Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I came to know of that mysterious club through my friend Inoue Jirou. This Inoue Jirou was one of those men commonly found in society who possessed an uncanny familiarity with various underworld matters—for instance, knowing which household to visit if one wanted to negotiate with a certain actress, which pleasure quarters screened obscene pictures, or where Tokyo's first-class gambling dens operated in foreigner quarters. Beyond these, he possessed an extremely rich store of diverse knowledge capable of satisfying our curiosities.
One day, that Inoue Jirou came to my house and solemnly began:

“Of course someone like you wouldn’t know this, but there exists a peculiar club called the Twentieth Day Club among our circle.”
“It’s a truly bizarre club.”
“You might call it a secret society—the members are all upper-class types, people who’ve exhausted every amusement and pleasure this world offers, folks with no financial constraints whatsoever.”
“The whole point is to seek out strange, unconventional thrills—something utterly divorced from society’s ordinary diversions.”
“They guard their secrecy fiercely and hardly ever recruit new members, but with one vacancy now open—the membership being strictly limited, you understand—there’s room for just one person to join.”
“So as your friend, I came here to make this offer—what do you say? Care to sign up?”

As usual, Inoue Jirou’s story was intensely curiosity-driven.
Needless to say, I found myself immediately provoked.

“And what exactly do they do at this club?”

When I asked, he began his explanation eagerly, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

“Do you read novels?
Those peculiar clubs you often find in foreign stories—like the suicide club.
That might be a bit too outlandish, but it’s essentially a society craving such intense thrills.
They host all sorts of events there.
They gather on the twentieth of each month, and every time they pull off something that leaves everyone gasping.
If I told you duels still happen in Japan these days, someone like you wouldn’t believe it—but in the Twentieth Day Club, we even stage mock duels in secret.
Not life-or-death affairs, mind you, but sometimes the member on duty will commit something crime-like—say, making it look convincingly as if they’ve killed someone—just to terrify the others.
Since it feels so real, everyone’s chilled to the bone.
Other times, they hold wildly erotic games too.
Anyway, through these bizarre events, they taste thrills you’d never get from ordinary amusements—and revel in them.
Pretty fascinating, don’t you think?”

That was the gist of his explanation.

"But does such a club straight out of novels actually exist these days?"

When I asked skeptically,

"That's exactly why you're hopeless."
"You don't know every corner of society."
"A club like that's child's play."
"In this Tokyo, there are far worse things than that."
"The world isn't as simple as you proper gentlemen imagine."
"To put it bluntly—everyone knows they screened obscene films at an aristocratic meeting hall. Just think about that."
"That's merely one scale from the dark underbelly of the city."
"There are far more dreadful things crawling through every crevice around here."

In the end, I was persuaded by Inoue Jirou and joined that secret society.
Upon entering it, his words proved truthful—nay, it far exceeded what I had imagined such a thing might be.
To call it merely interesting would be inadequate—the word “bewitching” comes closer to capturing its essence.
Once you joined that club, it became addictive.
No matter what, one couldn’t bring oneself to consider quitting.
The membership numbered seventeen, with the de facto president being the proprietor of a large kimono shop in Nihonbashi—a man who, despite his trade’s quiet nature, was highly unconventional, devising most events from that kimono merchant’s mind.
That man must have been a genius in such matters.
Each proposal he conceived was fantastically bizarre and extraordinary, delighting the members without fail.

The sixteen members besides this kimono merchant who served as president were each people with their own eccentricities. Classifying by profession, merchants were the most numerous, followed by journalists and novelists—all of whom were people of considerable renown—and there was also one young nobleman among them. As for myself and Inoue Jirou, we were just employees at the same trading company. However, since we both had wealthy fathers, we felt no particular financial strain from participating in such an extravagant club. I should mention that the Twentieth Day Club’s membership fees were rather steep—in addition to being charged fifty yen each month for a single night’s gathering, certain events required temporary fees amounting to double or even triple that sum. This was a rather stinging amount for an ordinary office worker.

I had been a member of the Twentieth Day Club for five months.
In other words, I had attended the gatherings only five times.
As I mentioned earlier, it seems truly strange that I quit this club—which was so fascinating that once you joined, you could never leave it in your lifetime—after just five months.
But there was a reason for this.
And now, the circumstances that led to my withdrawal from the Twentieth Day Club are, in fact, the very purpose of this story.

And so, the story began with the fifth gathering since I joined the club.
I would indeed like to recount the four previous gatherings if time permits—and I believe doing so would satisfy the readers' curiosity—but unfortunately, due to constraints on space, I must omit them here.

One day, the kimono merchant who served as president—Mr. Iseki, he was called—came to visit my house.
Visiting the members’ houses, becoming acquainted with each individual member, understanding their dispositions, and planning various events—this was Mr. Iseki’s method.
Only then could we organize events that would truly satisfy the members—or so the reasoning went.
Despite having such unconventional tastes, Mr. Iseki was quite a cheerful man, and even my wife had come to regard him with considerable goodwill, to the extent that she would speak of him.
Moreover, Mr. Iseki’s wife was quite the socialite and had become very close not only with my wife but also with the wives of the other members, to the point where they would visit one another.
Though we called ourselves a secret society, we weren’t actually plotting any nefarious deeds, so the existence of our gatherings had naturally become known to the members’ wives without a word being spoken.
Even if they didn’t understand what kind of club it was, at the very least, the wives knew that monthly gatherings were being held with Mr. Iseki at their center.

As was customary, Mr. Iseki entered the parlor, scratching his thinning head and beaming like the jovial deity Ebisu.
He was a portly man in his fifties who seemed utterly unconnected to such childish gatherings.
He would sit with impeccable manners squarely on the zabuton cushion, then begin glancing about furtively while lowering his voice to commence discussions about club matters.

“Regarding preparations for this twentieth meeting...”
“I want to try something radically different from our previous events.”
“Specifically—a masked ball.”
“For our seventeen members, we’ll invite seventeen women so men and women can pair up and dance without recognizing each other.”
“Hehehehe. What do you think?”
“Let’s add a little more excitement to it.”
“Both men and women must devise elaborate disguises—make absolutely certain no one can tell who’s who.”
“Though you won’t know each other, I’ll create dance pairs using lottery tickets I distribute. The essence lies in that uncertainty about your partner’s identity.”
“I’ll provide standard masks beforehand, but you must perfect your own costumes skillfully.”
“Consider it... let’s say a costume competition of sorts.”

Since the plan seemed interesting enough, I naturally expressed my approval. However, my only concern was what sort of women these partners would be.

"So where exactly are these women being invited from?"

“Heh heh heh heh.”
Then Mr. Iseki laughed in his characteristic unsettling manner and said, “Well now, you can just leave that to me.”
“I assure you I won’t invite anyone dull.”
“Let me state clearly here that they’re neither merchants nor anything of that sort.”
“At any rate, it’s meant to make everyone gasp in surprise—revealing it now would spoil the fun.”
“Come now, leave the women’s side of things to me.”

While we were going back and forth like this, my wife unfortunately chose that moment to bring in tea.
Mr. Iseki straightened up with a start, then erupted into that hollow laugh of his—the same eerie one as always.

"My, you seem to be having quite the engaging discussion."

My wife began preparing tea with a knowing air as she said this.

“Heh heh heh heh heh heh, we were just discussing a bit of business.”

Mr. Iseki offered what sounded like a forced excuse. That had always been his manner of speaking. In any case, after we finished reviewing the general arrangements, Mr. Iseki departed. Naturally, both the location and time had been fully settled.

II

Now, when the day arrived, it was an experience unlike any I had ever known in my life. Following my orders to the letter, I disguised myself with utmost care, readied the mask that had been provided beforehand, and departed for the appointed location.

It was then that I first realized what an amusing game the art of disguise could be. For this purpose, I went out of my way to visit an artist acquaintance and borrow their characteristically bizarre Western clothes, purchased a long-haired wig—though such extremes were likely unnecessary—stole my wife’s face powder and applied makeup, and the feeling of secretly executing these disguises without any of the household members noticing was unbearably delightful. Standing before the mirror, that sensation of slathering white powder across my face as though becoming a circus clown—it truly possessed a peculiar and mysterious allure all its own. I thought I understood for the first time the feeling women have of wasting long hours in front of their dressing tables.

Having completed my disguise, I hid my grotesque figure beneath the rickshaw’s hood and set out for the secret meeting place to make it by the appointed time of 8 PM.

The meeting place had been set up in a wealthy man’s mansion in Yamanote.
When the rickshaw arrived at the mansion’s gate, I did as I had been instructed beforehand—signaled to the man keeping watch in the gatekeeper’s hut—and proceeded along the long stone-paved path toward the entrance.
The arc lamp’s light cast my strange figure in a long shadow across the white pebble path.

At the entrance stood a boyish-looking man—undoubtedly hired by the club—who, without showing any suspicion toward my appearance, silently guided me inside.
Passing through a long corridor and entering a Western-style grand hall, I found members and the ladies serving as their partners already scattered about—some standing, others walking, still others sinking into sofas.
Hazily blurred lamplight illuminated the spacious, splendid room like a dream.

I sat down on a sofa near the entrance and scanned the room to locate any acquaintances.
However, what skillful disguisers they were!
The nearly ten men who were undoubtedly members appeared as if they were complete strangers—from their builds to their gaits—I recognized nothing about them.
Needless to say, their faces were concealed by uniform black masks, making it impossible to distinguish one from another.

Others I might overlook, but surely I should be able to recognize my old friend Inoue Jirou no matter how skillfully he disguised himself—or so I thought as I peered around intently. Yet even among those entering the room one after another after me, I could not spot anyone resembling him.

What an uncanny night that was.
In the hall colored like tarnished silver, upon parquet floors with a dull luster, seventeen men and seventeen women—each devising varied disguises and wearing identical masks—sat in sullen silence. Some remained motionless while others squirmed restlessly, as if awaiting some bizarre incident to erupt at any moment.

Now, if I describe it in this manner, dear readers may imagine a Western-style masquerade ball, but it was nothing of the sort. The room was Western-style and the people were mostly dressed in Western attire; yet just as this was a Western-style room within a Japanese mansion and these were Japanese individuals wearing Western clothing, the overall atmosphere remained distinctly Japanese—bearing no resemblance whatsoever to Western masquerade balls.

Their disguises were extremely skillful in concealing their identities; however, they were all either too plain or too crude—ill-suited to the name "masquerade ball." Moreover, the women’s demeanor—walking with an oddly timid air, swaying delicately—bore no resemblance whatsoever to the lively appearance of Western women.

When I looked at the large clock on the wall, the appointed time had already passed, and all members had gathered.
Inoue Jirou had to be among them—this thought made me strain my eyes once more as I examined each person’s bizarre appearance one by one.
Yet though I spotted two or three suspicious figures among them, none could be definitively identified as Inoue.
The shoulders of a man wearing a coarse checkered suit with a matching hunting cap bore some resemblance to his.
Then again, a man clad in a dark reddish Chinese-style robe and hat, deliberately letting a long braided queue hang down, also seemed reminiscent of Inoue.
No sooner had I considered this than the gait of another man—dressed in a snug black undergarment that clung to his body, his head wrapped in black silk—appeared characteristic of that very man.

This may have been influenced by the dim lighting of the room.
Or perhaps again, as I mentioned earlier, it was because each and every one of their disguises had been executed with such exquisite skill.
But more than any of these factors, the masks’ ability to render people indistinguishable was truly terrifying.
That single black cloth—needless to say—was the primary element that gave rise to this uncanny and eerie spectacle.

As we probed and suspected one another while maintaining this strange pantomime of silence, the boyish man who had been standing at the entrance earlier entered the room. Then in a tone like someone reciting memorized text, he delivered the following announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for keeping you waiting. As the appointed hour has arrived and all members are present, we shall now commence with the first item on our program: the dance.”
“To determine your partners, please return the numbered tags previously distributed to you by handing them to me. I will call out each number, whereupon those sharing matching numbers shall form pairs.”
“Though it pains me to mention this discourtesy, as some among us lack familiarity with dancing, tonight please consider this not formal dancing but simply walking hand-in-hand to the music. Those unaccustomed to such activities need not hesitate—enjoy yourselves without reservation.”
“Lastly, once all pairings are complete, we will extinguish all electric lights in this room to enhance our atmosphere. We kindly request your understanding regarding this measure.”

This was likely just a verbatim repetition of what Mr. Iseki had ordered, but even so, what an utterly bizarre directive it was. After all, this was one of the Twentieth Day Club's madness-steeped events, but wasn't the dosage perhaps slightly excessive? When I heard that explanation, I felt an involuntary shrinking sensation of dread come over me.

Now, as the boyish man read out the numbers, we thirty-four men and women lined up there together, just like schoolchildren. And thus seventeen pairs of men and women were formed. Even among the men themselves, none could tell who was who—let alone discern the identities of their assigned female partners. Each pair exchanged masked glances under the dim lamplight, fidgeting as they warily assessed one another. Even these eccentric devotees of the Twentieth Day Club stood frozen in hesitation.

The woman who stood before me through our shared number wore dark Western attire, an old-fashioned thick veil, and had a mask fastidiously layered over it. At first glance, she carried herself with a demure demeanor ill-suited to such a place—but whether she was a professional dancer, an actress, or perhaps a respectable young lady—given Mr. Iseki’s earlier remarks, she couldn’t possibly be a geisha—I had absolutely no clue.

But as I continued observing, I began to sense a vague familiarity in the woman’s physique.
It might have been a trick of perception, but that silhouette was one I had encountered somewhere before.
While I stared at her thusly, she appeared to share the same suspicion—intently examining my figure disguised as a long-haired painter while seeming profoundly unsettled.

At that moment, had the gramophone begun rotating a little later, had the electric lights gone out even a moment later, I might have already seen through the partner who would later shock and frighten me so. But regrettably, just when I was on the verge of doing so, the hall plunged into darkness all at once.

Since everything had abruptly turned pitch black, I had no choice but—or perhaps finally mustered the courage to—take the woman’s hand.
She in turn entrusted her supple wrist to mine.
The tactful host, deliberately avoiding dance music, put on a record of quiet string ensemble music, so both those who knew how to dance and those who did not began circling through the hall uniformly as amateurs.
Had there been even a sliver of light present, they would have grown self-conscious and been utterly unable to dance—but thanks to the host’s considerate arrangements leaving them fortunately in darkness, both men and women began dancing with unexpected vigor. So energetically did they move that eventually, the clattering of countless footsteps and ragged breathing resounded up to the hall’s ceiling.

At first, the woman and I held each other’s fingertips from a distance and walked with restraint, but gradually drew closer until her chin pressed against my shoulder and my arm encircled her waist, our bodies pressed tightly together as we became engrossed in dancing.

Three

In all my life, I had never experienced such a peculiar sensation.
It was a pitch-dark room.
Across the smooth parquet floor there, our footsteps raced in a strange rhythm—clack-clack-clack-clack—like countless woodpeckers tapping against tree bark.
And a record of string or piano music—unsuitable for dance accompaniment, rather macabre—resounded as if from the depths of the earth.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I could dimly see the many heads squirming within the high-ceilinged hall—appearing even more numerous due to the gloom.
This spectacle—of figures flickering and intermingling around several thick pillars that stood like giants throughout the hall—created a sensation of such unparalleled strangeness that one might have likened it to a hellish banquet.

In this fantastical scene, I found myself dancing hand in hand with a woman who felt somehow familiar yet whose identity I could not recall.
And it was neither dream nor illusion.
My heart was throbbing violently with a strange sensation that was neither fear nor joy.

I was at a loss as to what attitude I should adopt toward the woman.
If that were a prostitute, any manner of impropriety would be permissible.
But she certainly didn’t seem to be that sort of woman.
Then again, could she be a professional dancer or something of that sort?
No—no, if she were such a person, she was far too demure, and moreover, didn’t she seem entirely unfamiliar with even the basic decorum of dance?
Then, could she be a respectable young lady or perhaps someone’s wife?
If that were the case, then Mr. Iseki’s current method was far too meticulously planned—indeed, one would have to call it rather a sinful deed.

While I busily pondered these matters, I kept walking around with everyone regardless. Then came the shock—as we moved like this, one of the woman’s arms slid toward my shoulder with startling boldness. What’s more, this wasn’t the calculated gesture of a coquette nor a young girl’s bashful advance toward her beau—it felt effortlessly familiar, executed as naturally as breathing.

From her mask drawn near, a light, fragrant breath grazed my face.
Her smooth silk garment brushed supplely against my velvet clothing with an uncanny sensation.
This attitude of hers abruptly emboldened me.
And so we continued dancing wordlessly, exactly like lovers.

What further astonished me was how, peering through the darkness at the other dancers beyond us, they too were moving in the same fashion—or even more boldly—in a manner utterly inconceivable between strangers meeting for the first time.
Good heavens, what absolute madness was this?
Unaccustomed to such affairs, I suddenly felt an eerie dread at myself—whirling madly through the blackness with this unknown partner.

Eventually, at the very moment when all the dancers grew weary, the gramophone’s music abruptly ceased, and the voice of the boyish man from earlier was heard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, preparations for drinks have been made in the next room.
“Please kindly take some time to rest over there.”

As the voice spoke, the partition door swung open to both sides, and a dazzling beam of light suddenly struck our eyes.

The dancers, while sensing the host’s meticulous consideration, nevertheless entered the room one pair at a time, hand in hand, without uttering a word.
Though it couldn’t compare to the grand hall, this still fairly spacious room contained seventeen small dining tables draped in pure white cloths, neatly arranged.
Following the attendant’s guidance, I and my wife took seats at a table in the corner.
When I looked around, there were no waiters; on each table were placed two glasses and two bottles of Western liquor.
One was Bordeaux white wine; the other was undoubtedly prepared for the men, but it wasn’t champagne or anything of the sort—rather, a liquor of some indescribably strange flavor.

Before long, a strange banquet commenced.
Forbidden from uttering a word, we remained utterly silent like mutes, filling our cups and drinking, filling and drinking.
The women too bravely took up their wine glasses.

The liquor appeared to be rather potent, and before long I felt intense intoxication take hold.
As I poured wine for the woman opposite, my hand trembled like one gripped by malaria, making the glass rim clatter repeatedly.
I nearly shouted something absurd but caught myself and sealed my lips in panic.
The masked woman before me lifted with one hand the black cloth that covered even her mouth, demurely refilling her cup again and again.
She too must have become intoxicated.
The beautiful skin exposed beneath her mask had already turned crimson.

As I kept watching her, I suddenly recalled someone I knew well. The line from her neck to shoulder grew more and more like that person's the longer I looked. Yet there was no conceivable way that person could have come to such a place. That initial sense of vague recognition had likely been nothing but a trick of my mind. After all, this world contains people who resemble each other down to their very faces. Merely having similar posture didn't warrant rash conclusions.

Be that as it may, the wordless drinking party now appeared to have reached its peak.
Though no one spoke, the room grew strangely boisterous with the clinking of glasses, rustling of garments, and wordless murmurs.
Everyone appeared extremely drunk.
Had the attendant’s announcement been even slightly delayed at that moment, someone might have cried out.
Or perhaps someone might have stood up and started dancing.
However, Mr. Iseki’s instructions proved true to form.
The attendant appeared at the most opportune moment.

“Ladies and gentlemen, once you have finished your drinks, kindly make your way to the dance floor.
“The music has already begun over there.”

When I listened closely, from the neighboring entrance came the resounding of a lively—or rather, clamorous—orchestral music, completely transformed from before, as if to entice the drunken guests.
The people filed back into the grand hall as if lured by the music.
And thus began a dance many times more frenzied than before.

How should I describe the spectacle of that night? A deafening noise; countless whirling figures in the darkness that seemed to scatter sparks; senseless roars—with my pen, I could never adequately depict that scene here. Not only that, but I myself, having lost my senses to extreme drunkenness brought on by the movement of my limbs, had almost no memory of what antics people—or even I myself—had performed.

IV

Awakening with a burning thirst in my throat, I abruptly opened my eyes and realized the room where I had been sleeping was not my usual bedroom. So then—had I danced myself to exhaustion last night and been carried into this house? Even so, where in the world was this house? When I looked, a call bell cord extended to within reach beside my pillow. Putting that aside for the moment, I thought to call someone and ask, so I reached out toward it. But then I noticed—there beside the tobacco tray lay a stack of Japanese paper, with something scrawled in pencil on the topmost sheet. Driven by curiosity, I casually picked up and examined the hard-to-read kana characters, only to find that they were written as follows.

"You are truly dreadful. Even if it was the alcohol's doing, I never imagined you could be so rough. But there's no point in speaking of this now. I will treat it as a dream and forget. You must forget too. And keep this absolutely secret from Inoue. For both our sakes. I am leaving now. Haruko."

As I read through the letter, my sleep-fogged mind sharpened at once, and I understood everything. "Was the woman who partnered me Inoue Jirou's wife?" And an unspeakable remorse threatened to hollow out my heart.

Though I was heavily intoxicated, I remember it as if it were a dream. Last night, when the frenzied dance in the darkness reached its peak, that attendant quietly came to our side and whispered.

“Your car has been prepared.”
“Allow me to show you the way.”

Taking the woman’s hand, I followed behind the attendant.
(Why was she so obediently letting me lead her by the hand at that time? Was she also intoxicated?) A single automobile stood parked at the entrance.
Once we had boarded it, the attendant pressed his mouth to the driver’s ear and whispered, “Number Eleven.”
That was our pairing number.

And then, we were probably taken to this house.
What happened afterward grew even hazier in my memory—I couldn’t recall it clearly—but the moment I entered the room, I seemed to have removed my mask.
Then, the woman let out an “Ah!” and suddenly tried to flee.
I could recall that as if it were a dream.
But even then, in my intoxicated state, I couldn’t deduce who she was. It was all the work of complete inebriation.
And until now—until seeing this letter—I hadn’t even known she was my friend’s wife.
What a fool I must be.

I feared the coming of dawn.
I felt like I could no longer show my face in society.
How should I behave when meeting Inoue Jirou next?
And how should I face Haruko herself?
I turned pale and alternately paced back and forth, consumed by irreversible regret.
Now that I think of it, I had harbored a suspicion about the woman partner from the very beginning.
Even though concealed by a mask and disguise, that figure was unmistakably Haruko.
Why hadn’t I been more suspicious?
Before becoming so intoxicated that I couldn’t discern her face, why hadn’t I been able to realize her true identity?

Even so, Mr. Iseki’s latest mischief—though he may not have fully understood the close relationship between Inoue and myself—must be said to have nearly crossed all bounds of normalcy.
Even if my partner had been another woman, it would still have been an unforgivable scheme.
What on earth was he thinking when he plotted such a wicked plan?
And then there was Haruko herself.
That a married woman with a husband like Inoue would not only dance with a stranger in the dark but remain silent even as she was brought to such a place—I had never known until this very moment that she was such an adulterous woman.
But that was all just my own selfish rationalization, I suppose.
If only I hadn’t gotten so utterly drunk like that, such an unpleasant outcome—one too shameful to face society—could have been avoided.

The indescribably unpleasant feeling of that moment could never be adequately conveyed no matter how much I wrote. In any case, I could no longer wait for dawn and left that house. And then, as if I were a criminal—though I had removed the white powder—I concealed my nearly unchanged appearance from the previous night deep beneath the car’s hood and set off for home.

V

Even when I returned home, my remorse only deepened; there was no chance of it ever fading.
To make matters worse, my wife—though from her perspective it was only natural—had shut herself up in a room under the pretext of illness and refused to show her face.
While eating the unappetizing meal served by the maid, my feelings of remorse had grown even more intense.

After calling the company to inform them of my absence, I sat at my desk and remained in a daze for a long time.
Though I was sleepy, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep.
Even so, neither reading books nor doing any other work was possible.
I was simply absentmindedly brooding over an irretrievable mistake.

As I continued to dwell on these thoughts, a single concern suddenly surfaced in my mind.

"But wait," I thought.
"In all seriousness—could such an absurd thing truly be possible?
It seemed strange that Mr. Iseki would devise an adulterous scheme like last night’s—and no matter how drunk I was, wasn’t it odd that I remained unaware of the woman’s identity until morning?
Hadn’t there been some trickery at play here—something designed to make me believe it against my will?
For one thing—that Haruko-san, Inoue’s wife—that demure wife—would attend the masquerade ball was hard to believe.
Ah—that was it!
The problem lay in that woman’s figure.
Particularly the line from her neck to shoulder.
Hadn’t that been Mr. Iseki’s clever trick? Finding a woman from the pleasure quarters who could pass for Haruko when masked wouldn’t have been so difficult.
Hadn’t I been completely fooled by such a body double?
And I might not have been the only one caught in this trap.
Hadn’t that wicked Mr. Iseki planned to make every member endure the same ordeal as I did at that suggestive dark masquerade—only to laugh heartily about it afterward?
Yes—that settled it!"

The more I thought about it, the more all the circumstances corroborated my suspicions.
I stopped brooding and, in a complete reversal from before, even let out a creepy, self-satisfied smirk.

I once again prepared to go out.
I was going to storm into Mr. Iseki’s place.
I had to show him how utterly unfazed I was and exact revenge for last night.

“Hey, call a taxi.”

I loudly ordered the maid.

From my house to Mr. Iseki’s residence was not a particularly long distance, and soon the car arrived at his entrance.
I worried he might have gone out to his shop, but since he was fortunately at home, I was immediately shown to his parlor.
When I looked—what on earth was this?
There, besides Mr. Iseki, three members of the Twentieth Day Club had all gathered and were chatting and laughing.
Had they already been let in on the trick, I wondered—or had these people alone not suffered the same ordeal as I?
While feeling suspicious, I nevertheless did not forget to put on a cheerful expression and took my prepared seat.

“Well, you had quite the time last night, didn’t you?”

One of the members called out teasingly.

"Oh, someone like me? I was a complete failure."
"You’re the one who must have had quite the time, didn’t you?"

I answered with perfect composure while stroking my chin.
How’d you like that? Bet you’re shocked! I thought to myself.
However, there was absolutely no reaction to that, and the words that came back from the other party were truly strange.

"But the one at your place is the newest among us, isn’t she?"
"There’s no way you didn’t have fun."
"Say, Mr. Iseki."

Then, instead of answering, Mr. Iseki burst into uproarious laughter.
There was something distinctly odd about the situation.
Yet telling myself I mustn't reveal any vulnerability here, I strained to maintain an even calmer expression.
But they paid absolutely no heed to my demeanor and kept up their clamorous conversation.

“But last night’s scheme was truly masterful, wasn’t it? Could it be that none of them realized those masked women were their own wives?”

“Like opening Pandora’s box of regrets, eh?”

Then they all laughed in unison.

“Of course, when first distributing the tags, they must’ve assigned matching numbers to each husband and wife pair—but even so, with that many people, it’s amazing there were no mistakes.”

“A mistake would’ve been disastrous,” Mr. Iseki answered. “That’s precisely why I took thorough precautions regarding that matter.”

“Even though Mr. Iseki had briefed them beforehand, those wives actually came! Since it was their own husbands, they might’ve tolerated it—but if they developed a taste for it and started carrying on like that with other men, it’d be unbearable.”

“Do you sense danger, then?”

And once again, laughter erupted.

As I listened to these conversations, I could no longer bear to sit still.
My face must have turned deathly pale.
Now I completely understood the situation.
Mr. Iseki had spoken with such confidence, but due to some error, only in my case had the partner been mistaken.
I had been paired with Haruko-san instead of my wife.
I had unfortunately, through sheer chance, fallen into a terrible mistake.

"But"
I suddenly noticed another terrifying fact.
Something cold trickled down my armpit.
"Then who on earth had Inoue Jirou been paired with?"

It went without saying. Just as I had danced with his wife, he had danced with mine. Oh, my wife was with that Inoue Jirou? I barely managed to keep myself from collapsing from dizziness. Even so, what a horrifying mistake that was. After exchanging only cursory greetings, I escaped from Mr. Iseki’s house. In the car, pressing my hands against my pounding ears, I found myself turning over various thoughts, clinging to a faint thread of hope that somewhere, somehow, there might still be a way out.

And when the car arrived home, what I finally realized was that matter of the number tag.
I got out of the car, rushed into the house, and searched through the pockets of the disguise clothes in the study to find that number tag.
When I looked, there, written in Western characters, was seventeen.
Now, as for our numbers from last night, I remembered clearly.
It was eleven.
I understood.
It was neither Mr. Iseki’s fault nor anyone else’s.
It was my own irreparable mistake.
When Mr. Iseki had given me that tag in advance, despite his repeated warnings not to make a mistake, I had carelessly failed to check it properly and, in the impassioned atmosphere of that venue, had seen it with a distracted state of mind.
And mistaking 1 for 7, I answered when called as number eleven.
But who could have imagined that a mere mistake in numbers would lead to such a catastrophe?

I could not help but regret ever joining that capricious club known as the Twentieth Day Club.

Even so, for Inoue to have mistaken that number as well—how utterly mischievous fate could be.
Probably, because I had answered when called as number eleven, he had mistakenly come to believe his own tag was number seventeen.
Moreover, Mr. Iseki’s numbers were written in a font that made 7 easily mistaken for 1.

As for what transpired between Inoue Jirou and my wife, comparing it to my own situation, it was not difficult to surmise. As for my disguise, my wife knew nothing about it, and they too were as drunk as madmen, just as I was. And the most damning evidence of all was my wife’s behavior—shut away in a room, refusing to show her face to me. There could be no doubt.

I stood motionless in the study.
I no longer had the strength to think.
All that seared through my head now were the abhorrent emotions I felt toward my wife, toward Inoue Jirou, and toward his wife, Haruko—emotions that would likely never fade for as long as I lived.