Pathway to Japanese Literature

1 “Do you remember the mysterious incident where Komiya Reiko—the beautiful and renowned medium who was invited to a certain mansion—vanished like smoke on her way back?”

“Ah, I do remember.” “Hasn’t it been nearly ten years since then?” “At that time, it was quite the sensation, wasn’t it?” “But in the end, wasn’t that case never solved?”

“Yes, that was the end of it.” “But she was beautiful and cherished like a treasure by psychical researchers, so even now, she still comes up in conversation among them from time to time.” “I suppose so.” “When you speak of mediums, to us they sound a bit like wizards or something of the sort—well, I suppose you could say they’re thought of in the same vein as shrine maidens.” “That something like that would suddenly vanish—in the old days, people would’ve said she was spirited away, but what do you suppose really happened?”

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you that story.” “Moreover, today marks the very same date—exactly how many years since that woman disappeared.” “On the death anniversary of the late Mrs. Matsuko Rokujo, people who admired her gathered and held a memorial service.” At that gathering, Komiya Reiko was invited to summon the late lady’s spirit, became the very image of Mrs. Matsuko, moved everyone by reciting waka poems, and successfully took her leave from the Rokujo Count family—all of this is known. “The story continues from there, but that night had such thick fog that the streetlights blurred hazily through the murk, and they say the streets looked exactly like a sea.” “When she left the Rokujo mansion’s gate, Komiya Reiko’s figure vanished as if swallowed by the fog, and from that moment on, all trace of her was lost.”

Sinking deeply into the study’s armchair, Mrs. S narrowed her eyes pensively as she followed the trail of Three Castles’ smoke, speaking with profound emotion.

“You must think it odd that I’ve suddenly begun speaking of this,” she said, “but in truth, this incident could indeed be called the motive that led me into this profession.”

Having reached a temporary conclusion in a certain case and being in a cheerful mood, Mrs. S was about to recount to me the memory of her initial motivation for taking an interest in detective work.

2

This required going back quite far into the past—to the time when Mrs. S’s husband, Dr. S, served as an advisor to the Siamese government, during which period she accompanied him to his post and spent two or three years there.

"About that time..." Mrs. S said this and, pointing at the large photograph hanging on the wall in front of the desk,

“This photograph is one taken during that time, you know.”

Looking at it, five or six men stood or squatted on stone steps with their backs to a tower-like building that had become chipped and worn.

“The fat man standing in the center is my husband.” “The one standing beside him holding a sun hat is the protagonist of the story I’m about to tell, so do take a good look.”

He might have been thirty-five or thirty-six—or perhaps well past forty. This was because he appeared so emaciated—withered, one might say—that estimating his age proved difficult; yet upon closer inspection, his refined, slender features were undeniably handsome. However, his overall impression was far from appealing. Staring at his sharp nose, those intensely nervous eyes, and that gloomy, sorrowful expression, I found myself strangely drawn in—he struck me as a man who could send a chill through one’s heart.

“Who is this gentleman?” “The younger brother of Baron Katsuta.” “Oh, the Osaka one?” “The famous Baron Katsuta?”

“Yes—you must know of Katsuta Bank? But the younger brother resided in Tokyo.” Now that you mention it, looking closely, he bore a striking resemblance to Baron Katsuta’s face—the one often seen in newspapers.

Thereupon, Mrs. S quietly began to speak.

“By now it must have become quite civilized, but Siam in those days was truly a savage, uncivilized land.” “For a curious woman like me, everything seemed novel and fascinating—though—”

“There was an incident like this once.” “It’s said that ruffians from Chinatown went to the Crocodile Temple’s festival, started a fight, and threw a man into the pool where crocodiles were kept.” “The man who had been thrown in never resurfaced.” “Well, that became a sensation—resulting in an increase in visitors to the Crocodile Temple—proving that rubberneckers are never in short supply, no matter the country.” “So I promptly went out to join the crowd of spectators.” It was a rather old temple with a large, ancient pond in its garden where five or six crocodiles resided—which was why people called it the Crocodile Temple—though its true name was something else entirely. The water was as murky as mud, making it impossible to see anything beneath the surface. But after standing there awhile gazing at the water’s face, a small ripple formed near the center of the pond, and soon enough a crocodile abruptly thrust its head out. Even in broad daylight, being confronted with that visage was rather unsettling—so I instinctively jumped back—only to find a gentleman standing behind me who had approached unnoticed until then—a man I nearly collided with.

At first glance, he appeared every bit the invalid—emaciated, with slightly stooped shoulders as thin as boards, tall and pale-faced, a thirty-five- or thirty-six-year-old Japanese man—yet there was an air of refinement about him that spoke of good breeding, and his demeanor made it clear to anyone’s eyes that he came from distinguished stock. I bowed with an awkward smile—a gesture born of both my own clumsiness and a sense of familiarity upon encountering a fellow Japanese—but he simply stared at my face in silence for a long moment before suddenly offering a perfunctory greeting, turning on his heel, and walking slowly away.

I felt somehow terribly insulted. When I returned home and asked my husband, he told me that man was a close friend of the minister and the esteemed younger brother of Osaka’s Baron Katsuta. He had ruined his health and gone to Europe for recuperation, but when matters failed to proceed as desired, he resolved to return home temporarily. Yet upon reaching Singapore during his journey back, he abruptly changed his mind and decided to stop over in Siam—ostensibly for a change of scenery—while visiting his close friend, the minister. Thus he came to be received hospitably as a guest of the legation. And when he came here, Siam proved such a carefree country that—whether taken with its easygoing nature or not—he had settled in completely, my husband would remark with what seemed like envy at his circumstances.

Siam is a Buddhist country unparalleled in the world, where it is customary for every man, no matter how noble, to enter the Buddhist priesthood and become a monk at least once in his lifetime. Some may enter seeking atonement for sins, while others—like the tale still told today of a nobleman who disguised himself as a monk solely to meet a famously beautiful minister’s wife, receiving alms directly from her hand at the legation—do so for whims. In any case, entering the Buddhist priesthood is an ordinary custom. The second time I met Mr. Katsuta was on the evening of exactly the tenth day after our encounter at the Crocodile Temple.

At the entrance stood a begging monk, wrapped in yellow cloth and barefoot. I went out holding the alms, and when I saw that it was Mr. Katsuta, “Oh my! How devout of you!”

Because it was so unexpected, I found these words slipping out unintentionally. Then Mr. Katsuta made a face as if to say he was somewhat ashamed and, laughing to hide his embarrassment, “Oh no, I’m terribly sorry. “Because I was so dreadfully bored, I ended up thinking of this little prank—” He was bored. He was bored—or so he claimed—yet despite being repeatedly urged to visit the legation for diversion, he couldn’t bring himself to casually drop by a place where the minister was unmarried and not a single staff member had brought their wife along. Then one day, the minister said to my husband: “The legation is nothing but men—far too stimulating an environment for Mr. Katsuta.” “Since he’s starving for gentle solace—though I feel sorry for your wife—could you ask her from your side to keep him company now and then?” he was told,

“Then please come visit our home.” So from then on, Mr. Katsuta began visiting now and then. Mr. Katsuta suffered from severe neurasthenia—to lay eyes alone, his entire body appeared utterly enfeebled. After losing his dearly beloved wife, there had been a time when those around him grew so concerned he might have lost his sanity that he himself turned into a complete misanthrope, declaring he no longer held any hopes in this world.

His wife was said to have been a woman of great beauty, but she passed away at twenty-seven from tuberculosis. At that time—as people still say—he grew so despondent he even contemplated following her in death. When he tried to act on this resolve, his family discovered him, and from then on he was kept under constant surveillance. “We of our class live in mortal fear of tarnishing the family name.” “Honor comes before all else—you understand.” “The house takes precedence over any individual.” “Were I to perish from illness—well, that’s unavoidable.” “To speak bluntly—” “But a suspicious death would prove disastrous.” “It would become society’s favorite gossip.” “And should newspapers report a deranged suicide? That stain would spread through our very bloodline—hence their surveillance, all to protect the family honor.”

Mr. Katsuta grew agitated by his own words. For a listener to such stories, a woman like myself may have been ideal. Before we knew it, the two of us had grown close. As was customary in such tropical climes, everyone took a midday nap, so when the scorching sunlight blazed upon the earth around one or two in the afternoon, it grew as silent as midnight. But for Mr. Katsuta, afflicted with insomnia, sleep during this glaring midday was impossible. Thus he had established it as his daily custom to call on me each afternoon without fail.

Mr. Katsuta, who was nervous about everything, feared that geckos might fall from the ceiling and would always enter the mosquito house on the veranda, where he chatted with me. However, those dreadful geckos would often tumble onto Mr. Katsuta’s neck or get inadvertently grabbed along with the door handle—their chilly, yielding texture proving so indescribably repulsive to him that he would scrub his hands frenziedly until his palms turned crimson. Feeling pity for him at such moments,

“It really is an eerie coldness, isn’t it?” “It feels like you’re touching a dead person, doesn’t it?” What I had intended as consolation struck Mr. Katsuta in some unintended way—he made an extremely sullen face and left abruptly without so much as a farewell. I had never before encountered someone with nerves as frayed as his.

On another occasion, we once took a walk together alongside a canal where water buffalo were soaking. At the water’s edge, nameless weeds sprawled. Startled by our footsteps, a small snake about six inches long darted out from the grass and slithered swiftly into the canal. Once, when I stepped on a small snake that had failed to escape and it became tangled around the toe of my shoe, I instinctively clung to Mr. Katsuta. Then, as if he too had seen something terrifying, Mr. Katsuta forcibly shook off my hands that had clung to him and dashed away; but what became clear later was that he had not run out of fear from seeing me step on the snake—it was simply that my scream had startled him into fleeing.

When I finally calmed down and looked, Mr. Katsuta stood covering his ears with both hands, eyes tightly shut, his face deathly pale and trembling violently. My tremendous scream had so sharply pierced Mr. Katsuta’s nerves that I felt deeply ashamed,

"I'm sorry," I said by way of apology. "It was just so frightening—I couldn't help screaming like that." At this explanation, Mr. Katsuta made a face as though every hair on his body stood on end and spoke in a low voice that resembled whispering. "What an appalling voice you have! How perfectly dreadful—"

Mr. Katsuta’s fear was so extreme that I couldn’t help finding it comical, “But I was beside myself—I truly thought I might die.” “When people die, they might let out a voice like that.” I had meant it as a joke, but somehow he took it the wrong way—Mr. Katsuta stood frozen, glaring at me, when suddenly his whole body began trembling violently. Declaring he felt chilled and unwell, he briskly left for home alone. Left behind afterward, I stood dumbfounded for a while, watching his retreating figure. His neurasthenia was severe—in that state, he was like a madman. It was precisely because the minister had asked that I kept him company, yet he took such selfishness too far. and feeling deeply displeased by Mr. Katsuta’s attitude, I trudged back alone along the quiet thoroughfare.

Before long, the season of mango showers passed, and the long-awaited rainy season drew near. For Mr. Katsuta, whose health was already compromised, this clammy season was strictly to be avoided. Enduring the prolonged rainy season in this country would have been utterly ruinous to one’s constitution. Thus we found ourselves compelled at last to bid each other farewell. “No matter how wretched the climate or how inhospitable the land,” Mr. Katsuta would repeat like a mantra, “there’s something about this country that feels liberating—I’ve grown rather attached to it.” All the more poignant then that once his return date to Japan was fixed, he began appearing daily at my residence whenever free, wearing a shadowed countenance and clinging to my side—yet as departure loomed, his words dwindled to nothingness, until I too grew unsettled by his perpetually brooding aspect and eyes steeped in unspoken calculations.

Mr. Katsuta was to depart for Japan aboard a French ship, and we—the minister, principal embassy staff, and my husband and I—came to see him off at the vessel. He was in relatively better spirits than I had expected, and we celebrated his departure by uncorking champagne on the deck. At that time, Mr. Katsuta said he would show me his cabin; when I followed him inside, he took out from the steamer trunk a small purple crepe fukusa-wrapped bundle— “Actually, I brought you here because there’s something I’d like to give you as a memento.”

he said. When I tried to open the bundle that had been handed to me, Mr. Katsuta hurriedly pressed it down and spoke rapidly. “You mustn’t.” “You mustn’t.” “You mustn’t open it now.” And still pressing it down, “This is something I’m giving you because I trust you.” “When I reach Japan, I’ll send a telegram—once it arrives, open this immediately.” “Well then—” “Until then, I’ll follow your instructions.” “But you must send that telegram right away.” “The more you forbid me from opening it, the more curious I become—what on earth could be inside?”

To show my final kindness to Mr. Katsuta, I deliberately exaggerated my joy in a childlike manner and shook the bundle before his eyes. He watched this display with what seemed a lonely smile, offering no reply. Seeing someone off—especially by ship—leaves their figure lingering in your vision for ages, a profoundly lonely experience. The image of that hat waved by those slender hands would not fade from my eyes.

Over twenty days had passed since I brought the bundle home and left it unopened as instructed. Then came a report that Mr. Katsuta—who had arrived in Singapore and transferred to a Europe-bound ship of the mail steamship company—had committed a mysterious suicide by leaping overboard on the eve of reaching Hong Kong, leaving no final note. The newspapers wrote nothing beyond attributing it to extreme neurasthenia, but we felt we had naturally encountered what we had long anticipated. The fukusa-wrapped bundle sent by Mr. Katsuta was promptly opened. Inside lay a long letter addressed to me and a single diamond ring. “I have kept that letter preserved exactly as it was, so though it’s quite crumpled and difficult to read, would you care to examine it?”

With those words, Mrs. S handed me a long letter.

3

—Mrs. S,

From the moment I encountered you by chance at Wani Temple, I struggled intensely to find a way to become closer to you. Though I repeatedly calmed myself—reexamining what I thought were delusions of my eyes and reconsidering what seemed delusions of my heart—it was no delusion. Truly, you bear an uncanny resemblance to my wife. When I was by your side speaking with you, I could not help but feel as though my wife had been revived and was conversing with me. I didn’t want to part with you. I wanted to remain at your side forever. I couldn’t bear separation. Yet the time had finally come when we must part. Before our farewells, I had wanted to confess all my secrets to you. You alone—I needed you to know everything about me, both good and ill. This terrible secret has exhausted my body beyond measure, torments me without respite, and now seeks even my life. Two years of unrelenting anguish have reduced me to this wreck of a man.

I am a man who does not know when death will come. Before dying, I wish to show you alone my true self. I beg you read through this without losing patience. To confess honestly—though it may seem effeminate—I simply could not resign myself to my wife's death. The story begins long ago: she was a woman I had known since her school days, one for whom I swept aside every obstacle to win through earnest courtship. Have you ever contemplated how fathomless a man's love for a woman can be?

I firmly believed that even if she wouldn’t make a full recovery with rest, she could still go on living, and I never imagined she would die so suddenly. She had been forbidden to speak due to her coughing, but that night—as her condition seemed much improved and her fever didn’t rise even when she spoke a little—I talked by her bedside about how we might move to Atami for a quiet life in another month or so. My wife listened with evident delight. To an outside observer, we might have looked like lovers. When I imagined living alone with my wife while she convalesced in Atami, I felt as though I were reliving the joy of our newlywed days. But later I realized—her fever hadn’t risen because her strength had already waned so completely that she’d lost even the power to resist her illness. Blind to the truth, I’d interpreted this as a hopeful sign. The doctor had uncharacteristically allowed it, saying a little talking would be permissible. But by then he’d already given up; this concession was merely a crust of bread thrown to me—a final mercy to spare me future regrets. How pitifully ignorant I was to rejoice in this! After that long-awaited chance to speak leisurely with my wife, I hurried home with truly light footsteps. As I removed my shoes at the entrance came the hospital’s call—critical condition—and though I rushed out in desperation once more, I arrived too late.

My wife, attempting to turn over in bed, suddenly suffered a heart attack and passed away like a withered tree. Just an hour earlier, she had been speaking so vividly and cheerfully—yet for her soul to be so abruptly snatched away—no matter how I thought about it, I couldn’t believe it. People often speak of grieving or weeping, but I learned for the first time that when grief becomes overwhelming, tears simply do not flow. In my case, I think the phrase “being utterly lost” fits best. Truly, overwhelmed by it all, I was at a loss about what to do and could find no place for my heart. All my relatives tried to comfort me. Some praised my wife, and others offered me sympathy, but I had no mind to listen to such perfunctory words. Put yourselves in my shoes—my beloved wife, irreplaceable in this world, has been snatched away by death. Never again would I have the chance to meet my wife. I was left alone behind. Consider how much more wretched those left behind are than those who die—yet there they were chatting and laughing like that. I even thought about barging into where my cousins who had come for the wake were chatting and laughing, and yelling at them. So I entered my study alone and did not even eat properly, spending two or three nights on the sofa.

“There truly has never been a lady with such a beautiful heart and face.” “A lady like her is none other than one who could become a deity.”

I clicked my tongue and glared back at the words one of my cousins had spoken in an attempt to console me. “Shut up. Where does the likes of you get the right to criticize my wife?”—this is what I had wanted to say. There was nothing more infuriating than having my deceased wife criticized in any way. My wife was mine—she belonged to no one else. I had wanted to always cherish her—the wife I could now only meet in my mind—as though cradling her gently. I dreaded waking up every morning. The wife in my dreams—she was an unchanging vision of gentle beauty. For me, the nights gradually became a time of joy. At night, I was often frightened. I would often wake to find my pillow wet. I want to die. Yes—I too shall go and die.

It seems this state of affairs had drawn the household’s attention, and they began keeping constant watch over me, fearing I might follow my wife in death. Because of their vigilance, I did not die and survived until now—but when I think of it now, I cannot tell how much better it would have been had I taken my own life then. Had I died at that time, I would never have committed such a grave sin.

There was one friend who deeply sympathized with my grief. That person had been interested in psychical research since his student days and would always regale me with uncanny tales. Had it been my usual self, I would have listened while mocking and teasing in jest—but now I found myself utterly incapable of such a mood. The reason was that nothing had ever struck my heart as profoundly as that person’s words. “People don’t die. Even if the body perishes, the spirit remains,” he would say to encourage and console me. “Consider the power that dared to compel even a scientist like Sir William Crookes to believe!”—His voice, brimming with unshakable confidence, resounded in my ears and could never be forgotten. According to him, through a medium, one could even speak with the deceased. It was said that if one’s spiritual eye opened, they could even see the departed right before their very eyes. What a marvelous salvation this was! For me, there had been no greater joy than this.

However, as I still had lingering doubts, I voraciously read the books about spirits that my friend had sent me. I also investigated where one might find these supposed mediums. And so, I promptly set out to go there. Even if my purpose could not be achieved, it would be fine. However, if by some chance such a thing were to come to pass, there could be no greater joy— When I thought that, I couldn’t stay still for even a moment; without informing anyone, I quietly went to the house in Aoyama Kitamachi as instructed.

I had imagined there might be a shrine maiden-like woman clad in scarlet hakama, but I was utterly mistaken—there was no altar or anything of the sort. Instead, in an ordinary tatami room sat a woman dressed in plain clothes, her hair parted in a seven-to-three style, seated with perfect composure. Beside her sat an elegant white-haired old man alone, a small desk placed at his side. I heard they called that person a saniwa. I thought it must be something like the role of a judge.

When I saw the medium’s face, I was first taken aback. It was refined and exceedingly beautiful—and yet bore a striking resemblance to my deceased wife. From the way her mouth twisted slightly when she laughed to her eyes, which shone with intellect, down to the small mole at the corner of her lips—she resembled my wife perfectly. I had asked the saniwa to summon my wife’s spirit. The medium closed her eyes, straightened her posture, and joined her hands in prayer, but after a short while, her demeanor completely changed—taking on my wife’s appearance—and she slid closer to me with a nostalgic air. Could it be said that my wife’s spirit had possessed the medium’s body? From her posture to her voice, everything was exactly as it had been during my wife’s lifetime. My wife’s spirit grasped my hand and rejoiced. That hand was terribly cold—the strangely piercing chill of it remained unforgettable even afterward.

I tried speaking to her about various things, but there was no sense of her being a stranger—it truly felt as though I were meeting my wife, and in my joy, I became utterly entranced. Soon, my wife’s spirit departed, but I was left in a daze, feeling as though I were dreaming for some time.

“Have you finished your conversation?” The medium said this and smiled sweetly. Ah, that face! Even when I awoke from the trance, that face remained entirely my wife’s. My heart swelled with joy until I could only express profound gratitude toward this mysterious medium. Even when I stepped into the street, I walked as though floating above the ground. In this new hope—that I might meet my wife anytime by returning there—I forgot everything and grew somewhat brighter in spirit; even after returning home, the day’s strange events ceaselessly came and went within my mind. When I sat in my study and closed my eyes tightly, the beautiful medium’s face lingered seared behind my eyelids. The next day, I went out again.

The next day, and the day after that, I went to the spiritualist’s office every day.

“If I invite you often to ease your spirit’s purification, it will progress sooner.” “For the spirit’s sake, this is most auspicious.” Being told this, I rejoiced, and the spirit too found solace. I felt there could be nothing more to be grateful for. As I kept visiting, I began to think the loneliness of losing my wife might gradually diminish.

My daily routine consisted of visiting the spiritualist’s office every day. The only time I went out was to go there; the rest of the time, I remained in my study and met with no one.

Immersing myself in this wondrous pleasure I had never even dreamed of until now was a great joy to me, but I never spoke of it to others. If people were to hear of this, what would they say? They would say Katsuta has gone mad and provide a fine anecdote for laughter. I might actually be going mad. I might be deluded. But even if I was being deluded, I didn't mind. Since I heard my wife's words from the mouth of someone who closely resembled her, what more could I ask for?

Even when alone in my study, I would sometimes find myself laughing unintentionally while rehearsing the conversations I’d had with the medium in my mind. My family, again misinterpreting things oddly, seemed to be constantly keeping a suspicious eye on me.

However, such things no longer mattered to me. At first, I was satisfied simply being able to meet my wife—that alone was enough. But as days passed, my desires gradually grew, and merely meeting her and speaking through an intermediary became utterly insufficient. At least with the medium (I learned her name on the second or third day— I will write it as Komiya Reiko) and speak directly with just the two of us. If possible, I wanted to keep her by my side at all times and talk freely as I pleased.

However, due to a chance opportunity, that hope came to be realized. I had been using a pseudonym when visiting Reiko because my family was particular about maintaining appearances, so having her come directly to our house was out of the question. However, Reiko was also unmarried, and I had lost my wife, so I thought that if it came to it, we could marry. But fearing opposition from those around me, while constantly thinking about how to secure their approval when the time came to divide my late wife’s belongings, I had to examine her chests of drawers and personal effects one by one. Assailed by a lonely feeling as if reliving the memories of when my wife had died all over again now, I opened each item. The crepe silk kimono my wife loved to wear, the jade hairpin that adorned her lustrous black hair—all these mementos became seeds of memory, stirring a deep reluctance to part with them. Even though there seemed no harm in waiting at least a year before dividing these keepsakes so soon, why were those around me so eager to settle everything quickly? Venting such complaints to myself, as I carefully examined each item one by one, something white caught between the obi suddenly caught my eye. When I absentmindedly pulled it out, it was a single letter addressed to my wife on a white square envelope. There was no sender’s name, but it was unmistakably a man’s handwriting. It also seemed quite old, with stains here and there. I felt as though I had seen something forbidden, and holding it in my hand, I wavered. Should I look or not? I wanted to keep thinking of her as my pure, untroubled wife. Torn between this resolve and an overwhelming desire to know everything, I finally drew out its contents. It was a letter from my wife’s cousin—a naval officer. There was nothing particularly suspicious written in it. There was nothing anyone could immediately use to make definitive claims. It only mentioned them having tea together somewhere. However, since my wife had kept her meetings with him secret, I had known nothing about it. That was all there was to it—yet for me, how should I put it—I couldn’t shake the feeling that something more than these words lay hidden.

From this white letter paper, I frantically tried to read something beyond the written words. I recalled that my wife had once mentioned there had been a marriage proposal between this man and herself, and suddenly summoned from memory the matter I had dismissed when I first heard it, as if it were a major incident. Then even the face of that man I had once met began to torment me. Tormented, I imagined various things about my wife’s heart—how she could not bear to open this ordinary letter from an ordinary person that had been hidden and stored within her obi. I began to suspect whether there wasn’t some unspoken secret between the two of them. Even though I loved her so passionately, I came to hate the woman’s meticulous preparation of keeping it hidden in a locked drawer. Though aware of its cruelty, I conceived the idea of summoning my wife’s spirit through Reiko and interrogating her about the matter. However, unfortunately, on that day, it was said that Reiko had been invited to the House of Count Rokujo and was absent.

When I cannot meet someone, the more intensely I desire to—such is my nature. Especially since I harbored this peculiar suspicion and wanted desperately to uncover the truth at once; yet finding her absent convinced me she had fled. I had conflated my wife with Reiko. Now that this had happened, I could no longer maintain any composure. In the end, after lying in wait for Reiko’s return until the hour grew quite late, I took her to my house.

Reiko had long expressed a desire to visit my house at least once, so I gladly took her there. By that time, there was already a certain closeness between her and me. Reiko couldn’t have been completely unaware of my thoughts. My house was large for our small household, with an especially spacious garden. Across the pond stood a tea house where I often invited close friends. To reach the tea house, one would enter through the gate, open the purple sliding door beside the entrance, and follow the garden path—allowing one to go there without meeting anyone. I guided her there. By then I had fully become an eccentric, having severed all interaction with my family. Even when returning late at night and spending hours in the tea house instead of the main residence, the household found nothing particularly suspicious. Since the maids were instructed not to come unless summoned, this arrangement proved most convenient.

The next day, claiming I had caught a cold, I had meals brought from the main house by the maids and spent the entire day shut away with Reiko, crafting a blissful world for just us two. I repeatedly asked her to summon my wife’s spirit, but she stubbornly refused, “You only care for me because I’m a medium who can call up your wife—you’ve no interest in me as myself at all.” “If you insist on treating me as nothing but a spiritual conduit, there’s no purpose in my staying here with you—I shall leave.”

She threw a tantrum and stubbornly refused to comply. But after going to the trouble of bringing her here like this, if she proved utterly useless—that would not do. In the end, after much coaxing and persuasion, when she finally agreed to summon the spirit, the night had already grown quite late. The rain that had begun in the evening was now accompanied by wind, and as the sound of it lashing against the wooden door left me speechless, I desperately tried to converse with my wife. My first question was naturally about the letter. In response to my interrogation, my wife showed not a hint of hesitation and calmly recounted her relationship with the man from the letter.

In this world, there is nothing as tenacious and terrifying in its force as suspicion. My mind was thrown into disarray by that terrifying power; becoming half-mad, I frantically tried to ascertain the facts. What a foolish thought that was! My wife was no longer of this world. Even so, I writhed in agony, desperate to regain the certainty that once I had held complete control over both her body and soul. What a wretched thing it was!

The croaking of frogs in the pond could be heard in the lulls of the wind. This area near Yamate, close to the outskirts of the city, was a quiet place.

Reiko before me—her slender face slightly rounded at the jawline, those dreamlike eyes veiled by long lashes lightly closed, even a charming smile playing at her lips—began cheerfully recounting stories of her past lover as I listened, clammy sweat streaming down my forehead. I grew increasingly agitated and began relentlessly interrogating her about every detail. Yet the crucial question I needed to ask proved too terrifying to voice. I merely skirted around the edges, but somehow the conversation refused to approach that precipice. How terrifying truth could be—this realization struck me with full force. And still, Reiko calmly began chattering away of her own accord. The moment I gasped, I thought my breath had ceased entirely. Then—as if all blood had rushed to my head—my body turned icy cold, began trembling violently, teeth chattering uncontrollably. My vision flickered between darkness and light, lamplight swirling like eddies before my eyes. In a frenzy, I lunged upward and seized Reiko. I remember nothing save my hands working with brutal force upon her soft flesh. Simultaneously came her scream—precisely like your shriek when that small snake coiled about you by the canal. Even now, it clings to my ears and will not fade.

When I came to my senses, I had indeed committed a truly heinous crime. I had become one who must face judgment for my crime in the light of day. Reiko had already collapsed limply, and her breath had ceased.

I blankly fell into an unconscious state for a short while—feeling neither sorrow nor fear—and gazed at the corpse before me with a hollow heart.

The rain that had temporarily stopped began to fall again.

In the distance, frogs were croaking again. I still cannot forget the sound of those frogs. When my mind settled, I suddenly became terrified.

At first resolved to turn myself in, I waited for dawn’s light—but then my daughter suddenly came to mind. I must apologize for not mentioning this earlier: I have a daughter. She is destined to inherit the house of Baron Katsuta’s main family. As the Katsuta household had no children, my daughter was adopted immediately after birth and raised within their estate. Though normally unconcerned while she remained beyond my reach, anxiety now gripped me. Born beautiful like her mother and cherished by her adoptive parents, she stands poised to inherit vast wealth and become a baroness with a radiant future. I realized all this would collapse through my mere act of confession. When I considered my daughter’s fate—cast down from happiness’s zenith into misery’s abyss—I awoke fully from delusion’s dream. These recent acts—foolishness steeped in madness—and above all, the horrific crime now committed— I cannot continue this wretched existence. Morphine ampules lie within the desk drawer. There is Calmotin too.

But if I were to die now, what would people say? A love suicide with the beautiful medium—ah, I couldn’t bear that.

Should I call it writhing? Torment? Even with all the words in the world, this heart remains beyond expression. I felt as though I had aged a hundred years in a single night. In my desperation, a single idea flashed through my mind. I have carried that out as the most ingenious plan up to this day.

The idea was to secretly hide this corpse somewhere, survive for a year or two, and then commit suicide once society’s rumors had died down.

I had been renting a safety deposit box in the basement of a trust company since four or five years ago. It measured six feet square. The vault had been constructed with extreme security—it could not be opened unless both the individual and the company used their respective keys simultaneously. I placed Reiko’s corpse into a trunk and concealed it deep within that vault. And so, having deposited it with two years’ advance payment, I departed overseas under the pretext of recuperating from illness.

At the trust company, we are trusted, and as we have been long-standing clients, they would never suspect a thing. Moreover, since my neurasthenia had persisted for so long, my relatives were greatly pleased and supportive of my idea to go abroad to refresh my mind, which made this arrangement all the more convenient.

I wandered through France and England, but that anxiety clung to me constantly; I was truly a living corpse. Far from any interest, there was only the torment of waiting for time to pass like this. Even though I sought this myself, how foolish it all was. Whenever I think of my wife, Reiko inevitably comes to mind, and then I suffer anew. Please have pity on me—even the once tender memories of my wife have become something I can no longer bear to recall. Even though it was a momentary emotion, when I realize my own foolishness in having gotten excited by delirious words and gone so far as to commit murder, my entire body breaks out in a cold sweat from shame and remorse.

My days and nights are an unending torment. Ah, how precious is the happiness of being able to laugh and speak from the heart! Suicide—I think there is no longer any way to save myself other than that. Living has become agonizing. Lately, I have been thinking of death and see a ray of light there. I can no longer go on living while enduring the torment of my conscience. To torment myself further—even though it is my own doing—is too pitiable. However you may choose to handle this unvarnished confession I have confided solely in you—that is entirely at your discretion—but if you would show compassion to this lifeless corpse of a man who has at last endured two agonizing years to protect his daughter’s happiness, a man as drained of vitality as the wretch you once beheld, then I believe without doubt that you will never do anything to shatter that happiness.

4

I finished reading and returned the letter to Madam. She said while placing it into her handbox.

“Afterwards I saw a photograph of Mrs. Katsuta, but not only myself—even Komiya Reiko bore no resemblance to her whatsoever. “This was entirely his delusion—it seems he came to believe every woman he encountered resembled Mrs. Katsuta. “Yet if what this letter states were true, I would have no choice but to send it to the Japanese police.” “When I consulted my husband about it, he laughed and said, ‘It must be a madman’s fabrication,’ so I let the matter rest.”

Then, about a month later, in a newspaper that came from the mainland, under the prominent headline “Mummy Appears in Safety Deposit Vault of Certain Trust Company,” it was reported that a mummy had been discovered in a trunk within the large vault rented by the Katsuta family. Soon after, it was reported that the mummy was Mrs. Katsuta. “My husband and I exchanged bitter smiles.”