laborers trembled violently as they pointed. Hamra was an Angolan native term meaning “captain,” and Pongō was what they called gorillas in their tongue, trembling with fear at the very word.

"What?" "Gorilla?" "Hamra! You mustn't go there!" "Danger!" "Gorillas are terrifying!"

As I was about to step forward, the laborers grabbed my sleeve, their faces so pale they seemed on the verge of panic, and stopped me. The five or six laborers who had been engaged in other tasks nearby and happened to be present had just then come to surround us, but upon hearing the word "gorilla," they all turned pale and began to flee. This area was already part of the vast jungle stretching from southeastern Congo toward the Northern Rhodesia border, so of course there was nothing strange about gorillas roaming here. However, realizing that we had unwittingly encroached upon a gorilla habitat—something whose terrors I had only heard about but never witnessed—sent a chill through me so intense it felt as though my blood might freeze in that instant.

“Hamra! Our work ends here! If there are gorillas here, we absolutely cannot venture any deeper!” Jandoro said, trembling. Whether they feared that grotesque visage of gorillas, or whether a tradition of abhorrence passed down through their blood since ancestral times had become ingrained within them, the Angolan natives’ dread of these creatures surpassed even their fear of lions, tigers, Banta vipers, and leopards. “What nonsense!” I snapped. “How could we possibly work here if we’re afraid of mere gorillas?!”

I barked, but even I couldn’t help feeling a cold sweat run down my spine upon realizing a gorilla of such formidable strength lurked nearby. And I sensed even greater pressure on the pistol’s trigger I was gripping, but since showing weakness before the laborers was unthinkable, I forced myself to feign nonchalance and took two or three more steps—only to freeze in terror.

“Hamra… Hamra… Over there… Over there… A white woman’s leg is visible.” As Nisutori pointed intermittently toward the thicket’s shadow in the distance, there emerged an unmistakable white woman’s leg—and moreover, the bare foot of what appeared to be a still-youthful woman protruded from one thigh—it was this sight that met my eyes.

II

“Hamra, please stop! Stop!” “If you go near there, something terrible will happen.” “There’s no telling what horrors the gorilla might inflict upon us.” Restraining the clamoring laborers, I approached to investigate—but the moment I saw it, I involuntarily cried “Agh!” and could not help but cover my face. What lay there was the corpse of a young white woman. The corpse lay face down with its right side slightly lowered, eyes closed—thick blonde hair swirling in disarray across the ground like long waves, the right arm torn from its socket. Her left leg too appeared ripped away, fresh blood staining the surrounding grass leaves a dull black and splattering mottled patches across the earth. In those closed eyes and softly pursed lips—already mottled with livid patches from the scorching tropical sun—the beauty of her living form lingered so vividly that one might almost imagine she would at any moment open those eyes and smile with delicate grace.

“Hamra, it’s terrifying.” “It’s all the gorilla’s doing!” “It must be the gorilla’s doing.” Even the typically callous laborers’ eyes seemed unable to bear the sheer brutality before them; they all averted their faces and clamored in unison. Of course, even without being told by the laborers—who but a gorilla could have committed such a cruel slaughter? From how the corpse had been left untouched, from the sharp claw marks visible, from the ferociously sadistic manner of killing—all these compelled me to deeply acknowledge that what had attacked this woman was no mere carnivorous beast like a lion or tiger, but undoubtedly a gorilla, that creature closest to humankind. Yet how could such a beautiful white woman have come to be seen in this utterly desolate land—this untrodden wilderness where even the nearest native villages lay beyond nine hundred leagues of layered jungle and countless precipitous ridges, with only Bissau town existing at such remove?

Portuguese Angola was the region with the scarcest white population—even in coastal urban areas like Luanda and Benguela, those of European descent residing there numbered no more than a few thousand. As for white women, their presence was desolately sparse. Let alone such a bashfully beautiful woman—radiant as a flower—in such a place! And to my limited knowledge, during my time in Benguela, I had never heard of any cases where white women had gone missing. Moreover, when viewed as a traveler, the absence of companions was perplexing in itself, while the complete lack of scattered supplies such as horses or provisions remained an inexplicable mystery no matter how one considered it.

As though painting phantoms in broad daylight, I stood rooted there in a daze—precisely at that moment. “Hamra!” “Hamra!” “Something like this was lying here…” A laborer who had been scanning the area picked up what resembled a notebook and approached. This must have been something the woman clung to until her final breath. The sheepskin cover was smeared with tarry black blood—a volume measuring roughly six by four inches—its binding threads severed and pages disarrayed. It appeared to be a diary maintained during her lifetime; beneath each date lay dense blocks of meticulous English script. Though the corpse’s condition instantly revealed her as a British woman, before I could ascertain how many pages were missing or decipher their contents—

“Hamra!” “We found something like this too.”

Then, another native laborer came forward and presented a strange object. It consisted of two African oak boards, but no matter how one looked at them, they could only be seen as the lady’s belongings—and moreover, no matter how one considered it, they seemed nothing other than an oil painting sketchboard roughly size No. 3. However, the images drawn upon them were such that one might see them as either lines attempting to depict something or, from another perspective, mere charcoal smudges seemingly slapped on to create other sketchboards—two boards bearing indescribably bizarre figures.

I stared intently at these mysterious boards, but with only a diary lacking both signature and pages alongside these sketchboards, there remained nothing to serve as a clue for uncovering this corpse’s identity. I had ordered the laborers—who stood trembling at a distance while alternating their gazes between my face and this ghastly corpse—to conduct an exhaustive search of the vicinity, yet beyond these items, nothing else lay scattered about. What this search did reveal was one additional fact: some twelve or thirteen yards east of the woman’s corpse, several trees had been violently snapped, weeds trampled into twisted heaps, and mottled bloodstains left behind—all bearing witness to a savage struggle that had transpired there. Here in this desolate borderland devoid of human traces, confronted by both corpse and carnage beneath a tropical sun blazing resplendently through clouds adrift in white radiance, I felt the jungle shift its eerie shadows until even daylight seemed dimmed—and once more that primal chill crept up my spine.

But in any case, given that there lay a corpse before my eyes—its identity still unknown—the immediate problem now was how to handle it. I considered digging a hole and burying it here, but found the thought utterly unbearable. Therefore, I resolved to first halt that day’s surveying here, cut down nearby trees to hastily assemble a makeshift stretcher, transport it to camp for the time being, and then consult with the other technicians—but unexpectedly, the laborers suddenly began voicing vehement opposition. According to their words and observations, it was thus.

Two gorillas had fought over this woman there, engaging in a fierce struggle. And of those two gorillas, one must have prevailed and killed the woman. Moreover, that victorious gorilla would never have abandoned her corpse and departed—even in death, it would surely return to this spot come nightfall to claim her as its own. In that case, they argued, if we were to have moved the corpse from this spot, that gorilla would undoubtedly become enraged and attack our camp.

“Preposterous! “What absurd logic is this!” “First of all—where does this speculation about two gorillas fighting over this woman even come from?!” I gave a wry smile,

“Hamra! Such ferocious snapping of trees and mowing down of grass can only be explained by gorillas fighting!” The laborers, their faces etched with gravity, pointed to the traces of struggle there. I could well imagine that no creature other than a gorilla could commit such brutality, but merely observing these traces of combat, I found myself utterly unable to believe two gorillas had fought over this woman. If enraged, even a single gorilla could easily have caused such a rampage.

“No, Hamra. A gorilla would never kill such a beautiful human woman.” “It would care for and cherish [her].” "But a gorilla is extremely jealous." "It must have gotten angry and killed [her]." The laborers’ minds were simple. Their words were their creed, and I knew all too well that violating that creed could sometimes provoke their terrible wrath. “If you insist to such an extent,”

In the end, I too was worn down. “Since you know more about gorillas than I do, if you say that’s how it is, I’ve no reason to insist on opposing it…” I fell silent. But for me now, such reasoning was of no consequence whatsoever. For me, the act of abandoning this unfortunate white woman’s corpse before my eyes as it was and withdrawing to camp was something I simply could not endure in good conscience.

“Bisk, what do you think… We have fire and guns.” “If a mere gorilla attacks, killing it would be no trouble at all, but everyone insists it’s dangerous.” “Bisk, I’ll abide by your judgment!” “What do you think?” I shifted my gaze to Bisk, the native foreman. As the eldest among our group who understood some English and Portuguese, who had earned universal trust while mediating between natives and white men—truly an intellectual among his people—I had naturally assumed he alone would follow my will and calm the others through persuasion. Yet even this Bisk now fixed me with his sunken, wrinkled eyes and quietly shook his head in refusal.

“Alright! Bisk, it can’t be helped—I’ll follow your opinion! Then we’ll leave it as is for tonight! If nothing happens by tomorrow morning, I’ll carry this corpse back to camp myself!” I said this with a damnably vexing feeling, trying to regain my lost dignity. And so, that very night—how restlessly must we have spent those sleepless hours in the camp with its flickering lights, our hearts leaping with fearful curiosity alongside the entire group?

Around the three camps we lit every bonfire we could muster and posted three native watchmen armed with guns. They lay down clutching their rifles and pistols, poised to spring up at any alarm—though sleep remained impossible. Through that strange African hinterland night—a loneliness sharp enough to flay flesh—they spoke only of the mysterious beautiful corpse, their hearts leaping at each rustle of falling leaves as heaven and earth sank deeper into the lightless jungle basin’s void. Yet when morning’s sunlight pierced cheerfully through canopy gaps to reveal only bonfire ashes heaped high and camp undisturbed, yesterday’s horrors felt dreamlike even to me—so intense had been our tension.

But today alone, they stopped dividing into groups to depart for various areas; half out of curiosity, carrying guns instead of surveying instruments, they scolded the laborers who cowered in fear and were ever on the verge of fleeing, then traveled some four miles back to yesterday’s location—and what a shock it was! Indeed, though ignorant and unenlightened—having been born and raised in this uncivilized land where they grew up hearing of gorillas’ habits—the laborers’ words had not deceived me; no matter how wide I opened my eyes to look, yesterday’s woman’s corpse had vanished without a trace. Yet at the spot where that corpse had lain—apparently even the gorilla had no use for it—only that blood-soaked diary notebook and two sketchboards remained, left exposed to the night dew.

As irrefutable evidence that the gorilla had undoubtedly returned last night and carried off the corpse! Of the two sketchboards I had left beside the corpse—particularly the one closest to it—the gorilla’s foot must have struck it while lifting the woman, for the entire board was caked with mud. Moreover, when I picked it up, astonishingly, this sturdy African oak plank—two centimeters thick—had snapped clean in two at the center. The group wordlessly surrounded me as I gazed at the sketchboard and scanned the diary notebook—when suddenly Bisk, the aged native foreman, quietly whispered this.

“Hamra, we must still exercise caution now that we’ve entered the gorillas’ forest—but rest assured, yesterday’s gorilla is no longer in this area.” “By now, it’s already sixty miles away, swinging from tree to tree with yesterday’s woman’s corpse slung over its shoulder!” “Gorillas are swift creatures as long as they have trees to swing through.” “They can easily cover sixty miles in a single night!”

Now, dear readers, the above constituted the rough outline of how, where, and when I had obtained this mysterious diary notebook. Now I shall open this bloodstained diary notebook to reveal what lies within, but before doing so, it bears emphasizing that what had been recounted thus far did not merely serve as a preface to this account—rather, it formed an indispensable foundational report essential for properly contextualizing the diary’s contents.

III

May 6th. What a wretched thing this is. He lives in a vast mansion attended by many servants, and people extol him as an eminent scholar of his generation. Yet the torment in Father's heart has never once faded since the day I first became aware of the world. I try not to think of it; I try not to hear of it. But while praised as an eminent scholar on one hand, Father's back forever bears the stigma of "false scholar—a scholar who deceives the world." How narrow-minded the scholars of this world are! They achieve no adventures themselves, never losing their beloved wives in uncivilized lands, living in cozy comfort—yet whenever a new theory they cannot grasp emerges, they disparage and eliminate it. The cowardly scholars declare: "Dr.Gayleck is already an eminent scholar through his anatomical and ecological studies of African gorillas!" "Why must he pursue gorilla language research?!"

How foolish these people are! It is precisely Father’s lifelong research—extending even to gorilla linguistics—that concludes humankind emerged from apes and evolved beyond gorillas during the distant Quaternary Ice Age, thereby establishing the theory of simian common ancestry. For that very conviction did Father exile himself for six long years to jungle wilds others fear, leaving me in Uncle Elliot’s care while devoting himself to that grueling research. Even having lost Mother to tropical fever, he brought that monumental work to completion.

And yet, people praise only Father’s numerous anatomical discoveries while dismissing his linguistic findings as false. Was it not Father who provided academic proof that gorillas’ brain volume differs but minimally from the Masara Bushman and Mountain Damara tribes; that their teeth, cells, serum, internal organs, sensory systems—even delusions, concepts, memories, associations of ideas, reasoning, and imagination—show no difference whatsoever from humans? The world at large acknowledges the truth of his research and recognizes its value through the physical specimens Father has furnished. Moreover, those very new theories which scholars themselves have labored over and published—their magnum opus on gorilla linguistics—are buried as fabrications beneath scornful criticism for lacking living specimens to substantiate them.

Today, while organizing Father’s study in his absence, I happened to take up his magnum opus—*The Mental Abilities of Anthropoid Apes*, into which he poured his life’s blood, only to have it buried under scornful criticism from the entire academic world—and suddenly, the agonizing memory of that day at the zoological society when I was twelve or thirteen years old resurfaced vividly in my heart: Father returning home despondent, his spirit crushed. Before I knew it, I choked on silent tears. I am scholar Gayleck’s daughter! I am not like ordinary women of the world. I will resolutely and unwaveringly believe in Father’s unfortunate research achievements. And I will believe without doubt that, just as Father’s theory posits, there exists among gorillas a splendidly systematized language whose roots are identical to those ancient Semitic-like proto-roots—those very roots we may reasonably surmise were uttered by anthropoids, primitive humans, and second upright ape-men of the last century. That is the attitude befitting the daughter of a persecuted scholar. And since Dr. Darwin’s daughter in ages past was surely no different, I too must henceforth devote myself wholeheartedly—no matter the cost—to assisting Father in advancing his research... So I pondered myriad thoughts. Nevertheless, I wondered how Father’s new research method—the one he had been considering since last year—was progressing. After that, there had been no word from Africa—had this too fizzled out? I wondered, propping my cheek in the study as my thoughts wandered aimlessly from one thing to another. At three in the afternoon, Father returned from the university. As sullen and ill-humored as ever—that expression of his!

The blood-soaked diary had already undergone changes in its blood hemoglobin due to the intense tropical sunlight, coagulating like glue—even when washed with clear water or treated with glycerin, it proved utterly insoluble—and regrettably, not a single character could be deciphered in the remaining thirty or so pages thereafter. Since there was no help for it, I continued reading onward.

September 29th. The long-awaited gorilla had finally arrived. Covered in coarse gray fur—a face so ferocious to behold...

And suddenly, the diary abruptly shifted to some uncivilized land. Inferring from the surrounding circumstances, I imagined this coagulated, illegible section had recorded their departure from Britain to Angola—how they had obtained a gorilla and transitioned to camp life. At any rate, mixing conjecture into my reconstruction of the overall outline, I immersed myself in the task. ...And so this towering gorilla—standing seven shaku three sun (approximately 2.21 meters)—had been captured alive at last, though not without cost: fourteen or fifteen casualties were sustained when they finally retrieved it from the deep pit trap along the Mula River at the northwestern Bambadenga border.

The payment was three thousand pagostas, supplemented by a vast quantity of tobacco, alcoholic beverages, matches, and children’s toys loaded onto horseback, and these people departed joyfully. They were all said to be of the fearsome Vulture Tribe, but unlike the Angola natives, these people—tall and robust in stature, with large builds and asphalt-black skin—looked every bit the inhabitants of the northwestern forests. Agami, the native interpreter, explained that while three to four hundred people had been required in total, only about fifty to sixty had been involved in transporting the gorilla.

Among them was a boy of fourteen or fifteen—his head bearing the Vulture Tribe's characteristic spiky curls stiffened with coconut oil, poisoned arrows at his side—whose eyes struck me as endearingly innocent. When speaking of the unblemished eyes nurtured in jungles, these must be what they mean. Having a packet of sweets with me, I beckoned him over. "Come here! Come here!" I placed one in his palm. The boy, uncertain what to do, watched me laughingly unwrap the paraffin paper and pop it into my mouth before mimicking the action himself. Yet this civilized confection—to one who knew only raw meat torn without fire and wild nuts in their natural state—must have overwhelmed his palate with incomprehensible complexity. Startled, he spat out "Peh! Peh!" and bolted away.

In any case, the entire group rejoiced and promptly bestowed upon this ferocious rare guest the name Mafuchazu—as Agami had instructed—a name from the Vulture Tribe. “Mafuchazu” was said to be a word meaning “a friend from afar.” And immediately they reinforced the cage—though the Vulture Tribe’s delivered cage itself was a sturdy triple-layered structure of zeda vines, transferring Mafuchazu from it would have been far too perilous to attempt—so they constructed the main cage with iron vaults around this existing vine enclosure. Positioned about three ken away from Father’s room between that familiar recording room and monitoring room, we were now finally about to take the first step in Father’s so-called “natural state” ecological research recordings. Packerson was now busily maintaining the interlock motor since earlier, aiming to set the AC high-frequency generator’s rotation to 3,750 RPM while increasing the frequency to 500 cycles and voltage to 100 volts. Wendell, now invigorated, dragged out the disk Torbis machine. And so as to extend the vibrating plate’s frequency range up to 2,000 cycles, they were diligently hanging monk skin around all four sides of the recording room while humming. The camp grew noticeably lively. That night, the entire group raised a toast.

Regrettably, the diary was broken off again here, with some seven or eight consecutive pages having been torn out. As I began reading, it somehow hinted at entering a strange new life ahead, vividly evoking the palpable joy within what appeared to be an academic expedition's encampment—but given these fragmented interruptions, notions of location, the party's objectives, indeed all elements served only to provide me with mere hints for imagination, leaving me filled with inexpressible disappointment. Moreover, considering the banks of the Mula River at the northwestern Bambadenga border lay eighteen hundred miles of precipitous terrain along the Irabiji River from our current position. As for this band of fierce Vulture Tribesmen who had apparently captured alive the gorilla mentioned in the text and brought it to their party—even assuming they were a native tribe inhabiting that jungle eighteen hundred miles away—from what I had read thus far, I could find no clues whatsoever regarding how distant their location had been from that jungle region.

As a lady, since this was a diary she kept merely as a means for her own recollections or for memoranda, there had likely been no need whatsoever for an explanatory style of writing intended for third parties. However, what I now sought was first: the location where they had lived; second: what circumstances this woman had found herself in, under what conditions she had entered this frontier; and third: the sequence of events leading up to her being attacked by the gorilla.

However, feeling utterly perplexed, I took a breather and absently flipped through the pages. From around the next page onward, a considerable stretch appeared to remain intact without further tearing. Perhaps some clue might yet be found—with this thought, I began turning the pages again, cautiously avoiding contact with the ominous bloodstains as I washed and handled them.

IV

November 9th. The rainy season has finally begun. What desolation this is. Day after day passed in this desolate wilderness, with rain ceaselessly pattering down without respite. The languid heat made every joint in my body feel on the verge of melting. Today I suddenly wondered how many days had passed since coming here and counted on my fingers. How time flies. It has already been a year and two months. My friends in London must have changed considerably by now. Some must have married. Some must have become mothers. When I think of myself being alone here, an indescribable loneliness overcomes me. I play the violin to distract myself. Suddenly noticing, I saw the gorilla had pressed its face against the cage bars, listening intently.

“Mafuchazu! "You must be bored too, aren’t you? “Why do creatures like you exist in this world?” “It’s precisely because there are creatures like you that Father throws away his entire life obsessively pursuing this research, and we must spend our days in these mountains, unable to return to London...” When I approached the cage and poured forth these words, Mafuchazu too seemed to be listening intently with pricked ears. From afternoon onward, I would sketch Mafuchazu before his cage. I wanted to paint in oils but had no canvas, with four months remaining until the next supply shipment arrived. ...The thought of being limited to charcoal during this interval grew disheartening. Yet this uncivilized land did not lack for charcoal. Burning the Suaga—a boxwood-like tree found by the native Rosachi—yielded excellent charcoal. Parashi had prepared abundant thick sketchboards from African oak—boards so sturdy they seemed fit for Hercules himself—leaving me wanting nothing in this regard. At night, Conrad and Jackson quarreled over some trifle and both abandoned their meal midway. Moreover, those watching showed not the slightest concern. In this sweltering humidity and endless rain, people’s spirits became stifled—everyone’s hearts turned savage as beasts. What made it worse than beasts was how beyond their savagery, the men quarreled incessantly... and their eyes—how they glared at me with such piercing intensity. Gorillas are hideous! Yet hideous as they are, only when drawing or playing the violin before their cage do I find my mind at peace.”

November 29th.

For the first time in ages, the native maid Iskaki prepared a bath for me. What passed for a bath contained no proper tub. It was a wooden box Parashi had fashioned. The crude structure resembled nothing so much as the Bethlehem manger where Christ received his first ablution.

Yet even so, washing away the clammy sweat clinging to my body brought an inexpressible sense of refreshment. When bathing, I always had Iskaki stand guard at the entrance before entering, but today while stretching my limbs leisurely in the hot water, I heard footsteps treading on the earth behind me. How strange that in my current state—needle-sharp in sensitivity—I could instantly distinguish that sound! The moment I thought someone was prowling about again, my entire body burned with rage like fire.

“Iskaki!” Before my cry fully formed, the native woman’s ears proved sharper still. She burst out instantly—a violent scuffling erupted behind the hut. Iskaki’s curses pierced the air. Clutching my kimono about me, I scrambled up. In the dim lantern light she thrust forward slunk Wendell, the recording technician. His backward glance showed neither remorse nor shame— Eyes wholly bestial. Each such incident pricked at my fiancé Alan’s pride until he badgered me incessantly for marriage.

And yet it's strange. These days I find myself wanting only to say things that would cool Alan's ardor. Truly strange. Had this been London a year and a half past, I might have welcomed Alan's whispers with such joy... Everyone changes. In this sweltering humidity, desolation, and endless rains, everyone changes utterly.

November 30th. I heard from Iskaki this morning that last night, Wendell the technician and Alan had been embroiled in a violent clash. It was said Alan had sustained severe wounds to his left shoulder from Wendell. Under normal circumstances, hearing my fiancé had been injured should have sent me rushing to him in breathless panic. Yet now such news stirred nothing within me. My heart had grown parched and barren—all such sentimental chaff blown clean away. This tale of Alan’s brawl and injury must surely have reached Father’s ears.

The moment I entered Father’s room this morning,

“Hey!”

Father glared at me with a terrifying face.

“Emira, you do know that anyone who interferes with my research becomes my enemy, don’t you?”

“…………” I gazed up fixedly and wordlessly at Father’s face. Though I had a mountain of things I wished to say, the resolve to restrain myself from disrupting the sanctity of Father’s research swiftly took hold—these days, I could endure anything immediately. “Here now, with every last one of them gleaming-eyed and turned into beasts—surely even your eyes can see that! Why would you bathe before those fools! Not a single soul has died from going two or three months without bathing! Show some restraint!” “I think Father still has an immense course of study ahead for his research.” Once it becomes accustomed, he will release the gorilla from its cage and keep it free like humans! And once that’s done, he’ll send that creature back to the mountains, and you’ll have to go retrieve it. “With my research now on the very brink of completion—do you intend to sabotage it by scattering nothing but these worthless seeds?”

And when his gaze met mine—as I looked back at him with tears streaming down my face—Father clicked his tongue in clear irritation before firmly taking up his writing brush once more. Is this how a father treats his own flesh and blood? In the place I had glanced at briefly, Father now appeared to be engrossed in the pronunciations of "yoo-hw" and "nwah". This pronunciation had long been Father’s theory as representing a gorilla’s expression of joy, but now that he was tackling the most challenging chapter on expressions of joy—a task likely exacerbated by his irritability—I steeled myself and returned to my room, only for tears to cascade down my face the moment I entered.

Though parent and child by blood, they had decayed into enemies—the child a slave to the father, the father a slave to his research. And that research! It was research on gorilla language. Were Father’s work ever completed, as some secondary result of that research, humans might perhaps gain the ability to converse with gorillas in the future. No—even now, I myself had begun to grasp the gorilla’s intentions when it came to the 'oo-oh' and 'ch-eu-y' series. Yet even were we to achieve such communication, gorillas possess no civilization—what possible contribution could this research bring to humanity?

I hate this! I hate this! I hate being a scholar’s daughter! People are never meant to be born as something like a scholar’s daughter.

Six months ago, I wrote something akin to what Alan had said—perhaps some measure of Alan’s sentiments had taken root within me. When the night grew too desolate and I sat propping my cheek in contemplation, Iskaki lumbered into the room.

“Miss! Come see.” “Iskaki built a sturdy fence behind the bathhouse—no fools’ll be climbin’ over this one now.” “You can rest easy.” She said with a comforting face. Ignorant native! No matter how many fences you put up, they’ll scale them quick enough. I forced a bitter smile, but as I looked at Iskaki’s consoling expression, a smile rose to my cheeks alongside tears—before I knew it, I’d pressed my face against her large, dark features.

To me now, only Iskaki—this black native—felt like a true friend in all heaven and earth. The rain fell without respite until even an instant’s pause seemed forgotten; before our house stretched land transformed into some stream-swamp hybrid where water pooled endlessly.

As I gazed at this swamp, the thought that I would spend tomorrow and the day after—and April and May yet to come until the dry season arrived—being scolded day after day by Father made my heart grow utterly dark. In this rain, everyone’s hearts decay. Father’s heart decays too. Everyone, sodden and sodden and sodden, rots away into the bottomless swamp.

January 10th.

In the evening, as I was knitting before Mafuchazu’s cage, Wendell the recording technician entered the room with a ghastly expression. Mafuchazu, unaccustomed to seeing unfamiliar faces, let out a low growl from deep in his throat and bristled his fur, but Wendell stood blocking the path with lumbering indifference, scarcely acknowledging the cage’s existence. “What brings you here, Wendell? Do you require something?” Having already surmised Wendell’s purpose for entering, I saw no need to press further interaction and kept my hands moving with the knitting needles.

“Miss…”

Wendell called in a hoarse voice. And that large body suddenly pinned my arms from behind. “Wendell, what are you doing! I won’t stand for such impudent behavior! Let go of me this instant!” “Miss… I’m not trying to harm you… It’s just… When I face you, I can’t find the words! Please listen—I beg you—listen to what I’m saying…”

“If you have something to say, say it to my face! How dare you act so rudely!”

I writhed. “Won’t you let go already?!” “I’ll call Father! Iskaki! Iskaki!” The moment Iskaki appeared in the doorway only to vanish in shock—though I, frantic to wrench free from Wendell’s grip, failed to notice—his hands suddenly slackened. Just as I thought my thrashing had finally broken loose, a ground-shaking thud resounded as Wendell’s body collapsed sideways onto the floor.

Alan’s deathly pale face appeared there, gasping for breath from his frantic dash—he had just delivered a fierce blow to Wendell’s temple. “Look out! Look out!” “Emira, get back!” As Alan groaned and saw Wendell rise, he immediately poised himself and lunged at Wendell again. Clutching Iskaki in a corner of the room, I watched another ferocious struggle erupt before us. Another enraged strike from Alan smashed into Wendell’s nose bridge—in an instant, an ugly bruise swelled from temple to nostrils. Then his forehead split open—blood from nose and mouth pattered ceaselessly onto the floor.

Amidst that ferocious combat, Mafuchazu—who had been pacing back and forth fiercely inside his cage—suddenly let out a thunderous roar and seized the cage bars, shaking them violently. Beast blood, having witnessed human blood, must have awakened a fierce wildness. I disentangled myself from the tight embrace with Iskaki and looked around, but when I first became aware of my surroundings, the entire area around the doorway was crowded with everyone who had been jostling to watch this ferocious combat. And among them was Father’s face. When my gaze suddenly met Father’s, his eyes showed a harsh glare as though fiercely condemning me, but then they shifted nonchalantly back toward the two.

“Enough! Why don’t you all return to your respective tasks!” Urged by Father’s voice, everyone once again filed out in a sluggish line, their faces as expressionless as ever. And only Mafuchazu, even after the fight had ended, paced back and forth inside the cage ceaselessly with an air of unabated excitement, sometimes grabbing the iron bars and roaring loudly. A world expressionless no matter what occurs… And once that momentary anger had passed, I neither felt glad Alan had won nor any desire to know what became of Wendell—I too continued knitting before the cage, my face as blank as ever. The sound of the rain alone resonated strangely in my ears.

It wasn't just Wendell. One misstep, and both Alan and those who had been standing watching at the doorway would become exactly like Wendell now. Late into the night I kept knitting, my hands moving as thoughts wandered through aimless things.

January 13th. Conrad was constantly adjusting the attenuator in the recording room in Wendell’s place.

“Where’s Wendell?” When I asked, “Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since that day.” “I’m the one taking over now!” he snapped brusquely in response, yet with a peculiar eagerness to speak, all the while stealing furtive glances at people’s faces. “I see…” As I discreetly strained to hear the audio waves from the microphone being adjusted, here too—perhaps it was my imagination—I felt as though the eyes of a second Wendell lurked.

“The Doctor’s going on about gorillas this and gorillas that—completely obsessed with them as you can see—and now even the young lady’s stuck keeping company with gorillas all day long.” “The only happy ones are the gorillas—now everyone’s saying they’re the happy ones!” And at last, this second Wendell’s lips began to speak. Since lingering here would do no good, I left this room without delay.

“Even if what Wendell did was wrong, everyone says they understand his feelings!” “If we don’t have something blow up soon, there’ll be no settling this!” Conrad’s gruff voice came chasing after me from behind. I brushed it off and left the room. What was going to begin? Day after day of rain and heat—this weariness—my heart withering into grayness, parching drier each day! What could possibly begin in such a world? Before the gorilla language is perfected, wouldn’t we all just rot away, grow sodden, and die with empty faces?

V

February 2nd.

Ever since then, Alan’s eyes when looking at me appeared strangely jealous and sharp-edged. “That wretch Alan hasn’t been working at all lately—it’s a problem. “I don’t know what he’s dawdling about for, but he works as though his soul has left his body—can’t focus on a thing. “Just yesterday, showing signs of neurasthenia, he kept spouting nonsense about wanting you and himself to be allowed to return to London. “If you want to leave, then leave right now! “In return, I shall not return either—and when I declared that Emira too must live here for another four or five years, that wretch Alan stared at me with resentful eyes! But for now, we mustn’t indulge such talk from the likes of him! “I thought he was at least somewhat reliable, but given that state of his, even your marriage becomes something to reconsider.”

Father had also said so. As ever, I had been listening to such talk with indifference, as if they concerned strangers, but Alan had finally cornered me. I had entered the library and was searching for something when he stealthily followed me there.

“Why have you been avoiding me like this lately?” As his figure lumbered closer, he did indeed appear somewhat neurasthenic, just as Father had described. “I’m not avoiding you at all! But all your proposals are ones I cannot accept right now. If they’re such proposals, won’t it be the same no matter how many times you ask?” With that, I too dealt with this fiancé somewhat mockingly.

“You’ve completely changed.” “The you of old was not such a heartless person.” “You… you know, Emira, you must have fallen for Wendell!” Alan clutched his head and wandered about the area. “Emira, tell me the truth.” “Then I’ll surely give up!” “When I think of you and stay still like this, madness creeps in.” “Emira, if there’s even a shred of our old love left, I implore you!” “Please… to set my mind at ease… make me your unwavering protector.”

In the end, Alan knelt before me and began to implore me desperately, as if on the verge of tears. “…………” “So, did you understand? “Emira.” I found it pitiful—a man, yet adopting an attitude of near-prostration before a woman, spinelessly reversing his initial resolve and now shouting those marriage pleas. “...But in our case, isn’t it already the same as being married?”

However, keeping my words gentle, I placed my hand on Alan’s shoulder as he knelt. “Now, do stand up. A man shouldn’t debase himself so much. After all, we’re going to get married eventually anyway—we might as well properly get married here.” “Then… then… Emira, will you consent?” “But with Father working so desperately hard like that right now, I can’t possibly bring up such a carefree matter from my own lips. So please ask him yourself. If Father gives his approval, I shall have no objections whatsoever.”

“No good! “It’s no use! “Are you still saying that?!” “That’s no good!” With that, Alan’s eyes—which had been shining—dimmed with disappointment as he hung his head dejectedly. “Whether one can say such things to Father now or not—shouldn’t that be immediately clear if you just think about it?” “I no longer feel any interest in the work the Professor is doing!” “Why have I thrown myself into this research? I don’t understand it myself at all!” “What kind of contribution to civilization does completing this gorilla’s language even make?!”

I found it darkly amusing—everyone was thinking along the same lines. “Right now, I’m only staying in this place because I’m being dragged along by you alone.” “And you—you bring up things I can’t do and are only making things difficult for me!” “I beg you!” “Emira, please run away with me!” “We’re both still young!” “To think of our youth being fated to live in such an uncivilized land with gorillas—it’s enough to plunge one into despair!”

“That’s hardly an impossible task!” “What reason could there be to run away?” “Are we not properly engaged fiancés graciously approved by Father?!” “There’s absolutely no need to sneak about like thieves in the night!”

“You don’t understand!” “You don’t understand a single thing!” “Any moment now something terrible will happen to you, and I’m so anxious I can’t stand it!”

“Not at all—there’s nothing I don’t understand! That is your illness! The fact that you’re harboring such bizarre fears of things that are unlikely to happen is precisely what constitutes neurasthenia. I’ll ask Father myself so you can take a break from your work for a while.”

“No good!” “You don’t understand!” “You don’t understand a single thing!” “If this is indeed my current illness, then you—the only one who could cure it—push me away like this!” “If you’re going to say such merciless things, Emira, then I’ll never ask you for anything again!”

With that, Alan left while scratching his head and glaring at me despairingly.

But never mind—I was merely being faithful to my feelings and speaking truthfully as they were, so if he grew angry about it, what could be done? Though I could certainly conceive of a man's feelings, now that I'd resolved to utterly abandon myself and devote everything to Father's cause, how could I possibly act selfishly unless Father himself instructed me to?! In such circumstances, it was Alan—indulging in such unhurried sentiments—who proved truly self-centered! Very well—if left undisturbed, in time Alan would both feel shame over his own words and come to regret them. Should my phrasing have been too severe, I could simply offer apologies when the moment arrived.

The rain remained relentless. I was thoroughly disgusted by the rainy season in this uncivilized land. It was a wonder I hadn’t fallen ill from this—I found myself rather impressed.

January 20.

Today while tidying up absentmindedly,I found a Bourjois lipstick at the bottom of my bag.It must have been remnants from when I used it during our voyage here.Feeling profoundly nostalgic,I unconsciously applied some to my lips with my little finger.As I gazed into the mirror,lost in thought,I realized it had already been one year and seven months since I last touched face powder,lipstick,perfume...The Bourjois lipstick discovered deep in Africa felt inexplicably nostalgic for bygone days.I recalled seeing a play in Glasgow where an old actress dying destitute in some slum garishly applied her lipstick while meeting her end—now I felt strangely akin to her,and could not suppress a bitter smile.But no matter.As long as this lipstick remained,I resolved to apply it sparingly each day so Father wouldn't notice.This alone was what remained of Europe about my person now.

VI

February 8. A loud shouting voice could be heard from Father’s room. One was Father’s voice; the other was Alan’s. I thought he must have brought up some trivial matter again and was being scolded by Father; since it didn’t particularly concern me, I decided to feign ignorance. But their voices grew increasingly shrill. And amid the dispute,

“Miss, the master requests that you come at once...”

Iskaki came to summon me.

“This is madness!” “Even if it’s something you do as our esteemed Doctor, this borders on sheer insanity!” “I categorically dissent!”

“Unnecessary meddling!” “What right do you have to meddle in what I order my daughter to do?!” “Keep silent and watch—that’s all you need to do!”

“But as a fellow countryman, how can I stand by and watch such an outrageous plan?!” “It’s as if you’re making your own daughter into a spectacle for gorillas!” “How can we stand to watch?!” “By what right do you interfere in what I do? Haven’t I been telling you that all along, and yet you still don’t understand?!” “Your recent attitude makes not the slightest bit of sense to me!” “Let me make this clear—you are nothing more than my mere assistant.” “You’ve been meddling far too much in matters between parent and child lately!”

“I may serve as your assistant in matters concerning you, Professor.” “However, regarding your daughter, from my position as her betrothed who would become her husband, I cannot possibly refrain from speaking out!” “A pity—I have revoked your fiancé status.” “True enough, there was an era when I granted official approval.” “Yet having somewhat misjudged your character, I now repent the rashness of having voiced such endorsement.” “Regardless—revoked!” “Having neglected to notify you previously, I shall take this occasion to declare it unequivocally.”

Father declared with bitter resolve. And I could see Alan biting his lip, his face pallid, his entire body trembling violently as he fell silent.

In any case, seizing the opportunity when their argument had temporarily subsided as they both became thoroughly disheartened, I—

“You called for me…”

I stepped forward.

“Emira! “Emira!” “You—this sheer recklessness!” “This is sheer madness… How could I accept this, even if it’s the Professor’s orders?!”

Vehemently, Alan said. “You need only keep silent!” “I will speak to my daughter.” Father restrained Alan and turned toward me.

“Emira! “Father has a request for you.” “As you well know, Father’s research on the nwah line of euphoria has concluded, and we’re on the brink of success!” “If my work could reach its conclusion with just one more push—if it could all be resolved through your single exertion—surely you wouldn’t refuse Father’s request.” “That’s what this man has been fussily objecting to all along…” Father looked up at me piercingly.

“Yes! If it is something I can do, I will do anything!”

For at that moment, I too had never even dreamed that Father’s request would be so reckless. “I intend to release that gorilla from its cage before long! As you well know, it has become utterly attached to you! From the standpoint of my research schedule, I must release the gorilla from its cage as soon as possible and, using you—to whom it has grown attached—as a mediator, have it become accustomed to us. And my current primary objective lies in releasing this gorilla into the forest to study its natural ecology and make recordings. Therefore, what I now wish to request of you is this: before releasing it from the cage, I desire to record once the cry this gorilla makes at the very moment of its greatest ecstasy. This will be the climax of the current yoo-hw line! So I have studied the method—here’s one thing: I want you to remove your coat and dance provocatively before the gorilla’s cage! In its reactions there will assuredly be something—whether new discovery or corroboration of prior research! What say you, Emira? If you would help Father’s work, do this once!”

I compared their two faces. Alan twisted as if in agony, signaling to me with all the expression his eyes and face could muster. Never had I felt such disgust toward my own fiancé Alan as I did at that moment. Father’s attitude was certainly no better. The way he so dismissively crushed my will—as if sacrificing one mere daughter posed no obstacle to his research—stirred within me a faint surge of resentment and discomfort. Yet Father was an unworldly scholar. For him, that sufficed. Compared to Alan’s fidgety, neurotic cowardice—spineless to the point of being unable to act on his convictions—yet standing behind Father with eyes gleaming as if presuming himself my husband, I found Father’s resolve immeasurably more manly and refreshing. If merely removing my coat to dance could unsettle him so, then to show up this groveling weakling, I resolved to accept Father’s request.

“So it’s just that, then?” “There isn’t anything else besides that, I suppose.” Father nodded. Alan’s eyes gleamed. “I don’t mind… If that’s all there is to it.” “In return, if you promise the recording won’t be done in that room but in the adjacent one, I shall do exactly as you say.” I said this deliberately without so much as glancing toward Alan. “How could such an outrageous act… be possible or not?!” “Emira, consider this!” “You’ll regret this—mark my words!”

“I will never regret anything! There are even daughters who would drink poison for their parents’ research! If it ends with something like that, it’s really nothing at all.”

"How about that? My daughter requires none of your concern—as you see, she won't defy me!" As though proclaiming this, Father raised his eyes sharply and fixed Alan with a piercing gaze. And,

“Very well!” “That concludes matters.”

Having declared that, he turned swiftly toward his desk and concluded the matter.

Taking that opportunity, I too returned to my room, but—

“Emira… Emira!”

Alan still persisted obstinately, chasing after me from behind. Deliberately feigning ignorance, I returned to my room.

February 10th. Since yesterday, a large group had been clattering away doing carpentry work in the adjacent room to set up the recording equipment. But Mafuchazu paid no attention at all and was merely staring silently in my direction.

“Emira, you will surely regret this!” That was what Alan said at that time. However, no particular feeling of regret arose within my heart. But I do not regret; yet when I think of it, an indescribably melancholy mood comes over me. To dance like an entertainer before Mafuchazu’s cage… But since the other party isn’t human, there’s still some small salvation in that.

Father gave his approval to simply have the microphone set out, then double-wall all partitions of the monitoring room with boards over its existing soundproofing—without leaving a single gap. And with that intention, Father himself was overseeing the work; but since I could not feel at ease, I resolved to personally inspect it that day.

This should probably be safe enough. Being peeked at was something I'd had enough of ever since that incident with Wendell!

February 12th.

Today Wendell’s corpse was brought in. How many days had he wandered drenched in rain? That large man’s cheeks were hollowed, his body emaciated with a wildly overgrown beard, his entire form bloated into a pitiful sight. Because the men disposed of the corpse and buried it in the jungle beyond the back shed, I did not get a proper look at it; but later, the native Furago quietly delivered to me something he claimed had been clutched in its hand.

He must have anticipated that even the pockets of his entire body would become waterlogged after death. He had torn a page from his notebook, written on it with a pencil, folded it small, and clutched it tightly and firmly in his hand—or so it is said.

I am a fool of a man. My feelings were not like that, but I acted contrary to my heart. Why I did that—even I do not know. If I were still alive, I would probably do something. That is why I am going to die. This is how it must be! It was just such an absurd thing.

“What a fool!”

I clicked my tongue. If you're going to die, there's no need to write such things. I thought he should have just died quietly. And,

“Throw it away!”

"Throw it away!" I ordered Iskaki. Wendell’s suicide note was pelted by the rain under the window. There, everyone is pelted by the rain. Human lives too! And that’s all there is to it!

VII

February 15th. Finally, today is the day!

“Father, you will be standing at this entrance, won’t you…”

“There’s no need for such concerns!” “I’ll keep proper watch over it!” “Mark my words!”

I dismissed Father’s words and entered the room. From inside came a sharp *clink!* as I locked the door. Mafuchazu remained crouched in the corner, his gaze fixed intently upon me. Shedding my jacket in one fluid motion, I struck an alluring pose and began to dance. Yet despite my thorough preparations, my attention clung to the boarded windows and surrounding walls—paranoid about unseen observers—while Mafuchazu’s expression went wholly unnoticed.

At last, I calmed down somewhat. I paced back and forth before the cage, dancing from right to left, left to right. Mafuchazu abruptly rose and seized the iron bars. He kept staring intently in my direction.

Mafuchazu let out a tremendous roar! Mafuchazu’s roars grew increasingly louder; try as I might to discern what he was roaring, I could make out nothing but a raw "Wrooar!" Wrooar! I could hear nothing but that. Father declared it to be joy. But could this truly be a cry of joy? To me, he seemed nothing but angry.

Mafuchazu, with ferocious intensity, roared while slamming his body against the cage with such force it seemed ready to burst—thudding violently—as he grabbed and rattled the iron bars. And over and over again, as if trying to seize me, giant palms flash between the iron bars.

At last unable to endure the terror, trembling, I threw on my coat, fumbled the key into the lock—missing several times—before finally wrenching the door open to collapse into Father’s arms that had been waiting there all along. And I gulped down Iskaki’s cold coffee without breathing—liberated at last from the beast’s stench, that suffocating sealed-room heat, the soul-freezing terror—yet beneath my arms, something cold still trickled down in nauseating rivulets.

However, my dance was a great success. Father—who had been rushed off to the recording in the adjacent room—eventually returned with his face brimming over with joy, and he tapped my shoulder with a voice so elated it seemed ready to leap.

“Well done! “Well done! “Emira! “A great success! “There, see! “You may not grasp this, but my hypotheses and inferences have been magnificently validated.” The cry that reached the zenith of exultation was I-ecgk Whoo-w! The I- signifies joy! “That transforms into *ch-in* at the end, precisely as I predicted! “Finally—*guroruru*, *guroruru*—he’s rumbling. “This is him courting your favor! Dance more! Keep dancing! “That’s precisely what he’s conveying! “Well done! “Well done! “With this, Phase One research concludes at last! “Let that whelp Alan prattle all he likes—with such triumph secured, there’s not a whit to criticize! “Father’s gratitude springs from his very soul! “Now then, take your rest!”

When I heard that, my own terror from earlier vanished completely, and feeling fully rewarded, I couldn’t help but give a faint smile.

February 18th.

Today as well, that roaring and commotion continued all day long! Exactly three full days had passed since that day until today—the clamor persisting relentlessly throughout. Even now I remained astonished by the ferocity contained within a gorilla's joy. These past few days when others brought his meals he would seize them only to hurl them away. He bared his fangs in anger and permitted no one near. Yet when I brought his meal he pressed himself against the cage bars and fawned affectionately—no doubt wishing to see me dance again.

There had been signs of this behavior before, but I had not imagined it would manifest so clearly. Father must be pleased. When he eventually came to fully obey my instructions, Father had said he would release him from the cage and let him roam free—so he must surely be delighted by these signs that the day was drawing near.

Regrettably, at this point, the diary had once again been torn apart. Given that it was a thick notebook approximately two centimeters thick, it remained unclear exactly how much had been torn out—though a significant portion appeared to have been ripped away. Moreover, it was naturally not the heroine herself who had torn them out. They must have been lost during transport or rendered unrecognizable during some violent struggle. In any case, while profoundly regrettable, there was nothing to be done about it now.

With no alternative but to proceed through substantial lacunae in continuity，he advances toward what appears to be a later page of fragmented entries.

April 25th. When he was first released from the cage, I felt truly terrified. His ugliness, his terror—I felt as though my soul might leave my body. Yet once I grew accustomed, even being with this creature ceased to be such acute terror.

“Give me your hand.”

When I say this, he places that hand onto my palm. “No, not that hand—your other hand.” When I say this, he switches hands and presents it again. “Take that woven rod, please!”

When I said this, he walked over and brought it to me. And when someone came in, he became cautious for a moment, but— “It’s all right!” “This person will care for you.” “There’s no need to be cautious at all.” When I said this, he growled and looked up at that person while settling down. These days, I was truly at ease!

There is no one in this world who has grasped the gorilla's heart as thoroughly as I have. And most gratefully of all—because I let Mafuchazu out during the day, and because this colossal creature has grown attached to me—Mafuchazu now serves almost like my guard dog, so the men have completely ceased giving me those lecherous looks! No—they still give me those lecherous looks, but they’ve stopped doing anything as disrespectful as what Wendell did that time.

Father is exceedingly pleased about that! And soon he rejoices at the approaching day when this Mafuchazu will go into forests and fields to guide his own kind, and at how the research is now properly entering its third phase of completion!

April 30th. Father was extremely pleased, declaring it a rare treasure. Mafuchazu had drawn a picture! Whether they were dots or lines—I couldn't tell. Yesterday, while sketching beside him as he seemed to want something, I gave Mafuchazu a sketchboard and charcoal while drawing his face, but facing me, he must have intended to draw my portrait. He kept gazing at my face while making marks... What a mysterious picture! Likely the only one in existence—a painting by a gorilla!

And Mafuchazu seemed to take genuine pleasure in drawing! I resolved to provide more sketchboards and charcoal. Yet these days, even when I merely stepped beyond the room’s threshold, he would bristle his fur and sulk—an exasperating development indeed. His willfulness appeared to have intensified markedly.

May 8th. What had become strikingly clear to me of late was that gorillas possessed an extraordinarily intense sense of jealousy. It seemed he greatly disliked when I spoke with any of the men outside.

“It’s Father! “Mafuchazu! “You were let out by Father! “Then why must you make such eyes?” When I scolded him, he cast his eyes downward like a chastened child, though his throat kept rumbling deep within. I understood perfectly—this was the gorilla’s most unmistakable sign of displeasure. “How troublesome that he grows irritable whenever I appear. “Emira, you must reason with him properly.”

Father would laugh and leave immediately, which was fine, but Mafuchazu found it most displeasing—especially with Alan, who had started coming into my room lately. To Alan, who had lost all interest in his work, such a gorilla must have held no further concern whatsoever. He had never once spoken a kind word to him and acted as though he didn’t even exist. I resolved to caution Alan to change his attitude a bit more.

VIII

May 15th.

No sooner had they been lying low for a while than Father and Alan were again engaged in a fierce argument from this morning onward. When I thought of how he tormented Father—who had aged so much and labored so hard in his research—I felt a profound hatred toward Alan. Even if Father were to order me again to marry, I would want to refuse Alan myself. Even without education or refinement, even being reckless, the deceased Wendell had far more manliness; a man like Alan was nothing but scum among men!

If I were to spend the rest of my life here in Africa as things are, I would rather choose Wendell. At that time, I had thought him a reckless man. I had been angry too. Yet Wendell had never meant to force himself upon me. He must have adopted that manner because he couldn't speak to me otherwise.

I didn’t know what they had been arguing about, but Father came into my room huffing. “I thought he wasn’t that sort of man, but I had completely misjudged him.” “Since he kept insisting I send him back, I told him, ‘If you can leave in this rain, then go!’” “I intend to have him escorted to Loanda with two horses and two laborers!” “That wretch seems intent on dragging you back somehow, but I have formally dissolved the engagement as of today—you should consider it likewise.” “Given today’s behavior, he seems unlikely to resort to violence, but if he attempts any foolish antics, call me immediately!”

he declared.

Of course, I now share exactly the same resolve! If he dares appear before me again, this time I will declare the dissolution myself. Soon, Alan entered my room with his drenched body. He told me to return with him.

“No! I have no affection whatsoever for someone like you who refuses to help Father! Even as a woman, I will remain here and assist Father to the very end. I will formally dissolve the engagement with you myself.” I also declared clearly.

“So, you and your father have been deceiving me all along!” “I’ll make sure to repay this grudge—you remember that!” With a terrifying expression, he glared at me while storming off somewhere. Does that spineless man even possess such determination?

The diary had reached this point while leaving many blank spaces when it suddenly transformed into enormous characters. And now showed dreadful disarray. There's no date, nothing at all! The moment I gasped, I was sucked in as if compelled to chase after the lines. Behold! A monstrous incident had occurred within this camp compound.

It's terrible! It's terrible! Alan was killed. Father was killed. Everyone had fled into the rain. At seven this evening, the moment Mafuchazu was put into the cage, Alan lunged at me—but as the lock hadn’t been fastened yet, Mafuchazu suddenly leaped out and struck Alan.

“Father!”

At the sound of my scream, Father grabbed his gun, “Emira! It’s dangerous!” “Run!” he declared and fired rapid shots at Mafuchazu, but the gorilla struck Father down. The gun barrel shattered. Packerson was killed. The laborers all fled. No one remained. Mafuchazu never took his eyes off me for an instant. I couldn’t even escape. What would become of me? Mafuchazu now sat beside me near the corpses, drawing something on a sketchboard.

Again, five or six lines were skipped, followed by characters even larger than before—so fiercely trembling that each one nearly filled a notebook page—

I escaped, but was caught again by Mafuchazu. There was no one. Loneliness cut through me—despair! The corpses of Father, Alan, and Packerson emitted a rotting stench. Mafuchazu was drawing something nearby... That same Mafuchazu who had grown so accustomed to me now sensed my attempt to flee and erupted in anger. I might be killed.

And though this diary had ended in such disarray, the heroine's fate—her path to death—conveyed itself through the spaces between lines and characters, piercing my heart with its poignancy. A diary so horrifyingly gruesome as to defy language—this is undoubtedly what such a diary refers to.

Having finished reading, I was left utterly dumbfounded by the extremity of it all. However, the troublesome fact remained—as I had mentioned before—that this diary, which the heroine Emira had likely kept with such daily meticulousness initially to bring her memories back to Britain, contained not a single signature, nor any indication of where the incident occurred, nor even the surnames of her father the Doctor or her fiancé; there was not a single clue to be found.

I eventually closed the diary's volume while wiping away tears and offering a silent prayer—not only for this unfortunate heroine but also for all others involved—with the intention of respectfully bringing it back to Britain to perform memorial rites.

IX

After two or three weeks of completing necessary tasks and braving great difficulties to return to the capital Luanda, I soon resigned from this disbanded survey team and withdrew to my hometown of Oban, Scotland—but as for this diary. As I had just stated, I did consider it a diary of truly bizarre twists of fate—utterly mystifying in its strangeness—but that was all. Without knowing the crucial names or grasping the surrounding context, there was little reason for me to take interest in it. Moreover, whenever I thought of those ghastly corpses, I found myself struck by indescribably unpleasant and gloomy memories, so I endeavored to cast such unnecessary matters beyond recollection. Thus I had stored this diary and that peculiar sketchboard even deeper within a trunk—but then came the time when I was spending days of rest in my hometown of Oban, where I could freely enjoy the tranquil scenery of Loan Bay after so long an absence.

Suddenly around that time, an incident concerning a special dispatch from Luanda, Angola—which had been enlivening the society sections of newspapers such as the London Times, Manchester Guardian, Delhi Telegraph, and Chronicle—caught my eye. While the newspapers were largely similar with minor differences, summarizing them revealed an article that generally read as follows.

As had been repeatedly reported, Professor Emmett Stevens' team dispatched from London University to Portuguese Angola's interior regions of Fila—in search of Dr. Wilder Gayleck, the eminent authority in animal histology and former Cambridge professor—had arrived on-site as previously covered. However, despite their meticulous local investigations having yielded no trace of Dr. Gayleck's party, compounded by the rainy season having now fully set in with all rivers and lakes swollen beyond navigability, a telegram was received today announcing that this exploration team too had resolved to imminently suspend their search and temporarily return to London.

was a special dispatch from a Reuter correspondent stationed in Luanda. And with just this, I naturally could not grasp even the meaning of what was being referred to; moreover, these repeated reports were likely published while I had not yet returned to Britain, so to a recent returnee like myself, they amounted to nothing more than an uninteresting foreign dispatch. But at that moment, what startled me so violently I nearly leapt from my seat was the newspaper’s annotation appended as a reference to this telegram.

With the expedition team’s withdrawal from the site, the names of Dr. Wilder Gayleck’s party—now presumed lost—were as follows: The names and brief biographies of those who had accompanied the expedition were published alongside grand portraits. Dr. Wilder Gayleck (fifty-eight years old), former Cambridge University professor and preeminent authority in animal histology, had engaged in research on ape dissection and language alongside his wife from 1919 to 1925 in the Samazanca region of Portuguese and Dutch Angola. Afterwards, he produced a volume of his renowned work *The Mental Abilities of Anthropoid Apes*, presented gorilla language to the academic world, and met with both acclaim and censure. His wife had contracted a tropical disease in the region during this period and succumbed. It was reported that the Professor’s current endeavor focused solely on revising and completing his earlier work. The academic world universally lamented his uncertain fate—regardless of whether they were his detractors—and acknowledged that British academia suffered an immense loss through the presumed death of such an eminent scholar.

Miss Emira Gayleck (25 years old), daughter of Professor Gayleck, who after her mother’s passing assisted her father by managing household affairs and had long served as his sole assistant. She had been engaged to Alan Evans, Bachelor of Science—her father’s assistant—but postponed their marriage to accompany him on this expedition, only to meet with calamity. The disaster that befell this young lady—renowned as a great beauty embodying gentleness, virtue, and chastity, a model of British womanhood—drew sympathy from all quarters. Upon receiving the official telegram of this tragedy, Lord Tyson Hillmar, the Education Minister, reportedly interrupted a cabinet meeting to urgently proceed to Cambridge University, where he expressed profound condolences to Professor Clifton Elliot of ecological zoology at said institution, who maintained the closest friendship with Professor Gayleck.

Both the Fila hinterlands and Samazanca region—names from the central eastern dense jungles near the Northern Rhodesian border that I had never heard before—were such places, but what suddenly struck me then were certain passages from the diary... Does Father truly believe that completing his research on apes alone would suffice?... And... What possible contribution could research into ape language make to civilization? …and so on.

"Oh! "The young lady! "That was Dr.Gayleck’s daughter Emira!"

And I frantically struck the table. I could almost see my own complexion paling before my eyes. The events I had read in that diary with such nebulous comprehension now revived themselves in my mind with vivid clarity—each detail sharpening into dreadful significance. I strained my eyes until they threatened to burst yet kept devouring the newspaper. Alan Evans (thirty-two years old) There in the next column lay confirmation—an article detailing that very Alan Evans from the diary who had hounded young Lady Emira, grown embittered by the research, and finally met his end beneath an ape's wrathful blow.

Alan Evans (thirty-two years old), Dr. Wilder Gayleck’s faithful assistant, had long been under the Doctor’s tutelage. He had been preparing to soon wed young lady Emira but postponed the marriage due to this academic expedition to join the party. Precisely because he had been regarded as the successor to a professorship within the university, this dedicated young scholar’s suffering was deeply mourned by said institution. The notion that he had postponed his nuptials for academia drew a bitter smile from me, but the newspaper then proceeded to sequentially list biographies of key expedition members—including electrical engineer Perry Packerson and recording technician Bramley Wendell—among others. For me, having read through in a frenzy, there remained no room to doubt that these people were indeed the very individuals who had appeared in young lady Emira’s diary. And how resplendent was the beauty of young lady Emira smiling in that newspaper!

I stood dazedly, so overwhelmed by the heartrending history of this diary's author—now known to me for the first time—that for a while I failed to notice the burning cigarette searing my hand. Moreover, the newspapers had seared even more astonishing reports into my retinas. Following the conclusion of all these articles, moved by the academic martyrdom of the professor and his daughter, the renowned "Electric King" Mr.Hayden had immediately pledged £50,000, announcing he would contribute this sum should a rescue expedition be reorganized; and simultaneously—though marked with a question mark in a separate section—

Would the impatient Professor Elliot of ecological zoology abandon his university lectures and rush to Luanda to ascertain the safety of his dear friend Professor Gayleck and his child? When questioned about this matter, Professor Elliot assumed a grave expression... This commotion demonstrated how society had become utterly consumed by the issue, as evidenced by such reports. I set down the newspaper and, with a jolt akin to being physically struck, turned my gaze toward the window—yet now, having been shocked to my very core, nothing registered in my vision. The only image that materialized was that pitiful corpse of young lady Emira lying slightly prone to the right in that desolate, uninhabited tropical border region of Africa. Now my mind became acutely aware of an unbreakable bond between this unfortunate woman's memory and all those connected to her through the diary—a karmic tether that could never be severed. Yet even so, I still could not bring myself to disclose this diary to the world, nor to publicly reveal the young lady's death that I had witnessed.

People may mock it as my shallow humanitarianism or sentimentality, but within the young lady’s diary, the true forms of all involved are laid utterly bare. There, even the eminent scholar who had been a model for his generation appeared as nothing but an academic monomaniac—a true obsessive devoid of any paternal love. The young man who had even postponed his marriage to his lover for academic devotion—who should have been the doctor’s faithful assistant—there in the jungle’s ceaseless rains, relentlessly pursued the young lady without regard for appearances or reputation, until finally, amidst that conflict, he was struck down and killed by a gorilla. And the recording technician had perished in the gloom of ceaseless rains; truly, the young lady’s diary was an incomparably honest life record that could depict the truths of human life—nay, one that deserved praise. Yet the problem remained whether it was appropriate to convey such human truths precisely when society was in the very throes of sympathy and grief.

Thus, I took no action the next day or the day after that. Moreover, with each passing day, the outcry from every newspaper grew increasingly fierce. Now all newspapers shifted their tone: even if the professor and his son were dead, withdrawing the expedition team while leaving unaddressed the fate of such a learned party was a disgrace to Britain and a grave humanitarian issue; the public resolutely declared that they must never allow the team’s withdrawal from the site—indeed, they reached a fever pitch of outcry demanding that if withdrawal were forced upon them, they should immediately send forth an even larger expedition.

And indeed, as public opinion reached a fever pitch, people began volunteering for a second expedition team—some addressing Professor Clifton Elliot directly, others sending their applications to various newspapers—while donations poured in continuously, until finally the Professor could no longer endure his concerns; upon seeing his own announcement that he would personally depart for Luanda with urgent haste, even my humanitarian principles and sentiments could no longer bear to remain silent any longer. Had I persisted in silence beyond this point, I alone in all the world would have known the truth, while vast amounts of time and funds would be expended for these already deceased individuals, compelling multitudes in the tropics to continue their futile search for six months or even a year to come.

And so, after four days of deep contemplation, I wordlessly retrieved the young lady’s diary and those two mysterious sketchboards that I had stored deep in the trunk’s bottom. Then after calling the Herald to confirm Professor Clifton Elliot’s address, I hastened by car to his residence on Mayer College Street in Cambridge.

Unforgettable—the day before that day when the newspaper articles and special editions that shook the world were published, astonishing the globe—I recalled it being the morning of April 26th of this year.

Dr. Elliot’s residence, shrouded in a heavy curtain of melancholy, must have been tormented day after day by all manner of people flocking incessantly with interest in this matter, thoroughly troubling the doctor as he prepared for his journey amidst his sorrow. The servant who came to receive me, "I have come to discuss a matter of great importance regarding this issue." took my business card—that of Survey Engineer Ashton Turner—to the back with an air of "Not another one?", and sure enough,

"We deeply appreciate your gracious visit, but at present we are far too occupied to receive anyone."

The servant had come to relay the professor’s words. “Then at least show this notebook to the Professor just once! If he would read even a page or two, he’ll surely understand how gravely important my business here today is.” Even this repeated entreaty was dismissed like swatting a fly, the servant refusing to relay it to the professor. But when I pressed with unyielding insistence, they finally accepted the notebook—scowling with reluctance—before vanishing into the dim recesses of the entrance hall.

And there I stood waiting at the aged entrance of Dr. Elliot’s residence—deserted and utterly silent, its walls crawling with ivy—when at last a hoarse voice sounded from within.

“Do not let that gentleman depart! Where is he? This bears Emira’s unmistakable hand! Belle! Oliver! Escort him here at once!” Before me stood the white-haired professor, his boyish face alight with fervor as he shouted to the servants while hastening forward to greet me himself. I shall spare you tedious details of our meeting’s particulars, for subsequent events were made plain enough through their publication in the newspapers.

Namely, on April 27th of this year, it was announced in all newspapers with special headline type. The fate of the enigmatic Dr. Gayleck’s expedition team and Miss Emira has been determined. A gruesome demise at 8 degrees 2 minutes south latitude. Not a single survivor remains! A witness emerges bearing a detailed diary! And astonishingly, the cognitive abilities of gorillas have been proven through paintings created by the apes themselves! A Stunning Shock to the Academic World! Those very newspaper articles that had astonished the world were what I recounted to the gathered reporters from every paper the following day under Dr. Elliot’s supervision; and what is presented here—the full text of Miss Emira’s diary, not deviating by a single character—is precisely the complete disclosure of all portions we had previously withheld under our pledge to eventually reveal the full account out of concern for Dr. Gayleck’s expedition team’s honor, now published in full to dispel public suspicions.

Having thoroughly deliberated with Dr. Elliot, I sent this manuscript under the condition of simultaneous publication in the London Times, Chronicle, Herald, and Guardian, affixed with both the Doctor’s honor and my own, along with his countersignature. And in mourning the deaths of this unfortunate expedition party—particularly those of the ill-fated Dr. Gayleck and Miss Emira—and in offering profound condolences for their world-piercingly tragic demise, I solemnly declared that I would never lag behind others in this regard, and thus brought this announcement to its conclusion.