Pathway to Japanese Literature

In that summer following the war's first year, there existed an old man who frequently became subject of discussion upon hotel verandas and by firesides in mist-shrouded villas at a summer retreat situated three thousand seven hundred shaku above sea level. He was an old man of approximately sixty years - his glorious white hair crowning features as lean and pure as a crane's, bearing a majestic visage that might have belonged to the phenotypic lineage of aged Goethe, Liszt, or Paderewski. Yet such a deeply spiritual countenance appearing on a Japanese face proved so exceedingly rare that it compelled onlookers to marvel: what lofty spiritual existence had this man led?

His attire was equally striking - the fabric being an antiquated British Worsted fabric from about twenty years prior, cherished for its stiffness and subdued quality reminiscent of handwoven cotton. While the cut followed fashions from the early Taisho era, more perplexing still was the indescribably awkward manner of wearing it - impossible to pinpoint exactly where or how, yet undeniably ill-fitting. It is said that when dressing African natives in Western clothing, no matter how meticulously one fits the garments upon them, they will inevitably become subtly disheveled with time. In this old man’s manner of dress, there was something faintly akin - an indefinable sense of incongruity.

This old man lived in the villa of Sakai Arataka—whose entire family had perished in the Tokyo air raids—with a palpably gloomy young man named Sobue, making it his daily custom to stroll through larch groves by the golf course and paths beneath Atagoyama through fields of pampas grass, while utterly abstaining from the summer resort’s social engagements. Sakai Arataka was a prominent aristocrat among Japan’s peerage—a man of overflowing health and intellect who nevertheless involved himself with no companies nor enterprises, possessed neither hobbies nor talents, and brought down the curtain on his life as a thoroughgoing idler in perfect indolence and inactivity, Oblomov-style; yet his final act proved to be an incident of unprecedented strangeness.

Sakai’s wife Kotoko was a woman from Kyoto’s Nishitouin family who had been Komatsu Akinari’s fiancée, but for some reason married Sakai—Komatsu’s uncle—and came to Karuizawa every summer with their beautiful yet faintly fanatical daughter Ayuko. Yet none had heard of such an exceptional old man among Sakai’s relatives, and for at least these twenty years, no one had witnessed him visiting Sakai. At the hotel and similar establishments, opinions had nearly coalesced around the theory that he must be someone who had long resided abroad and returned on Europe’s final repatriation ship this April—but when one person observed how ill-suited his overly formal attire and bizarre way of wearing clothes were for such a scenario, this speculation too began to unravel.

On one particular afternoon when such rumors had congealed on verandas and hearths, the old man—unusually alone—came to the hotel grill and ordered lunch from the waiter using the archaic English term "Spiter." Indeed, it did mean lunch—but this was a word that had been used some five hundred years prior and was now a completely dead term. Of course, the waiter could not possibly comprehend such a dead term, but upon roughly surmising and bringing lunch, the old man performed the curious act of winding salted pork around his right index finger to eat it—as sixteenth-century Europeans had done—yet far from being an affectation or symptom of derangement, the manner was so thoroughly domestic and ingrained that it made those who relied on forks and knives feel almost ashamed by its allure, thereby imparting a melancholic bewilderment to mere onlookers.

Thereupon, one of the people in the grill sidled closer and took the chance to start a conversation. His language proved remarkably clear and nuanced, betraying neither intellectual disarray nor cognitive impairment, yet whenever recent Japanese social affairs of the past twenty years arose, he would display visible confusion and descend into incoherence. He remained wholly ignorant of both the Manchurian and Shanghai Incidents, while his grasp of the Pacific War proved so tenuous it amounted to merely having heard rumors of its occurrence. When they surmised he must have long dwelled in some foreign hinterland—perhaps its remotest fringes—and pressed him accordingly, his reply revealed he had never left Japan at all.

Since then, the old man ceased to go out alone altogether. He would occasionally come to the bar for an aperitif, but always accompanied by the young man; whenever someone tried to speak to the old man, the youth would somehow interpose himself and take over all responses. It became clear that the reason the young man accompanied the old man was to prevent anyone from speaking to him.

Due to these ambiguous and somewhat nebulous circumstances continuing to accumulate thereafter, the old man became a kind of larger-than-life presence within the summer resort’s landscape. However, the companion’s identity was soon uncovered. He was Sobue Hikaru, eldest son of a renowned architect. Rumors had circulated—that he had long resided in London; that after figures like Kunitora Hiko, he became involved in theater; that he became a disciple of Hayakawa Sesshu; that he worked as an extra in films by Pathé-Natan in Paris. But as one person relayed, he had drifted back to Japan in the spring of the year the Pacific War began.

On a fog-heavy evening nearing August’s end, the two came to the hotel bar as usual; after drinking a glass of Balzac, the old man departed first while Sobue came out to smoke on the veranda. About five regulars remained at that hour—having lain in wait for precisely such an opportunity—when one addressed Sobue without preamble: “Mr. Sobue—what manner of man is this distinguished elder who always accompanies you?” “If it’s no trouble,” another interjected, “we’d greatly appreciate an introduction.”

Sobue sat in the dim rattan chair, gazing at the cigarette's tip that had begun glowing red, then soon raised his face and spoke these words.

“I imagine you’ve all been wondering what exactly that enigmatic elderly gentleman might be. To satisfy your curiosity, recounting his tale of resurrection would likely prove most expedient.” “Ah—so he was among those recently restored to civil rights?” “No—when I say ‘resurrection,’ I speak of emerging from beneath a grave.”

“When you say ‘grave’...” “It refers to the grave where people are buried.” They were assailed by an indescribably unpleasant feeling, and all shuddered in unison. Mist flowed like a river over the hotel lawn, and it was indeed a faintly chilly evening. “There was a novel called *The White-Haired Ghost* by Kuroiwa Ruikō, but your story seems to carry a hint of that same romanesque quality.” “I too read that revenge tale in my youth.” “That story has the contrivances and contradictions typical of fabricated tales, which provide a sort of salvation, but in that person’s past, unfortunately, there was not a single such element.”

“So, is that person happy now?” “One might indeed call it happiness, but like a faint lamp that only deepens the surrounding darkness, or the distant sound of axes echoing through mountain valleys to heighten their solitude—to me, his resurrection seems instead to intensify the sense of true tragedy.” “Because I am very poor at speaking, if you would grant me about three days’ grace, I will take notes and explain in detail while reading from them.”

He made this promise and departed.

Three days later, Sobue arrived carrying a notebook filled with meticulous notes.

Thereupon, they moved from the veranda to Viscount J’s villa, sank into the armchairs by the hearth, and listened to the tale to their hearts’ content.

What Sobue had recorded in his notebook was the following strange and eventful tale.

I began associating with Sakai Arataka in the summer of the sixth year of Taisho (1917), exactly twenty-nine years ago from this year. As you may still recall, since Sadanji’s Free Theatre initiative, it became fashionable among our circle to hold private performances of translated plays—with groups like Konoe Hidemaro, Mishima Akemichi, and Hijikata Yoshi’s 'Mebaeza' first taking the lead—but by the late Taisho era, stimulated by the French avant-garde movement, this trend regained fresh momentum.

Sakai stood as one of the movement’s standard-bearers—he had even juggled attending lectures by Mr. Tsubouchi while enrolled concurrently in Tokyo Imperial University’s law department and Waseda’s literature faculty—but when it was decided that summer of Taisho 6 to raise the first beacon of Japan’s avant-garde movement through a new staging of Hamlet, we utilized three months of summer vacation to begin intensive rehearsals at Sakai’s villa. The casting was roughly thus: Hamlet played by Komatsu Akinari; Claudius by Sakai; Ophelia by Nishitouin Kotoko—Komatsu’s former fiancée who later became Sakai’s wife; and myself as Hamlet’s confidant Horatio.

Komatsu was an uncommonly earnest man of rare dedication; once committed to playing Hamlet, he hauled out every Elizabethan-era text he could find from his deceased father’s library, then exhaustively researched the period’s customs and daily life across architecture, attire, crafts, accessories, tableware, cuisine, etiquette, hunting, and games—leaving no detail unexamined—and even scrutinized contemporary allegorical works like Mantzames’s *Pastoral Poems* and *The Lion and the Fox* in his approach. Komatsu’s father had long served as a diplomat in Britain, and the Ochiai residence stood as Japan’s sole example of pure Anglo-Romanesque architecture, its library so renowned it bore the nickname British Library; thus, this environment proved more than sufficient to satisfy such dilettantism.

Once the general state of the era in which *Hamlet* was written had entered his mind, he next embarked on research into Denmark—Hamlet’s homeland—borrowing reference materials from Nurudensheruto at the Danish Embassy and ceaselessly pursuing sixteenth-century laws, institutions, culture, national temperament, and daily life until that phase finally reached a stopping point; then at last applying full effort to script interpretation, he considered actions for even the simplest words like “So,” “Such,” and “That,” referencing annotated editions by Daiton and Kassel. Even during this period, he continued making extraordinary efforts to fully embody Hamlet—collecting stage photographs of renowned actors from William Irving and David Garrick to Forbes Robertson, John Barrymore, and Sessue—while devising costumes and makeup.

As I mentioned earlier, Komatsu of Ochiai’s residence was an Elizabethan-style structure with multiple gables—its porch lined with white columns, its balconies fitted with antique metalwork bearing embossed lion crests, its diamond-patterned casement windows set with stained glass. The second-floor ballroom, however, featured a somber oak coffered ceiling and towering wainscoting of black oak, modeled after sixteenth-century rural samurai and guardian warrior banquet halls. Abandoning backdrops and painted flats entirely, they aimed to lay bare this architectural style in its raw form—staging a curtainless production akin to Shakespeare’s command performance for Queen Elizabeth in Middle Temple Hall circa 1600—to achieve classical stage effects unattainable in conventional theaters.

When the day of the private performance finally arrived, this innovative staging gained such renown that even renowned theater critics and first-rate newspaper journalists crowded in; it proceeded with resounding success beyond expectations, encountered no major disruptions—until, just as they reached the final scene of *The Great Hall of Elsinore*, an unforeseen incident occurred. As you know, the climactic fifth act’s second scene reached the tragedy’s zenith with “Laertes, Ophelia’s brother, dueling Hamlet and culminating in the extinction of Denmark’s royal house.” The set design for this scene was elaborate—exposing the oak wainscoting across the stage front while concealing the contrastingly large windows at both ends with old-rose velvet curtains bearing the Danish royal family’s gold-embossed crests languidly draped; downstage by the curtains stood a throne where the king, queen, and courtiers observed the duel.

King Claudius, intending to kill Hamlet under the pretext of this duel, had secretly given Laertes a poisoned sword, though Hamlet remained unaware of this scheme. In both the first and second exchanges, Laertes sustained only superficial grazes, but when the third bout commenced, the contest grew truly ferocious, compelling Hamlet to retreat steadily upstage. Laertes pressed his assault with relentless long thrusts. Hamlet was meant to parry using his blade’s tip while brushing his back against the curtain, circling from upstage to front as choreographed.

As I was playing Horatio, standing deep downstage left among the courtiers, Hamlet—while parrying Laertes’ long thrusts near the upstage hanging curtain—suddenly made a peculiar motion as if thrusting his head forward, staggered against the curtain, and then vanished from the stage as though swallowed whole by the drapery.

We were momentarily startled, but assuming Komatsu had spontaneously added another theatrical flourish, we continued watching with knowing smiles—yet Hamlet never reappeared. We could have laughed at our own situation, but Laertes—whose duel opponent had vanished—was in a state of utter panic. He thrashed about alone, shouting nonsensical lines toward the curtain—"Come out now!" or "Hiding is cowardly!"—while delivering them. Finally unable to endure any longer—"Hey! Hey!"—he plunged behind the curtain himself, but immediately rushed back out onto the stage with a deathly pale face and—

“It’s terrible! Komatsu is dead!” he cried, trembling as he pointed toward the curtain. No longer a matter of theater, the king, queen, and courtiers all rushed upstage together; when they entered behind the curtain, they found Komatsu lying face-down some forty feet below near the entrance, the vivid blood around his head clinging thickly to the paving stones like some pulverized sea squirt. Anglo-Romanesque architecture features vertically elongated styles with substantial floor heights for each story—so much so that even what was called the second floor stood at an excessive elevation. To prevent accidental falls during performances, they had strictly enforced a rule against opening the stage windows. However, given it was an exceptionally sweltering day, it appears someone inadvertently forgot and unlatched one. Komatsu, unaware of this, became so absorbed in the duel that he unintentionally leaned against the curtain, causing him to tumble out the window. Unfortunately, beneath the window lay a granite portico, and he struck his head on its paving stones, splitting his skull.

They immediately rushed him to a nearby hospital, but his condition remained critical—for four days he hovered between life and death, at one point being definitively declared beyond hope. Still, he somehow gradually regained strength and narrowly clung to life, but septic encephalitis ultimately induced mental derangement, resulting in his hospitalization at a neurological hospital in the suburbs. After that, all trace of him vanished—whether alive or dead, no word ever came.

Because they acted swiftly, the incident was kept from becoming public, but having had their momentum sapped by this affair, the New Theater Research Group disbanded. Some time later, when this story came up in a certain gathering, a friend who had been among the spectators that day— “Back then, when Sakai’s King Claudius descended from the throne and went behind the downstage curtain—what exactly was he going to do there?” he abruptly remarked.

“Sakai... When was that?” “A little before Komatsu’s Hamlet staggered against the curtain.” “And when did he return?” “It lasted barely five minutes—he’d already come back before Laertes went behind the curtain. You really didn’t know?” “I didn’t.” Sakai’s throne as King Claudius—positioned near the audience to amplify his soliloquies—stood at the front stage’s edge. Diagonally to its right lay the Queen’s seat, while we courtiers formed three rows stretching toward the back to watch the duel. Having never glanced toward the king ourselves, none among us had noticed Sakai slipping behind the curtain.

One might consider that Sakai had gone behind the curtain to drink water or such, but recalling how Komatsu had jerked his head forward as if in shock just before staggering into the curtain, I couldn’t help but feel something peculiar. However, as I have just explained, since the wainscoting on the back wall of the stage remained fully exposed, one could not reach upstage without blatantly crossing the open space—thus, we could not conceive how Sakai entering behind the downstage curtain might relate to Komatsu’s fall at upstage. Yet during that period, Sakai perpetually wore a faint smirk and carried an indescribably sinister quality about him; whenever I spoke with him, I would often shudder involuntarily without any discernible cause. Sakai and I were friends only in the most superficial sense, our relationship having been forged through being drafted into this play production. As there was no reason to endure such discomfort, I gradually distanced myself and soon severed our association entirely.

During my university years under the influence of scholars like Ameo Shiro and Kozakai, I came to study differential psychology and personality psychology. Through this research, I developed an interest in Roback’s characterology and resolved to pursue formal study in England. It was the spring of 1925 when I was twenty-six years old. For about seven years thereafter, I worked diligently under Allport’s guidance—until seeing Torahiko Kōri’s production of Gemier’s *The Tale of Shuzenji* reignited my theatrical obsession. I passed my days researching stage design and performing in avant-garde private productions until the spring of 1934, when Sakai arrived in London with his wife Kotoko and their thirteen-year-old daughter Ayuko.

I had met Sakai for the first time in ten years—he had grown prosperously plump, his expression now composed and pleasant—but when I observed him through my characterological lens, I recognized that the crown of Sakai’s skull exhibited the classic Atteken-type according to Ascheffenburg’s taxonomy. Those bearing this cranial form are a priori criminals—beings marked by an inborn and sinister fate that permits no life-path save transgression. Struck by this insight, I discreetly scrutinized him further and discerned that Sakai’s characterological pattern aligned with Freyenfelth’s Type C—the intellectual cruelty classification.

I avoided becoming overly technical, but the development of individuality essentially expressed the entire consistent journey of one’s ancestors, with their influence remaining strongly imprinted upon the bloodline. In other words, humans were like synopses of a long familial history—so intensely so that I felt a ferocious impulse to investigate what manner of great villains had existed among Sakai’s ancestors. Sixteen years prior, whenever I spoke with Sakai, I had always felt a vague disgust and fear—ah, so this was why; for the first time, I understood the reason.

However, to my astonishment, Sakai’s wife proved equally manifest as a criminal type. Kotoko’s ears were textbook examples of Morel-type auricles—their helices bent at the upper curve—and possessors of such ears are classified as emotional criminal types: individuals who aestheticize wrongdoing through sentimentality and grow intoxicated by it. To put it plainly, they formed an impeccably matched pair of villainous spouses. Having already found both Sakai and his wife thoroughly repugnant from the outset, my inclination to engage with them dwindled entirely. Yet once I grasped their true natures, Ayuko’s wretched fate began unfolding vividly before me—I felt such unbearable pity that I took her walking in Kensington Gardens and Green Park, or brought her to see films at the Strand. The following spring, Sakai’s family embarked on a planned two-month trip to Paris, only to abruptly cut it short and return posthaste to Japan via America.

After that, there was nothing particularly worth mentioning about my life. I liquidated my father’s remaining assets—even selling our Tokyo estate—and had the funds remitted abroad, drifting aimlessly between Europe and America in a pointless existence until fleeing back to Japan penniless shortly before the London bombings began. But finding myself not only homeless but without money for tomorrow’s meal, I begged a friend to secure me a nursing aide position at a certain brain hospital in Aoyama, through which I finally managed to catch my breath.

As Japan’s situation worsened, my living conditions declined day by day, and I led a hopeless, wretched existence—but on an evening in December 1944, when the Tokyo bombings had just begun, as I rode a train bound for Aoyama, from above my head—

“It’s been an age! When did you return to Japan?” a voice called out. When I looked up, there stood a young woman in her early twenties wearing a chic virgin wool ski suit—a variant of the green “Pine Tree Suit” crafted from Hudson Bay blanket material, which Macy’s department store in New York had marketed during the 1939 winter “Snow Fashion” season. In the midst of war, to flaunt a U.S.-made ski suit as ersatz air-raid attire—assuming no one would notice—marked her as brazen beyond measure, I thought, half in disbelief as I scrutinized her face. Yet her identity eluded me entirely. As my irritation mounted and I lapsed into sullen silence, she drew back the corners of her lips into an uncanny half-smile—

“You’ve forgotten. “I’m that strange girl who was always clinging to you in London.” “It’s Sakai Ayuko, you know.” Now that she mentioned it, there could be no doubt. The bloated, pitifully plain girl she had once been was gone—through some inexplicable metamorphosis, her face now mirrored Kotoko’s youthful beauty with knife-edged precision. Her lively, cunning eyes crafted an audacious expression rare among Japanese women, yet this vitality was ruined by thick eye shadow, leaving her with that peculiar beauty unique to high-ranking courtesans strolling the Boulevards—a beauty tinged with something corrupt. She was manifesting Zeesemann’s Schalk primary type—that intractable category known as the fluid courtesan archetype. As I found myself somewhat moved by how Sakai and Kotoko’s criminal elements had merged to manifest in Ayuko in this manner, she—apparently discerning my circumstances from my disheveled state—suddenly adopted a haughty tone,

“You must be in quite a predicament now, aren’t you?” “If that’s the case, we could help you.” “Since you once looked after us in the past, there’s no need for reserve.” “Why don’t you come home with me now?” “Father and Mother are both there,” she declared bluntly. I thought her utterly impertinent, but given my desperate circumstances, I resolved to follow Ayuko in hopes that our past connection might yield some assistance.

Sakai’s residence stood at the foot of the slope in Akasaka Omotecho, its dim porch light faintly illuminating the porte-cochère while not a single light leaked from elsewhere—presenting a severely shuttered, gloomy aspect. Soon Sakai and his wife emerged. Though in London eleven years prior they had been plump enough to appear prosperous, now they had grown gaunt and angular; their fluid brightness and vivacity along with that seemingly abundant generosity had completely vanished, reverting to the gloomy sardonicism of their student days.

As for his wife Kotoko, her obesity—repulsive in its contrast to Sakai’s emaciation—manifested in an unpleasant manner, and though sluggish, she carried herself with a ceaselessly agitated instability. Sakai seemed to feel no interest in someone like me and responded with cold indifference, but before long, “You claim to have specialized in psychopathology—if I may ask, how proficient are you exactly?” he inquired. Harboring an ulterior motive to extract some financial assistance from Sakai, I explained the specialized methods of characterological research using layman-friendly examples—Allport’s fifteen-item personality research method: analysis through social frameworks, physiognomical studies, frequency records of daily behaviors like how often one laughs per day, social measurements, Celeno’s so-called psychological topography analyzing friend and acquaintance groups, pattern and handwriting studies, behavioral tests, special reaction predictions, depth analysis of unconscious acts, free association and fantasy analysis—and mentioned how I wished to compile this research, though my poor living conditions made it impossible to proceed as desired. Sakai seemed intensely interested in this discourse, questioning me extensively about behavioral testing and depth analysis methods before remarking, “Rather fascinating discipline, isn’t it? If that’s how things stand, why don’t you quit that trivial job and come to the house instead? I shall provide you with two rooms on the eastern side of the mansion for your study and residence, so do not trouble yourself about livelihood matters—settle down calmly and proceed to complete your writings. I shall provide all possible support. Since Ayuko studied psychology at university, she could probably manage being your assistant,” he proposed.

Then Kotoko became remarkably cheerful, like a dissociative disorder patient who had triggered a temperamental shift, “The essence of academic pursuit is inherently aristocratic, wouldn’t you agree?” “I cannot condone squandering hard-won talent through struggles with base livelihood.” “Now, do comply.” “I recommend this with utmost sincerity,” she pressed earnestly. Ayuko, for her part, rested her hand upon my shoulder with an intimacy so brazen it verged on impropriety,

“Your face looks exactly like Soutine’s ‘The Dead Christ’.” “It’s horrifyingly macabre!” “Father said ‘assistant,’ but what you need now isn’t an assistant—it’s a nurse.” “I’ll stay by your side all day and nurse you, you know.” “Why, I’ll wash your feet every day with ‘Duchess of York’ like Mary Magdalene herself.” “I’ll serve you like a lady-in-waiting,” she said.

I am not particularly likable myself, nor do I believe that Sakai or his wife possess the refined sensibilities that would lead them to hope for a *porte-étude* of scholarship. Why the Sakai family had suddenly begun showing such kindness after a single explanation—considering Sakai’s ordinarily extreme selfishness—I couldn’t help but sense something fishy about it. Yet for my part, filled only with the desire to escape my immediate wretched poverty, I gave it little deep thought and rather gladly entrusted myself to Sakai’s protection.

And so, from the very next day, I settled into a Pellich-style luxurious room and began going through the motions of writing while receiving what felt like rather excessive attentions from Ayuko; yet upon observation, I came to realize that Ayuko was a fanatic type who, once fixated on an idea, proved utterly incapable of altering her convictions—a peculiar girl endowed with mediumistic qualities, prone to visions and auditory hallucinations, who could commune freely with deities when she focused her consciousness. Therefore, her daily actions were filled with eccentricities that defied common sense—particularly her deep superstitions, which reached extraordinary extremes: never letting her lips touch the outer surface of a spoon, always beginning to ascend stairs with her left foot. For Ayuko, each of these had its own significant rationale, but living within such dubious frameworks meant her methods of expressing affection became utterly inhuman—devoid of any shred of shame or hesitation, she would uninhibitedly pour forth extreme displays of affection whether in public or private.

Being such a high-strung girl, she had easily discerned my lack of enthusiasm for academic writing—yet Ayuko appeared to prefer this arrangement, for from that day onward, she began contriving daily pretexts to lure me out on excursions. I couldn’t fathom what negligent notions Sakai held regarding his child’s upbringing, but Ayuko’s handbag perpetually contained not only staggering sums of cash—she also possessed intimate knowledge of illicit restaurants, covert bars, dancehalls, and baccarat clubs, dragging me from one venue to another as though it were her vocation.

On the day in late February when incendiary bombs fell on Kanda, the two of us attended a wild party at a certain house in Zushi and danced frantically until we became stranded, deciding to stay overnight at that house—but as I was changing into my pajamas, Ayuko entered with the face of a child not yet fully roused from sleep, “Marius’s spirit has come,” she said in a dazed voice. I had forgotten to mention—this Marius’s spirit was said to periodically appear to prophesy Ayuko’s fate and offer various kindly advice. Whenever visited by it, Ayuko would transform into a girl softened with tender emotion unlike her usual self. That night too followed this pattern: dragging the hem of an oversized white nightgown borrowed from the house’s madame—so long it hid even her feet—she stood with a misty gaze, her appearance uncannily resembling the mad Ophelia one might see upon a stage. Thinking *Here we go again*, I asked, “So what did Marius’s spirit say?” Ayuko sat down beside me on the bed and replied, “He said your essence and mine parted ways somewhere on February 10, 1601, and haven’t met for three centuries since.” “He said if the two of us don’t marry by midnight tonight, we’ll have to spend another three centuries searching for each other.” “I don’t want that.” “Just marry me quickly, whatever it takes.” “There’s only ten minutes left until midnight!” “Don’t dawdle!” she cried, wrapping her slender arms around my neck and pushing me down onto the bed.

In this way, their relationship acquired an unhealthy complexity, taking on the semblance of betraying Sakai’s friendship—yet both Sakai and his wife seemed not only to have tolerated their relationship from the very beginning but even to have encouraged it.

About a month after the two of us had entered into that kind of relationship—on a certain day in early April—Sakai summoned me to his study and abruptly said:

“Sobue, do you know that Komatsu is still alive?”

“Which Komatsu do you mean?” “Komatsu Akinari—the one who played Hamlet some thirty years ago.” This was entirely new information to me, and I found myself startled. “Oh? I hadn’t heard. How is he now?” I inquired. Sakai adopted an artfully blank expression. “You’re aware he lost his mind, but it was an unusual sort of madness. While he regained consciousness, all memories of being Komatsu Akinari vanished—only Hamlet’s remained intact. What you’d call a combined case of retrograde amnesia and dissociative disorder, I suppose—being the expert, you’d know better than I. Since then, he’s lived these thirty years at the Ochiai residence, wholly embodying Hamlet.” He paused meaningfully. “Which brings me to a request.”

Sakai’s request was that, given these times, it would be better for both parties if we could release him if possible, but he wanted me to go investigate whether there was any danger of him absconding.

Komatsu Akinari was a distinguished young man with handsome features and a keen intellect—an object of admiration among our entire generation. Particularly in my case, I had even harbored a secret, almost feminine affection for him; when I heard that Komatsu had endured such a bleak existence for nearly thirty years, I felt such inexpressible pity that I resolved to liberate him if at all possible.

“That’s a pitiful story.” “I’ll examine him,” I said. Sakai brightened visibly: “If you handle this, I’ll rest easy.” “Being manhandled by those incomprehensible psychiatrists would be intolerable.” “The trouble is he’s pathologically obstinate—won’t tolerate doctors near him. You’ll need to pose as a male nurse and infiltrate discreetly. Will you comply?”

“That’s no trouble at all.”

“Thank you for that. “I’ll have the steward Kitayama recognize you as a newly hired male nurse, so please keep that in mind as well.”

Early the next morning, I left home, took the bus to Ochiai, and entered the street in front of St. Mary’s Hospital; there at the end of the road, Komatsu’s residence came into view. When I counted, it had been exactly twenty-eight years since that time; while the front of the house had become slightly soiled and an air-raid shelter had been dug beside the carriage porch, everything else remained exactly as it had been in the past. When I pressed the doorbell—apparently having been communicated by Sakai via telephone—the steward Kitayama came to the entrance. Twenty-eight years ago, he had been mobilized for a private performance and played Polonius—no trace of that remained now. His once-imposing mustache and long goatee had turned pure white, giving him a countenance that could still play Polonius as he stood.

Kitayama showed me into the parlor and, with a look of thoroughness, inquired about my background and such before— “You must have already heard the details from Sakai.” “You’ll have to perform these clumsy provincial plays every day, so I imagine that aspect will strike you as utterly absurd—but if you can endure just that, life here isn’t so terrible.” “Your duties will involve taking temperatures twice daily, collecting urine samples every other day, and recording mental states in the patient log… That’s the extent of your work here. However, your predecessor grew excessively sentimental—he developed delusions that our patient was being wrongfully confined, spread trivial rumors through the neighborhood association, submitted petitions to the police, single-handedly stirred up a commotion reminiscent of the Meiji-era Soma Incident… and ultimately developed I.I. (infectious insanity) before being admitted to a mental hospital.” As he was saying these things—“The patients here possess an uncanny affinity, so I must ask you to take great care not to become ensnared by their peculiar allure”—a twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old woman entered, plump and pallid like blanched asparagus straight from the can, her entire bearing thoroughly nurse-like in affectation, and took a seat. From between her wantonly spread knees spilled garish colors; slouching in disheveled fashion, she propped her cheek on the table,

“You’re the new arrival, aren’t you?” “I play a maid’s role here, you know.” “Though depending on the scene,” she continued with a lascivious sidelong glance that chilled the spine, “I might become Queen Gertrude or Ophelia—it all depends on the moment.” “Do you grasp this?” “Depending on your fancy at the time, I can be maiden or matron—do treat me kindly... I’m Aiko Komemura... though you must call me Imamura.” “Because ‘Komemura’ lays things bare rather too plainly, don’t you think…” Doubled over as though stifling uproarious mirth, she giggled softly—then abruptly froze blank-faced,

“I hear you studied psychopathology, but how do you assess Hamlet’s character? The common notion of him being a righteous, sensitive youth is pure nonsense. Take Act 3 Scene 4—when he berates his mother, he blurts out things like ‘For what purpose might your noble spirit be here?’ Then he insists vehemently, ‘As proof I’m not mad, let me repeat every word I just said without error!’ But this desperate insistence on sanity—this lack of insight into their condition while arguing they’re not mad—is a symptom commonly observed in the mentally ill. Having precise memory and flawlessly repeating phrases also frequently occurs in certain types of mental illness… What a peculiar man Shakespeare was. To make a madman your protagonist and have a crowd of sane people milling about around him—isn’t that a rather absurd concept? Ultimately, Hamlet’s tragedy is something you could call a ‘tragedy of madness,’ where those around him fall victim one after another to the madman’s delusions. What possible artistic value could such a thing even have? Tolstoy trashes it as worthless—and I quite agree. That sort of ‘madman’s play’ isn’t worth taking seriously enough to watch properly,” she continued chattering incessantly in her manic manner.

Kitayama was stroking his beard with his palm while gazing at the garden through the window, but when Komemura finished her part, he opened the sturdy oak door at the end of a long corridor—saying they would now introduce me to the patient—entered inside, instructed me to wait there for a while, then disappeared behind a heavy dark crimson velvet curtain that reached all the way to the floor, taking Komemura with him. I had been sitting in a chair waiting for nearly thirty minutes, but as they still showed no sign of emerging, I wondered what could be happening and quietly drew back the curtain to look; beyond lay a spacious room with a beautiful mosaic floor, where diamond-patterned stained glass windows were arranged in a pleasing formation, a row of columns to the left separating the side aisle supported a high vaulted ceiling, and spring sunlight streaming through the stained glass rose window painted a chromatic design across the floor. At the far end of the front stood a throne adorned with Tudor-style vertical patterns, flanked by a single high-backed chair carved with a lion’s head.

When I glanced over, along the long side corridor bordering the garden walked a girl with blonde braided hair gently cascading over her chest—wearing a Renaissance corset with a whalebone-stiffened skirt and holding a large Spanish fan—shoulder-to-shoulder with a white-haired old man cloaked in a white robe and brocade overcoat, their slow, deliberate steps trailing an elegant fragrance that set hearts aflutter. At this moment, I found myself at a loss for how to put my bewilderment into words. I might be confined within this Elizabethan era forever, never to return to the modern world again. I was seized by an indescribable unease and shuddered involuntarily.

I quickly regained my senses—the old man dressed as Polonius was Kitayama, and the girl wearing a blonde wig was none other than Komemura—but even I could never have imagined that an entire Elizabethan-era lifestyle would be so extravagantly maintained in this corner of Tokyo, especially in the midst of such a war. The two soon drew back the curtain and returned to the waiting room. From a large costume closet placed against the wall, they took out an assortment of items—tights, an embroidered doublet, a red wig, a hat adorned with pheasant feathers, a slender sword, silver-clasped shoes with peculiar curled toes… After dressing me in this full ensemble, they led me before the throne at the far end of the hall. When I had glanced earlier, it had been hidden behind a pillar and remained unseen, but now I noticed a life-sized statue of the Holy Mother standing slightly bowed upon an arabesque-carved pedestal to the right of the throne... No—it was not Mary’s image. Upon closer inspection, it proved to be a statue of Ophelia wearing floral garlands instead of a halo—her cheeks painted with white lead to give them a rosy hue, arms cradling violets, milk vetches, clovers and other modest wildflowers as she stood slightly tilting her head forward as if about to speak. Yet this was not the face of Rubens’ Ophelia, but rather Kotoko’s visage—an oval face with gentle eyes and brows shaped like melon seeds.

Polonius left me before the throne, went to the clover-shaped door on the left, put his hand to his mouth, and gave a light cough—whereupon from beyond the door,

“Who art thou that dost so oft come to trouble me? “Ah, the weariness of life.” “’Tis eternal sleep I do desire,” came a faint voice. Before long came somber footsteps, and a man of about sixty—wearing a black silk doublet fastened with a silver sash and adorned with a triple-layered ruff—entered the audience chamber with downcast eyes, quietly ascended the platform, and took his seat on the throne. What a magnificent face he had! Eyes quiet as if resigned to fate; a pale, broad forehead bespeaking high intellect; lips drawn together gently to express forbearance. The way he sat with his hand pressed to his brow and head bowed was so quintessentially Hamlet-like that one might think even an actor of Irving’s or Barrymore’s caliber could never have achieved such a magnificent physical incarnation. Yet, though he was only fifty-four years old, tufts of unnaturally white hair peeked out from beneath his wig, his eyes already bore the arcus senilis of old age—eloquently testifying to what a grueling ordeal these twenty-eight years had been for Komatsu.

Polonius stepped forward courteously, When Kitayama delivered the line “Your Highness, Rosenkrantz has arrived” in a theatrical tone, Hamlet abruptly raised his eyes and stared intently at my face before proceeding according to the script of Act II, Scene 2— “Ah, well now—how nostalgic. How now, Rosenkrantz—dost thou find the view pleasant?” he inquired. I too, When I matched his tone with “Merely ordinary, Your Highness,” Hamlet fixed his gaze and continued: “Now then—as friends I’ll ask plainly: What brings thee to Elsinore? Have you come at Their Majesties’ behest? Or thine own inclination? Is this visit entirely of thine own volition? Speak truthfully!” he said in a voice that seeped forth.

This was undoubtedly following Act II, Scene 2’s script, but having seemingly seen through my arrival at Sakai’s behest, I found myself momentarily at a loss for a reply—Komatsu immediately pressed on: “Now then, Rosenkrantz—if thou dost value our friendship’s trust and childhood bonds, speak plainly without concealment. “Hast thou been summoned? Declare it!” It might be my overthinking, but Komatsu seemed to recognize me and was beginning to suspect why I had come to such a place. In a play, one would here consult their companion on how to proceed—but having no such partner, I truthfully answered: “I have received a summons.”

Starting the next day, my life of attending as a courtier—or rather, as Rosenkrantz—began. At 8:00 AM, I went to Hamlet’s bedroom carrying an earthenware water jug and a footed cup. This was water for washing his face and rinsing his mouth, but at that time, I threw ambergris into the incense burner in the corner of the room. When a maid brought breakfast there, I received it, prepared the dining table, and had to stand by until Hamlet finished his meal, pretending to chase away flies with a fly swatter.

Hamlet eats his simple breakfast—steamed bread served on a wooden plate with vegetables—using his hands, rinses his soiled fingertips in a wooden bowl’s water, drinks down that water, then meticulously wipes his lips with a napkin, concluding the morning meal. When the meal ends, Komatsu goes to the audience chamber, kneels beneath Ophelia’s statue, and prays at length. After that, he enters the living room to read or sometimes goes out for a walk in the garden. Though it is merely a repetition of these routines, Komatsu’s mental constitution proves most lucid on rainy days, next clearest on overcast days, while on clear days he becomes markedly playful, remaining unsettled from morning till night and exhibiting symptoms of impaired deliberation.

Through various observations, there was no evidence of excessive indulgence in fantasy, abnormal recklessness, impulsive actions, or drastic emotional shifts; nor were there signs of being assailed by obsessive thoughts or hallucinations. Though he occasionally complained of mild migraines and exhibited delayed speech initiation, no language impairment was observed.

Gradually, I came to realize that Komatsu was mimicking a disparate array of psychiatric symptoms without coherence. While psychiatric symptoms generally form distinct clusters through organic interconnections, observing Komatsu's condition revealed agitation without the euphoria characteristic of manic-depressive psychosis, an absence of flight of ideas or catatonic mannerisms and bizarre behaviors, and a deliberate feigning of incoherence that ultimately exposed this as no genuine illness. At times he would mimic delusional disorder, yet his consciousness remained remarkably clear, and moreover, he proved unable to replicate all of its symptoms. He would also mimic behaviors resembling immediate response syndrome, but his answers lacked the unconventional nature typical of catatonics, with no emotional or volitional impairments observable whatsoever.

Considering these points, it seemed Komatsu might have closely observed and skillfully imitated the mad behavior of a nurse who had gone insane and been hospitalized—because even if he wanted to acquire superficial knowledge of psychiatry, Komatsu had absolutely no means or opportunity to obtain such books. However, modern psychiatry cast doubt on the existence of S.M. (simulated madness), holding as established theory that those who mimic insanity are already pathological personalities. Thus, what I believed to be imitation might unexpectedly be genuine, making definitive judgment exceedingly difficult. Then, about a week later, as I attended to Hamlet’s reading side as usual, chasing flies, Hamlet made a peculiar gesture while perusing Mantuanus’s *Eclogues*.

This was one of Komatsu’s favorite books, and on this day too he seemed to have come across a particularly resonant passage—reciting in a low voice while flipping through the pages incessantly—when I happened to notice his right index and middle fingers moving rhythmically near his stomach. At first, I too had been gazing idly, but then suddenly a certain association was evoked. Among my acquaintances was one who would habitually fidget rhythmically with the watch chain on his vest whenever engrossed in reading—and were I to list others who performed such involuntary actions, I could easily name several more. What stimulated me was this very memory. Hamlet’s doublet had a thin rib-like fastening cord at the chest—Hamlet was rhythmically fidgeting with it—and this cord might be serving as a conceptual substitute for a watch chain in his mind. Hamlet fidgeting with a watch chain... For someone like Hamlet—a dissociative amnesiac who had lost all modern memory—this should have been utterly impossible. I felt intense interest in this point—whether it constituted a symptomatic act, an involuntary movement, mere spasmodic motion; whether habitual or isolated... This alone could yield no definitive conclusion, but the subsequent circumstances would soon provide clear direction to this inquiry.

About two days later, I was playing shogi with Hamlet by the window at dusk. As the world outside gradually turned a pale blue with the approaching evening and the shogi board grew indistinct before us, I was about to pull the bell cord to summon a candlestick when Hamlet—still intently staring at the board—reached his right hand diagonally toward the side table, repeatedly making a motion as if groping for something. What drew my attention was how his fingertips appeared to be searching for the switch of a desk lamp. On that side table sat a bronze shrine covered with a round shade—a shape strikingly similar to the bronze electric lamp upon our desk.

Within the delusional framework of fixed paranoia, the Elizabethan era and modern times could not coexist. Therefore, if this motion—searching for a lamp switch—were indeed Hamlet’s *Vergreifen* (bungled action), one could only conclude that while Hamlet had fully recovered, some necessity compelled him to continue feigning madness.

After much consideration, I conducted a simple yet highly effective little experiment. It was an experiment where I would abruptly ask Komatsu his age during his states of absentmindedness. In response to this, I had anticipated two possible replies. That is, twenty-six and fifty-four... Twenty-six was his age at the time of that unfortunate incident, while fifty-four was Hamlet’s current age. If Komatsu answered twenty-six, one could consider him either extremely cautious or still in a state of interrupted memory; conversely, if he carelessly answered fifty-four, it would indicate he was a malingerer.

I had pinned my interest and expectations on Hamlet’s reply, but to my surprise, he completely defied my expectations and answered “forty-four.” This led me to consider that Hamlet’s mental illness might have naturally healed more than ten years prior, and when I reported this implication in a letter to Sakai, the very next day brought a call from him demanding my immediate presence.

When I went out and arrived, Sakai was waiting in his study with an irritated appearance, and before I could even sit down in the chair—

“I read your report. The suspicion that Komatsu’s madness might have healed—I’ve harbored that from the start. The first to notice was Kitayama—he immediately sent a telegram to Paris.” “What happened?”

“It was a telegram stating Komatsu had turned completely white-haired overnight.” “So that’s why you rushed back to Japan then?” “That’s right. But if he’d truly regained his sanity, he should’ve naturally filed a lawsuit to claim his rightful inheritance—there’d be no reason to keep feigning madness and playing dumb. Things remained unchanged like that for years, but last winter—just before you came to the house—Ayuko suddenly received a divine vision. That Komatsu had indeed recovered and was lying in wait for an opportunity to exact revenge on us. As you know, Ayuko’s spiritual insights are precise. So I went to investigate, but couldn’t make sense of it. Then you conveniently appeared out of nowhere—that’s why I requested your examination.” “In any case, Komatsu’s recovery is an established fact,” he rattled off.

Out of academic interest, I had reported to Sakai without giving it much thought, but as I observed his cruel countenance, I was suddenly struck by the fear that an ill-considered action might alter Komatsu’s fate for the worse,

“Wait,” I said. “You can’t decide this so lightly. That’s not a proper report by any measure—it’s barely even an essay.” Sakai turned away in contemplation, then suddenly wheeled around to fix me with a piercing glare. “Are you hiding something from me? If you maintain this attitude, our relationship will become intolerably strained.”

“What do you mean by that?” “What do I mean? Don’t play dumb. You’re the characterology expert—you ought to know precisely what sort of man I am. No need for pretense.” “The fact you’d say that—it was you who struck down Komatsu that night, wasn’t it? Just before he collapsed into the curtain, his head jerked forward—you must’ve hit him through the drapery with a rod or something. But how did you move from stage left to right?”

“Simple.” “Outside the window runs a corrugated passageway just wide enough for one person.” “While everyone was engrossed in the duel, I slipped out through the window behind the stage-left curtain, entered through the stage-right window, and waited for Hamlet to lean against the curtain.” “So you planned it from the beginning—intending to take Komatsu’s assets.” “That’s right—I studied it extensively.” “That such a fool possesses five million yen in assets and a beautiful fiancée, while a superior man like myself hasn’t a single thousand yen to my name—it’s unreasonable no matter how you consider it.” “Moreover, he’s a man content with just reading books, but I need all the money I can get because I enjoy play and luxury.”

“So Kotoko-san was in on it too.” “Of course she was. The queen’s chair sits right beside the throne—Kotoko had to be complicit for that feat to work. Komatsu likely never realized, but we’d been conspiring since a year before that incident.” “So what on earth are you telling me to do?” “Straight to the point—good. To put it plainly—if his madness has truly healed, I want you to cleanly dispose of Komatsu. Should that man demand his assets back, we’d be penniless by morning. That would be utterly intolerable, you see. For twenty-eight years I’ve kept Kitayama on watch to block those meddlesome lawyers and patent agents—but there’s no guarantee he hasn’t found some way to communicate outside.” “How about it, Sobue-kun? Won’t you cooperate? The terms are generous—I’ll quietly give you a fifth of the estate. Naturally, Ayuko comes with the deal too. Shall we shake on this?”

I was overcome with an unforgivable feeling, "You’ve grown indolent in your old age. You’re the one who demonstrated such efficiency before two hundred spectators. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just do it yourself rather than depend on someone like me?" When I said this, Sakai sneered,

“I struck Komatsu’s head, but I don’t recall pushing him off.” “Komatsu fell down by himself.” “I must insist there be no misunderstanding on that point.” “I’ve resolved never to commit murder—I believe in conscience’s power.” “Thievery may be an unprofitable business, but killing people is the most pointless act imaginable.” “Any occupation immediately loses its savor once stained by murder’s bitter taste.” “I took Komatsu’s wealth for pleasure—I won’t foolishly halve my own enjoyment through such means.”

I had long known Sakai maintained balanced judgment and never grew agitated under any circumstances, but until that day I had never once conceived him to be so consummate a villain.

“The logic being that if you always have others commit murder, your conscience will remain untroubled for life—but isn’t that rather presumptuous of you?” “That arrangement might suit you just fine, but I won’t find peace.” “After all, even I must have some shred of conscience,” I said, as Sakai slowly tapped the ash from his cigar, “Sobue-kun, calm yourself and consider carefully… There truly exists a type of person for whom death would be happier than living.” “It’s possible he himself no longer wishes to live.” “He simply lacks the courage to commit suicide.” “Don’t you want to help him?” “However, if you refuse, Kitayama will do it.” “There are plenty of others who want to do it.” “In some cases, even Kotoko could manage to slip someone a dose,” he said, suddenly seizing my hand. “Sobue-kun, Ayuko is pitiful." “She’s truly in love.” “I’d prefer you take her if possible…… But no matter how pitiable Ayuko may be, I have no intention of sending my only daughter to someone who might become an enemy.” “When I tell you to kill Hamlet, it’s not because you’re the only one who can do it.” “I’m telling you to share my weakness.” “So you don’t make any reckless moves that might threaten your father-in-law, I’m telling you to get your hands dirty as well…… You don’t need to answer right away.” “Well then—I’ll let you think it over slowly until tomorrow.”

After saying everything he wanted to say, he lumbered out of the study.

About three days later, while organizing the bookshelves in Hamlet’s parlor, I discovered peculiar numbers meticulously carved into the wall behind them. Numbers alone explained nothing, but when I examined the symbols preceding them, their meaning became effortlessly clear. As you are likely aware, this earthworm-shaped symbol represents “cerebrum” in ancient Egyptian physiology.

That Hamlet’s mental disorder had naturally healed ten years prior was now beyond any doubt. In other words, Hamlet had regained his sanity in February 1935 and carved that date as a commemoration. The reason the day count showed zero was likely because he himself could not clearly discern the boundary between days—when exactly his sanity had returned. However, considering various circumstances, there appeared to be evidence that Hamlet’s awakening of consciousness… his return to sanity had occurred sometime between midnight and morning.

Hamlet’s return to sanity had progressed with extreme gradualness—like the moon emerging from thick clouds—taking considerable time to reach normal self-awareness. Yet when his consciousness finally crossed the threshold of normality, he must have noticed his own ridiculous figure clad in tights with a sword at his side, left utterly bewildered, unable to grasp its meaning. Now that period had passed; after making tremendous efforts to resolve these doubts and recalling the memory of dueling Laertes in that private theatrical performance, he likely reached this conclusion: that he himself had remained mentally unstable for a considerable number of years since that day; that someone had struck his head forcefully from behind the curtain, which became the catalyst for his madness; that he still remained in grave danger; and that until he fully discerned the truth of the incident, it would be best not to let others perceive his sudden return to sanity. The reason we could conclude that Hamlet’s return to sanity had likely begun between midnight and morning lay precisely in this—had it occurred during daylight hours, he would have posed various questions to Kitayama before being able to prepare himself against his enemies, thereby clearly revealing his sanity to them. This marked both Hamlet’s stroke of fortune and simultaneous proof of his remarkable composure and calmness.

Thus, Hamlet—through Kitayama and Komemura’s casual conversations, through the orderlies’ careless chatter—had patiently gathered fragments over a long period, pieced them together, and ultimately discerned the harrowing truth of this affair: that Sakai had embezzled his fortune and cast him into this predicament to steal Kotoko-san, whom he had loved to the brink of madness.

For Hamlet, the return to sanity was not joy but something bitter and desolate. When he awakened to sanity, he found himself already forty-four—his wealth and lover stolen by his uncle, his physical strength diminished, his faculties deteriorated, barely capable of living as a normal human being—yet this isolated, powerless self, devoid of friends or acquaintances, found even contemplating a confrontation with Sakai utterly meaningless. Moreover, should Sakai learn of his regained sanity, he would surely not let him live—but so long as he remained mad, neither his livelihood nor his life would be in jeopardy. There was nothing more I could do. I shall end my days feigning madness before Kitayama and Komemura... How Hamlet must have anguished before reaching this resignation.

The legend of his hair turning white overnight must have originated around this time. As I observed the depth of the dates carved into the wall—how many tears had fallen upon each of these numbers—the image of Komatsu’s grief and anguish in that moment became vividly clear.

Then, about two days later in the evening, when I went to Hamlet’s parlor with the night water pitcher as usual, Hamlet stood quietly reading at his lectern by the window. Gradually dusk deepened—in that dim twilight only Hamlet’s face and his book’s pages floated starkly white—a faint remnant of light playing upon his melancholic profile bearing a poet’s dignity. Even so, what serene eyes this man had. Innocent as a child’s yet harboring endless forbearance like a monastic monk’s. Though robbed of property, lover, worldly pleasures—even human rights—though subjected to clownish treatment beyond precedent—he lived without writhing or lamentation—maintaining visible tranquility. I had long felt my spirit elevated and soul cleansed near Komatsu—but gazing at this noble standing statue—I began dimly grasping what Kitayama called “peculiar affinity.”

I placed the water pitcher on the side table and was about to withdraw to prepare dinner when Hamlet suddenly turned toward me and called out, “Ah, Horatio.” I was startled— “Good heavens! Your Highness—I am Rosencrantz!” I said as Hamlet shook his head, “Nay, nay—thou art Horatio without doubt. Long ago, when we performed a play together, I recall calling thee Horatio. What—hast thou forgotten?”

For Komatsu to say such a thing was tantamount to confessing his sanity—there could be no more perilous admission for him—and I found myself rather perplexed, gazing at his face and wondering why a man as meticulous as Komatsu would utter such an imprudent remark, when Hamlet—with an indescribably elegant gesture—

“Horatio. Thou alone art the true gentleman among those I have kept company with.” Well now, this is— “Ah, no—deem this neither flattery nor idle chatter. Since this heart of mine became master at sifting truths, discerning clearly the nature of men, I have set upon thee the seal of ‘supreme’.” In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Horatio stands as the prince’s sole ally in this world—his confidant, his heart’s companion, his peerless friend. Recognizing this as Hamlet’s expression of genuine trust and affection toward me, I vowed never to abandon this unfortunate man who extended his hand to me while adrift in sorrow’s lonely sea—no matter what might come.

Until now, drawn by Ayuko’s affection, I had not been without a certain tacit complicity in Sakai’s misdeeds—but now that matters had reached this point, there remained no choice but to resolutely challenge Sakai to a duel. From the moment I declared betrayal, my life would instantly be imperiled—yet here I stood, this self who would be left penniless upon severing ties with Sakai’s stipend, burdened with a man akin to an invalid, pondering what weapon could strike Sakai down. But there was no alternative: I must see this through at all costs. As I lingered by the twilight window, my heart smoldered and blazed.

The following day, around six in the evening, there came a call from Sakai ordering me to come at once. He was likely demanding an answer to our previous exchange, but deeming this the perfect opportunity to challenge Sakai to a duel, I immediately departed for Akasaka—only to be told that Sakai had just left for Ochiai with Kotoko and Ayuko as a trio.

When I considered it properly, a man of Sakai’s caliber would never idly await my response forever. The one who had torn me from Hamlet must have resolved to take direct action at last today. In my flustered state, I turned back toward Ochiai and was hurrying toward Hamlet’s parlor when Sakai—dressed as King Claudius—returned from the far end of the long corridor with Kotoko as his queen and Ayuko as Ophelia, drawing near until he stood right beside me,

“Sobue, waiting for you proved futile, so we went ahead and conducted our little experiment on our own today,” he said with veiled implication. When I heard the explanation, Ayuko’s age, face, and stature were identical to Kotoko’s from the time of the private theatrical performance—so they had abruptly arranged for Hamlet to meet her, aiming to unsettle him and expose his true nature. At last I understood why Ayuko stood there in a white ceremonial robe whose hem trailed like spring mist, clutching a bouquet of wildflowers—her attire an exact replica of Ophelia’s life-sized statue beside the throne. Yet when I saw Sakai’s sullen expression, I surmised this psychological test had achieved little effect, and that once again Hamlet’s intellect had triumphed—a conclusion so exhilarating it defied words.

Sakai’s expression grew somewhat more serious,

“Sobue, I am profoundly displeased with your methods.” “I cannot fathom why you indulge in such sentimentality—cease these nonsensical contemplations and execute my instructions as given.” “I shall grant you one final opportunity,” he declared, then departed for the main building with Kotoko.

Ayuko was sniffing the bouquet while staring intently at my face when she said, “Hey—is Hamlet sane or mad? Just one word—tell me. Please, please,” she said, winding her arms around my neck. When I dismissed her with “Ask Marius’s spirit about that,” Ayuko, surprisingly unperturbed, replied, “Then I’ll just do that. I’ll use a trick and catch his tail for sure,” before departing at her leisure, dragging the hem of her ceremonial robe.

Though I couldn’t discern what trick Ayuko had planned, with the Sakai family staying overnight at Ochiai and no chance to let my guard down regarding their actions, I returned to my room for a brief nap before hiding behind the throne’s high backboard to keep watch—and just as the hour struck one o’clock at night, Hamlet entered the audience chamber like a shadow and crouched beneath Ophelia’s life-sized statue, yet...

“What star was I born under, I wonder…” he murmured, as if unable to bear his own sentimentality, then returned to the parlor with sunken demeanor. Thinking that even a man as composed as Komatsu could still become flustered, I was running my hand along the throne’s backrest in helpless frustration when Ophelia’s statue began to tremble faintly. As I watched in astonishment, the white robe swayed gently once—then smoothly descended from its pedestal and stood blocking my path,

“I finally heard it!”

With those words, she suddenly whirled around and dashed down the corridor leading to the main building. The trick Ayuko had spoken of was precisely this: she had stood upon the pedestal in place of Ophelia’s statue, intending to secretly observe Hamlet’s nocturnal activities. I stood dumbfounded, staring down the corridor, but thinking there might still be a way to correct this deviation of fate, I hurried to the main building—only to find Ayuko standing before the liquor cabinet, taking dainty sips of violet liqueur. While deliberately crafting a calm tone,

“You’ve got me. I lose—I surrender,” I said. Ayuko grinned slyly, “The reason I did this… it’s because I don’t want to say goodbye to you. Please take pity on me—I’ve fallen this deeply for you.” “I do.”

“After all, I’ve clearly witnessed it—so you should resign yourself and comply with what Father says.” “I won’t say a word about it, so you go ahead and give a clever report to keep him happy.” “Just stop defying Father.” “I don’t want to see you die.” “Haven’t I said I’ve resigned myself? You’ve made yourself clear.” “I’ll do as you say.” “Now that this is settled, how about giving me a drink too?” I said, whereupon Ayuko deftly mixed a fizz and placed it before me.

After parting with Ayuko—knowing full well the consequences of trusting her words and growing complacent—I made my way to the audience chamber entrance resolved to flee with Hamlet tonight. But no sooner had I arrived than an unbearable fatigue overwhelmed me. I leaned against the wall only to slump down in a heap, vaguely registering the wail of an air-raid siren before consciousness slipped away entirely.

How much time had passed since then? When I abruptly opened my eyes, I found myself collapsed in the side corridor facing the audience chamber entrance exactly as before—my eyes could see, my ears could hear—yet my entire body felt as if paralyzed, rendering me unable to move or utter a sound. As I pondered how things had come to this, I realized Ayuko had suddenly run out earlier anticipating I would chase her—luring me before the liquor cabinet to leave me incapacitated and unable to interfere—having likely spiked my drink with mandragora or something of that sort.

I lay completely immobilized—literally unable to move hand or foot—sprawled clumsily like a log while vacantly staring at the ceiling, but sensing movement in the audience chamber, I shifted my gaze toward it. There sat Hamlet upon the throne, with Sakai, Ayuko, and Kotoko gathered like shadows below him as if holding council. As I strained my ears wondering what would begin, after a long silence came Sakai’s voice: “Your misfortune is what we call destiny—something you were born with from the moment you drew breath. “Even if I possessed all the power in the world, I couldn’t possibly make you this utterly miserable.”

“As for me, I don’t believe you possess such power either.” “It would be fortunate if you understood, but you and our family are fated by the stars to be irreconcilable, you see.” “Since you’ve been unfortunate up until now anyway, why not go ahead and become a bit more unfortunate so that our family can live in peace?” “What am I supposed to do?” “It would be best if you were to go mad again—but if that’s impossible, couldn’t you just die for us?”

“I have no lingering attachment to wealth or property—I don’t intend to reclaim any of it. I could swear to that—but is that not acceptable?” “That still won’t do. There’s no telling when your feelings might change—no guarantee we could ever feel secure.” “Then are you determined to kill me no matter what?” “Nonsense. Whether it’s me, Kotoko, or Ayuko—there isn’t a single person here thinking of killing you.”

“I truly don’t understand.” “I’m telling you to die by your own hand.” “And I can’t have you getting covered in blood, writhing in agony before our eyes, or leaving your corpse lying around here.” “If you’ll permit me this indulgence, I’d like you to vanish—to die as aesthetically as possible, leaving not the slightest unpleasant impression upon us.” “Is there really such a perfectly neat method?” “It’s simple—you enter the air-raid shelter yourself and call out from inside, ‘I’m already dead.’” “Then the three of us will gladly help cover your grave with soil.” “As you wish—we’ll heap the soil into whatever shape you desire: round, triangular, anything at all.”

“An air-raid shelter becoming a grave—now that’s a touch befitting wartime.”

“That air-raid shelter wasn’t dug to be your grave from the start. Those circumstances developed afterward.” “If I were to refuse...” “You won’t refuse. Given how this war is progressing—you know perfectly well that surviving onward in your current state will only compound your misery.” “That is as you say.” “Thank you for understanding. Komatsu—once I complete your tomb, I’ll finally feel genuine sympathy for your wretched life. A bond as ill-fated as ours must be rare in this world. Tears come to my eyes.”

Then came Kotoko’s voice:

“Akinari-san, you must die.” “I beg of you.”

Then came Ayuko’s voice: “If you would die for me—since I would be happiest for it—I shall remember you gratefully every day I live.” “Now that matters have reached this point, dying somehow grows appealing.” “Then let us proceed.” “Have you resolved yourself at last?” “I regret to press you, but it nears two o’clock—will you not begin?” “Before dying, I should like to shed this motley garb and cleanse myself. “Have you no suit?”

In Kotoko’s voice: “There should be Kitayama’s suit around here. I’ll go look for it.”

Soon came Ayuko’s voice: “How well it suits you. You look younger now.” “Thank you. I’ll go now.” “The timing’s perfect for us to go.” Komatsu opened the glass door and went out into the garden. About ten minutes later, when Sakai called out, “Hey—are the shovels ready?” Kotoko’s voice answered:

“Yes, three have been prepared,” came the reply. “That should suffice. Shall we proceed?” “Ah, let’s go,” they said, each shouldering a shovel as they went out into the garden. But when they reached the air-raid shelter, Sakai called out in a loud voice:

“Komatsu-kun—are you dead yet?” she called out. From inside the air-raid shelter,

“Ah, I’m already dead.”

Komatsu’s reply was faintly heard. The droning roar of the bomber squadron from Komagome gradually drew nearer, but the three paid it no heed and began industriously shoveling soil into the air-raid shelter. Bathed in pallid moonlight, their shadow-like figures seemed scarcely earthly as they moved.

At that moment, a group of men in civil defense uniforms came clattering in. “Mr. Sakai—a bomb has fallen near Kotakibashi Bridge. Please be careful—it’s dangerous.” “It’s dangerous—please be careful.” “Thank you for your efforts. We’ll take shelter once this is done.” The civil defense members stood there nonchalantly watching what the three were doing, but not a single one noticed that such a cruel burial was being carried out right before their eyes.

Lying in the side corridor, I tried shouting in a loud voice,

Even as I tried to shout "They're burying someone alive there right now!" my voice refused to come out.

It was exactly two o'clock in the morning.

The firewood in the wall fireplace burned vigorously, dyeing the face of the person by the hearth crimson. Outside the window, thick fog drifted, and the black branches of the garden’s aucuba trees appeared and disappeared as if washed by water.

Count J said.

“I too have heard of Sakai’s gruesome end.” “They say he was torn clean in two from the groin—as if ripped apart by hands.” “And what became of Hamlet?” “When a bomb fell near the air-raid shelter, the blast and tremors collapsed the earth mound, and Hamlet came leaping out from within.” “It was as though the sentinels of hell declared, ‘You need not die yet,’ and cast back what they had once claimed.”

“I felt that way myself—this tale has distinct religious overtones indeed. Like a modern translation of Revelation.”

Sobue smiled and nodded.

“...Now then, the passage where God prepared a great fish to swallow Jonah—isn’t it exquisite?” “I too have come to believe providence operates with the flawless precision of clockwork.” “Yet whether Hell’s spitting Hamlet back out proved fortune or misfortune for him—that still eludes my comprehension.”