Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“How about here? Does it hurt?”

The doctor moved the probe quietly as he said this,

“It still doesn’t hurt here… Yes… How about this spot?”

Shinzo was watching the doctor’s face.
He seemed still young and inexperienced in clinical practice; when faced with symptoms that resisted treatment, his expression gave him away. Even now, sweat beaded on his forehead, and though he tried to maintain composure, his look of bewilderment remained unconcealed.
Up until today, X-rays had been taken three times and all manner of blood and urine tests completed.
The time had come to deliver the diagnosis, but his evident struggle with how to phrase it lay bare.

“That will be all. Please get dressed.”

Having said this, the doctor finally concluded the examination that had taken over forty minutes.
Shinzo slowly got dressed while casually observing the doctor’s movements—watching until he washed his hands, dried them, and returned with extremely hesitant steps… Then, when the doctor sat down and pulled the chart closer, Shinzo asked in an offhand tone:

“Has it progressed to the torso after all?”

“......”
The doctor stiffened.

“Is there still room for treatment?”

“When you say that...”
The young doctor put down the pen he had picked up and turned around as if dazzled,

“......Are you aware of your own condition?”

“I know to a certain extent.”

He had to dispel the doctor’s wariness; he relaxed into a comfortable posture and took out cigarettes.

“......Would you mind if I smoke?”

“Then let’s move over there.”

The doctor stood up from his chair as he said this,

“It’s rather cluttered but calmer here.”

After giving some instructions to the nurse, the doctor led him to the room adjacent to the examination room.
It was a study that also served as a guest room, with countless books filling two of its walls. Upon looking, there were many volumes on literature and history alongside specialized medical texts, as well as a fair number concerning ceramics and tea.
When he took a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the low tea table at the center of the room, one of the nurses soon brought in black tea.
“Have any patients wait when they arrive,” the doctor said dismissively, then pulled out cigarettes of an unfamiliar brand from his desk drawer and offered them.

“These were given to me; I hope you don’t mind.”

“Thank you.”

Shinzo gave a slight nod and lit his own cigarette.

“……It’s a quiet, pleasant room.”

“I’m thinking of blocking this window because it’s a bit too bright. My father built this house, but as it stands now, the glare makes my eyes sting and I can’t settle down to read.”

The two sipped their tea and talked for a while about preferences in study design.
Neither held any real interest in such matters.
Shinzo sought to shed his professional bearing toward the doctor, while the doctor wished to delay entering painful dialogue as long as possible.
But their conversation soon faltered.
Shinzo leaned back against the chair and began in a perfectly natural, light tone.

“The diagnosis of gas gangrene was made at a battlefield hospital. After returning home, I spent about half a year in a military hospital, but as you know, I felt no physical discomfort and wanted to quickly resume the work I had neglected during my deployment, so I was discharged. Then—about a year later, I suppose—when things remained unclear, my parents grew concerned and had me examined at two or three places. At that time, the issue seemed to be around the knee joint.”

“When was that exactly?”

“The winter before last—no, last February, I think—one doctor recommended amputation from the thigh, but my parents disliked that and continued having me treated by other doctors.”
“But I just can’t accept it.”
“Since there’s no prospect of treatment, they’re just doing symptomatic things—that’s how it feels.”
“So recently, at the medical department of K University—since it’s my alma mater—I had them examine me, and they said the current treatment should suffice. My parents seem to have heard something but are keeping it from me, and since I do think that’s likely the case, that’s why I’ve come to you.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“I read your paper published in Experimental Medicine—since our research themes aligned exactly and, judging from your writing style, I believed you would tell me the truth.”

“You read that kind of journal?”

The doctor countered but stood up without waiting for a reply. He lit the cigarette he had offered earlier for the first time, then turned toward the window as if wrestling with what stance to take, remaining silent for a while.

"Do you truly need to know the truth? Knowing it often invites adverse psychological effects—there are many such cases. You may not think so beforehand, but once one learns the truth, generally—"

“Ah, I know.”
Shinzo interrupted with a smile,

“...But this isn’t about curiosity, anxiety, or fear—I have an imperative. For my current work. I must know precisely how long I can continue it.”

II

The doctor sat in the chair and took hold of the black tea cup. However, without drinking it, he lowered his eyes as if pondering something, then eventually looked up at me with an air of resolution.

“When you were told to amputate from the thigh, you should have done so. Now... I regret to inform you there’s no treatment left to offer.”

Shinzo attempted to smile but failed. He stubbed out the shortened cigarette in the ashtray and drew a deep breath to steady himself.

“So, in your opinion, how much longer do you think I can continue working?”

“That question is a form of torture for doctors.”

“But as I just said, I must know—no matter what… As fellow scientists, please give me a general estimate.”

“It depends on the nature of your work.”

“It’s experimental work. I’m conducting research on a particular issue in pathological histology.”

"Ah, so that's why you read medical journals," the doctor nodded as if voicing this thought aloud.
But answering Shinzo's question still seemed painful for him; he remained silent for a considerable time while staring downward.

"Such estimates are dangerous," he finally said in an oppressive murmur that seemed to cost him immense effort,

"I would say approximately four years."

"...Four years."

Shinzo retorted in a desiccated voice.

“That’s correct. I believe it will be neither shorter nor longer than that.”

Shinzo stood up to express his thanks and stopped at the stone steps after exiting the clinic’s entrance. It was a quiet side street slightly removed from the bustling thoroughfare, where the parched deserted road reflected June’s glaring sunlight. He took a deep breath and put on his hat—this settled everything. Such words surfaced in his mind—he felt there was something he must hurry to do, yet also felt everything had ended, that any further action would be futile.

“I thought it was strange—there’s always five or six cars parked out front,” a voice remarked.
Shinzo raised his eyes; the voices came from beyond the plank fence across the way.
“So it was a black-market restaurant after all. Figures.”
“Even a place like that has to resort to such things nowadays. What a wretched world we’ve become.”

Having heard that far, Shinzo finally began to walk.

He took the bus to Yamate Line Station and disembarked at Shinagawa. Checking his watch—two o'clock—he noted thirty minutes remained until his appointment. Exiting the ticket gate, Masako emerged from behind a pillar immediately to his right. She wore a Chichibu summer kimono woven with countless fine indigo lines interspersed with thick wisteria-hued stripes, her obi tied in a front-facing knot that displayed morning glories blooming across its white underlayer. Her pale complexion accentuated wide-set eyes that seemed carved from moonlight and lips whose full shape belied their intelligent contour—features harmonizing perfectly with indigos, navies, and violets. Shinzo's eyes narrowed fractionally; Masako perceived his appraisal of her beauty and smiled instinctively, caught between maidenly modesty and quiet triumph.

“My errand ended sooner than expected.”
Masako began walking close to Shinzo.

“...When I came, it was only half past one, so I was at a loss. I thought about resting somewhere, but there’s nothing like a café around here...”

“I’m sorry,” Shinzo interrupted Masako bluntly,
“...I can’t go on the trip today—something came up. A friend’s returned home, you see. We’re holding a welcome party for them tonight.”

Masako looked up at him in surprise.
Shinzo came to a halt, his eyes—vacant as if in a daze—fixed on some indeterminate point in the distance.

"You must return to Chigasaki," he said without turning toward her,

"...I might make it tomorrow—or perhaps the day after. No—more accurately,I believe I'll likely return tomorrow."

"Yes."
Masako nodded obediently,

“...Then I will return at three ten. Is there anything you require?”

“No—nothing at all.”
Shinzo looked at Masako then for the first time—eyes unfocused, pupils terribly vacant—and flustered as if caught off guard, he turned away hastily. “Well... I have an appointment,” he said, then strode off toward Shiomizaka in large, fleeing steps.

Masako felt indescribable disappointment—an irrepressible sadness as though betrayed. The handbag in her right hand suddenly grew heavy; her body felt languid like after prolonged bathing.
And as she began walking mechanically toward the ticket gate—“Ms. Hashimoto!”—the voice called from behind. Startled, she turned to find Shinzo; he must have run after her, face glistening with sweat, glaring her way.

“Please forgive me—I’ve truly become unable to extricate myself. I’m sorry, but try not to take offense.”
Without waiting for Masako’s response, he turned back.

III

When she returned to the house in Chigasaki, her nephew and niece, who had been playing in the sandbox in the garden, came running.
Matsuyo, her sister-in-law, had been preparing the evening meal but came out looking puzzled upon hearing the children’s voices.

“Oh my, what happened? The trip was canceled...”

“I’m home. Well, Dr. Murano’s circumstances changed abruptly. Where is Brother?”

“He’s still at the laboratory.”

“I bought the microscope slides, so I’ll just go put them away.”

Masako took a paper-wrapped package from her handbag and crossed the garden.

After dinner ended, her brother Seigo complained of a headache and retired early.
Masako went into her room and sat at her desk, but her heart felt heavy as if weighed down, while an inexplicable loneliness welled up within her, making it impossible to stay still... She knew the reason all too well.
Today had been Masako's long-awaited day.
The plan had been to travel with Shinzo to Kamisuwa—a journey that carried implications for determining her future.
That morning, both her brother and sister-in-law had seen her off with their blessings.
But Shinzo had abruptly canceled it.
He had claimed it was due to a friend's homecoming, but she knew this wasn't true.
There might well have been a returned friend; the welcome party might even have been real—but those weren't why he'd called off their trip. Through a lover's intuition, Masako understood this perfectly... Through a lover's intuition—for yes, Masako loved Shinzo Murano.

Masako had moved into this house with her brother and his wife in the summer following the year the war began.
Seigo had been commuting to the laboratory in Chigasaki even before then, but after Shinzo was drafted and left for the continent and his parents retired to their hometown in Akita Prefecture, the family moved there together to continue the laboratory’s work during his absence.
……The research subject was “cancer.”
While medical researchers worldwide have proposed various theories about what causes cancer to develop, no definitive proof has yet been established; during his school years, Shinzo had conducted research in pathological histology where upon taking muscle tissue from healed wound areas—specifically recovered cuts—and examining their cross-sections under the microscope, he discovered that the cellular structures differed from healthy tissue, assuming consistently imperfect forms; moreover, these closely resembled cancerous tissue. Though many organs can develop cancer, the uterus and stomach rank as common sites—the former frequently occurring in multiparous women, the latter typically following gastric ulcers; in other words, both locations had previously sustained wounds. When wounds heal, the imperfect cells formed during this process might transition into cancerous tissue for reasons yet unknown—in simple terms, this was the central theme of Shinzo’s research.
Masako lacked medical knowledge and thus could not assist with the research itself, but upon moving to Chigasaki, she immediately began helping her brother at the laboratory every day.
She took care of laboratory rabbits, monkeys, and guinea pigs; organized cards and statistical tables; and transcribed manuscripts, but soon became able to operate the microtome and perform cell tissue staining for microscopic examination.
A microtome is an instrument that freezes muscle samples using carbon dioxide mist or processes them through alcohol, then cuts them into thin slices of five or six microns; as one grew accustomed to it, the work became increasingly engaging, and slice preparation became almost exclusively Masako’s responsibility.
……Shinzo was soon wounded in the war and returned to the mainland; upon receiving news that he was at a military hospital in Hiroshima, Masako went with her brother to visit him and met him for the first time.
At that moment, he grasped Masako’s hand with startling strength,

“I learned about you through a letter from Mr. Hashimoto. From now on, I’ll likely be the one causing you trouble—please bear with me.”

It was an utterly ordinary greeting, yet Masako found herself strangely given an unforgettable, profound impression and felt intensely drawn to him.
About half a year later, Shinzo returned to Chigasaki, and from then on, the three of them continued their work with a tightly knit camaraderie, as though forming a scrum.
Her brother, whose health was not particularly robust, would return home by five o’clock, but Masako continued working at the laboratory with Shinzo even after dinner.
There were times when they worked past midnight; how delightful those moments were when they finished their work and drank black tea together, just the two of them… After removing their work clothes and moving to the study, Shinzo would take out sweets (if available) and fruits, while Masako boiled water and prepared the tea. Then they would sink into low armchairs, slowly sip their tea, and nibble on sweets. The surroundings were hushed and utterly silent. Enveloped in the satisfaction of completed work and a pleasant weariness, they would drift into a daze, exchanging smiles and engaging in idle chatter for no particular reason. On one occasion, Shinzo suddenly closed his eyes, tilted his face upward, and murmured these verses:

Throughout his life he by candlelight—
loved to read by its flame
He would often cup his hands around that flame
that he was alive
to confirm he was indeed alive
When he died,
He has placed a burning candle beside himself, but both hands remain hidden.
(Translated by Mr. Daigaku Horiguchi)

That was a poem titled "The Tip of the Flame" by the South American poet Supervielle.
And from then on, Shinzo would frequently read that poet’s works aloud to her.

IV

Before long, the air raids intensified.
Multiple times a day they had to abandon their work and leap into air-raid shelters—hearing the terrifying sound of plummeting objects, being jolted by bomb explosions’ tremors, getting strafed by fighter planes’ machine-gun fire.
Amidst such terror-filled moments, Masako realized she had begun loving Shinzo.
And at that very moment of self-awareness, she also knew for the first time that Shinzo had loved her too.
Neither spoke it aloud nor showed it in their mannerisms, but living under nearly round-the-clock confrontation with “death,” the two clearly understood their hearts had become tightly bound.
……The exhilaration when the war ended remained unforgettable; that night Shinzo talked alone with Masako late into the night in the laboratory’s study.

“Now our fight begins.”

He said this repeatedly.

“From today onward, this work ceases to be my personal side pursuit—this madness of destruction and cruelty… I saw it with my own eyes on the continental battlefields… To atone for that destruction and cruelty, I devote myself to this research.”

He paced incessantly around the study with an air of being incited,

“Please continue to help me from now on—and there’s one more thing I’d like to discuss…”

He began to say but then clamped his mouth shut.

When February arrived this year, talk emerged of taking a recuperative trip to Kamisuwa.
From his tone, Masako sensed that what he had started to say—"There’s something I need to discuss"—on the night the war ended would finally be spoken during their trip.
The plan had been delayed for various reasons but was finally about to be realized; having been seen off by her brother and sister-in-law, they had left the house—but it was canceled just one step before departure.

Something had happened.
Masako thought. "...And that wasn't normal either. The facial expression and voice had changed terribly—as if he were a different person."
Something must have happened; that night lay awake until dawn gripped by suspicion and fear.

The next morning, her brother Seigo did not get up.
He complained of a headache, fever, and general fatigue, and announced he would rest for two or three days.

“I feel like I’ve been poisoned, but it’s probably just a cold—the night before last was a bit chilly…”

He asked Masako to continue handling his current responsibilities. ……It was a clear day; the garden spanning approximately five hundred tsubo lay divided by hedges of climbing roses—the main house stood to the south and the laboratory building to the north. Constructed around late Meiji era by an unnamed German man according to accounts, this sturdy two-story wooden structure featured a broad terrace stretching from east to south and contained a five-tsubo concrete basement that might have once served as a sake storehouse.

Currently serving as both cold storage for experimental materials and a pantry for food and drinks… Masako entered the laboratory alone, her heart clouded with gloom and her mind still unclear after a sleepless night.

Opening the north window revealed a vacant lot of about one hundred tsubo; Shinzo had purchased it immediately after the war’s end, and plans had been made to construct a new laboratory there.

“My father gave me the money.”

With that, Shinzo showed Masako the bank passbook.

“He said to use it for anything. Of course, I can’t claim this will be sufficient, but building anew should make things somewhat more convenient.”

And he was busily collecting various building designs, looking thoroughly engrossed.

“The new laboratory”

Masako murmured absently. In the vacant lot where summer grasses grew vigorously, refreshing morning sunlight streamed brilliantly. Among the thicket, evening primroses were already visible.

"When the laboratory was built," she murmured absently, "we'll propagate those evening primroses throughout the garden. Then in the evenings we'll set out a table among the flowers and have our meals."

Muttering this to herself in an intoxicated daze, she imagined—the new building; clusters of evening primroses blooming wildly; their figures seated for dinner amidst those blossoms.

"But will this truly come to pass?" The doubt constricted her heart. "Could this trip's cancellation become our love's undoing?"

Such doubts took deep root and constricted her heart.
The task her brother had requested—taking microscopic photographs—was not particularly difficult work, but with her mind unsettled, she kept making trivial mistakes. By evening, she had completed less than half of what she had planned.
After eating dinner, though overwhelmed by intense fatigue and drowsiness, she returned to the laboratory wanting to wait for Shinzo’s return.
Yet she found no energy to work—listlessly fiddling with card boxes or sitting lost in thought on chairs—until finally giving up and returning home to sleep when midnight passed.

The next day too, Shinzo did not return. When her brother Seigo’s fever rose and was accompanied by severe joint pain, she called a doctor. The doctor,

“It’s still unclear—it may well be typhus—”

With that, he gave instructions for treatment, saying he would promptly inform them of the stool test results, and left.

Something like bad luck had begun to stir.

Masako thought,
"If I don't stay composed, something irreparable might occur. I must steel myself and remain resolute."

V

Shinzo awoke from intense thirst.
He reached out, took the water pitcher by his pillow, and abruptly gulped down the water straight from its mouth.
He reached for a cigarette, but there were none left in the box. Reluctantly propping up his upper body, he searched the ashtray for a half-smoked one, lit it, and inhaled greedily.

The room was dark, but the sun must have risen considerably already—rays of sunlight streamed through the gaps in the shutters.
The remnants of drunkenness likely remained—his chest and head felt heavy as mud.—What day was it today?
He thought this again as he lay back down—everything dissolved into chaos and incomprehension. When he closed his eyes tightly, he heard a voice saying, "Even mansions like that have to run underground eateries these days—what wretched times we live in." —That was right—the voice he'd heard outside that doctor's office. Then it struck him—he invited that street-savvy friend from Osaki out and kept moving from bar to bar, drinking relentlessly.
I had to forget everything—obscure my reason, paralyze my capacity for thought—I drank with that sole purpose.
He retained hazy memories up until the second night, but after that—where he went or what he did, where he parted ways with his friends—none of it remained clear.

“I have to go back.”

Shinzo muttered.
He had thought this many times, but each time he recalled Masako waiting, he found himself unable to return.

"But now I really must return."

And then, he discarded the cigarette that was about to burn his fingers, pushed himself up, and pressed the call button.

When he stepped outside into the quiet residential area on the elevated ground, the sound of Chopin’s "Raindrop" Prelude being played on a piano reached his ears. Through white lace-curtained bay windows, porches adorned with rose pots, and lawn gardens where dogs lay sprawled out revealed themselves to his view. Upon turning the corner, Shinzo recognized this as Omori—a place where a close friend from his university medical school days had once lived down one of those backstreets, if memory served. Though the recollection surfaced, he felt no urge to visit, instead dragging his leaden feet straight toward the station.

The time during which intoxication numbed his reason did not last long. When Shinzo sat down in the nearly empty second-class car of the train he had transferred to in Yokohama—with only twelve or thirteen passengers—his heart was once again overwhelmed by terror of death and despair. His chest tightened as if pressed in a vise, and he was constantly assailed by a kind of breathlessness.

“Four years… Four years—my life will only last that long. Even now as I sit here, the bacteria are destroying my cellular tissue. Soon every organ will be invaded, my heart will cease beating, and I’ll lie there as a corpse. The sun will keep shining brilliantly, people will go on loving and enjoying their lives—but I’ll vanish from this world as nothing more than a handful of ashes.”

"Ah," he let out a low groan.
It would have been better not to know after all—such regret welled up, and he cursed the doctor who had given him the prognosis.

"When I underwent examination at the university’s medical department, my father must have been informed of this—that’s why he gave me that money. ‘Use it for whatever you like,’ he’d said. It was a sorrowful parental love, wanting to let me do what I wished while still alive, since I would die regardless."

He now understood his father’s feelings at that time—how excruciatingly painful and bitter they must have been. Unaware of anything, he had planned to use that money to build a new laboratory, take Masako as his wife, and proceed with his work at a leisurely pace.

"...But everything is already over. What can I possibly accomplish with only four years left? Both my work and Masako have slipped beyond my reach."

"I must sever all connections—at the very least, I must clearly separate Masako from myself,"

"...Yes—the four-year prognosis granted me one benefit. Had I remained unaware, I would have married Masako. That would have inflicted unnecessary grief upon her. Avoiding that alone made it worthwhile."

Of course severing an emotional bond grown this close would by itself require immense effort—yet precisely that effort held the meaning of sparing unnecessary sorrow.
Amid terror and despair, he had resolved firmly on that one thing alone.

When he returned to the house in Chigasaki, Masako came out to greet him.
Her complexion appeared slightly pale, but her lips bore their usual refreshing smile.

“Since all the friends I met were ones I hadn’t seen in ages, I was passed around from one to the next and got completely exhausted.”

While entering the study in the laboratory, he said as if making an excuse,

“I was supposed to come back sooner, but they’d all gathered to drink.”

“Shall I prepare some black tea for you?”

Masako hung his removed jacket on the wall and said this while putting a gown on him from behind.

“…I’ve received some lemons from our neighbor Mr. Murata—they’re such fine lemons with a fragrance so strong it might choke you.”

“Then let’s have some with Mr. Hashimoto. Is he in the laboratory now?”

“No, he’s been bedridden since the other day. At first we thought it was a cold, but the doctor mentioned suspicions of typhus, and today—what was it?—something about miliary tuberculosis…”

“Miliary tuberculosis.”
Shinzo stiffened and turned around.

“...That won’t do. I should go check on his condition.”

Still wearing his gown, he headed toward the main house.

Six

It was two o'clock in the morning.

He left the bedroom, entered the study, and took out a revolver from the back of the cupboard. It was something he had bought when he was drafted—though he had never used it once on the battlefield—and now it seemed it would finally prove necessary; when he opened the case, bullets were loaded inside. He checked the safety and peered into the muzzle; the cold touch and moderate weight strangely calmed his mind. He pressed the muzzle against his temple and mimed pulling the trigger—that would solve everything. He muttered such things, but soon turned to his work desk, turned on the lamp, and quietly placed the revolver there. Then he spread open his diary, took up his pen, and began writing each character with intense force.

I have received the verdict that my life will last only four more years.
The cause is gas gangrene; all means of treatment have been exhausted, leaving me only to await death. The research I've continued until now no longer stirs any passion within me...... I wrote of my conviction that I would likely commit suicide in the near future, and of my desire to calmly record—through a scientist's eyes—the psychological torment experienced by a human condemned to die, until that moment arrives.

When he grew tired, he would bring rum up from the basement, dilute it with water and drink it, then continue writing.
No matter how he wrote, he couldn't accurately capture his psychological state; writing and erasing repeatedly, he didn't even notice the night ending.
……The next night was spent in the same manner.

“Let’s suspend work until Mr. Hashimoto recovers.”

With those words, he halted the laboratory’s operations, spending his days largely asleep and continuing to write in his diary through the nights.

Masako couldn’t focus on anything through her anxiety and fear.
Though completely unable to discern the cause, there remained no doubt that Shinzo was distancing himself from her.
It was true—he meant to leave her behind. But why? Had he reevaluated who she was? Discovered some flaw as he neared proposing, adopting this attitude because he couldn’t voice his disapproval? —Or had he abruptly found another who captivated his heart? No—Masako could dismiss that final speculation alone. She understood precisely what manner of man Shinzo was; however many causes one might list, she felt certain this particular one must be excluded.—She needed to know the truth. If she could but learn the cause—and if it proved unavoidable—she would submit to leaving him.

“Is there no way to find out?”

Masako murmured time and again with a quivering heart,

“Should I ask him directly? If I do… would he explain it to me?”

Yes—perhaps Shinzo might tell me clearly.
But it was certain she lacked the courage to do so.
There must be some other method—something that could prove the truth more reliably than words... Thus Masako too spent days of similarly painful instability.

Two weeks after he took to his sickbed, they determined Seigo’s illness stemmed from cadaveric toxin contamination. During an experiment at K University Medical School’s dissection room, he had excised a stomach from a corpse that died of gastric cancer; the toxin had entered through a small wound formed on his fingers then.
Because Seigo had been unaware of this, when they identified it as cadaveric toxin, cachexia had already manifested and irremediable systemic wasting began.

For Shinzo, this was a double blow.
He had a professor from his alma mater make a house call and, through that referral, summoned two more physicians considered authorities—yet even during that time, Seigo’s decline progressed rapidly, his death arriving as though something had crashed down to its end.
...When Shinzo stood before Seigo’s corpse and heard the wailing of Seigo’s wife and two children, he felt with painfully vivid clarity how fragile life was—how precarious the act of living truly was.

"That's right—all human beings die. No matter what, there's no escaping death."

That night, while opening his diary in the study, Shinzo muttered with a darkened heart,

"...But what irony—I who received death's sentence remain alive while Hashimoto—the one I meant to entrust my research—lies dead. Now my work will be interred unfinished. Perhaps it would be cleaner this way... better if everything vanished without leaving a trace..."

One night, not long after Seigo's seventh-day memorial had passed, Shinzo summoned the widow Matsuyo to his study.

It was the rainy season—an evening when rain misted soundlessly. Matsuyo sat perched on the edge of a chair, her eyes red from crying kept downcast as she desperately tried to suppress the welling grief.

"I have no way to offer proper condolences, nor do I think there is any need for me to express such things."

He said in a low, murmuring voice,

“...The reason I asked you to come is that there was something else I needed to tell you.”

Seven

“Mr. Hashimoto sacrificed himself for my research, so I bear responsibility to care for you and your children—but circumstances prevent me from fulfilling that duty.”

“Please do not trouble yourself with such concern.”

Matsuyo lifted her eyes as she spoke.

"...Hashimoto perished through his own work—this isn't some sacrifice. I believe he died fulfilled—and I would never—"

"Please listen," Shinzo quietly interjected. "...Regardless of your feelings, I bear responsibility—responsibility I cannot fulfill. The sole redeeming factor is that Mr. Hashimoto had an insurance policy arranged before the war—I'd been paying into it from the monthly allowance I provided him. Yesterday I received the payout and deposited it at the bank—here it is."

Shinzo said while presenting the bankbook enclosed in an envelope.

“But I have never heard of such a matter before…”

“That must be because Mr. Hashimoto never anticipated dying so soon. In any case, as I mentioned earlier, I am handing this over to you. Please consult with your relatives and use it as the foundation to establish your future plans—there is absolutely no need for hesitation.”

Though Matsuyo couldn't fully come to terms with it, she found no reason to refuse; thus accepting the bankbook, she returned to the main house.

……Masako was sleeping alongside Seiichi, who was five.

“You—have you ever heard that your brother had life insurance?”

“Life insurance, you say?”
Masako quietly rose from beside Seiichi, who had finally fallen asleep,

“Well… I don’t recall hearing about such a thing, but has something happened?”

“Now that the insurance has been paid out, he’s gone and handed it over.”
Matsuyo said while placing the bankbook there,

“……He said he had consulted with Brother and had been paying the premiums from his monthly allowance since before the war.”

“What is the amount?”

“I haven’t looked at it yet. Masako, would you please take a look? I feel rather frightened.”

Masako took the bankbook out of the envelope and opened it; it was a trust deposit from a certain bank with a face value of 100,000 yen—a substantial sum.
……Masako’s eyes widened—and in the instant she saw the amount, she intuitively sensed an indescribable premonition.

“Oh my, what should we do?”
Matsuyo too was shocked when she saw the figure.

“...Such large premiums couldn’t have been paid from the monthly provisions we received. The insurance he spoke of was a lie, wasn’t it? Mr. Murano—you’re trying to save us, a mother and her children.”

“Sister-in-law,” Masako interjected, cutting off her words.
She assumed a posture as if staring at some fixed point and remained deep in thought for a considerable time,

“...You’re right, Sister-in-law—Dr. Murano is trying to save the Hashimoto family with this money. But I feel it isn’t just that alone—there must be something else behind it… Yes, there’s definitely another reason.”

That night, they decided to keep hold of the bankbook for now and went to sleep.
The kind of premonition that had arisen in Masako’s heart grew stronger with each passing day.
A sum of 100,000 yen was no trivial matter—he must have taken it from the funds meant for building the new laboratory. If that were true, one could only conclude he intended to halt the laboratory’s construction entirely. He had called off my marriage and abandoned plans to expand the research facility—could these two actions not have arisen from a single underlying cause?

"I must know."
Masako once again felt that desire intensely—I must know the true reason, and I should have the right to know it.

Masako resolved to speak directly with Shinzo and waited for an opportunity to arise.
But Shinzo did not give that opportunity.
Lately, it had become a habit not to leave the bedroom during the day; at night, the study’s light remained lit through till morning.
He no longer even attempted to conceal the attitude of avoiding Masako; even when spoken to, replies were often unsatisfactory.

During this time, the rainy season ended, and scorching midsummer days arrived.

Eight

It is said that humans can grow accustomed to any abhorrent condition—Shinzo sought to build inertia against terror by meticulously dissecting and objectively documenting his own psychology.
But this proved impossible—though one might grow accustomed to every abhorrent condition, humans cannot acclimate to the terror of death. As if demonstrating life’s tenacity and its fundamental ferocity, it ceaselessly pinned down thought and dragged it about.

He always kept a handgun on his desk but knew he could not press its muzzle to his forehead unless that terror abated—suicide was either impulsive or the culmination of nihilism and weariness. Had he acted when the doctor had first declared four years, he might have succeeded—but having missed that opportunity, he now had no choice but to await the latter case.
The terror of death was none other than a fierce craving for survival; Seigo Hashimoto’s death had momentarily quelled that terror, but soon it surged back with redoubled force—the obsession to live, the desire to love—they ceaselessly dominated him without respite.

After a fierce thunderstorm in the afternoon came an evening cooled by breezes crisp as autumn.
Shinzo went for a walk along the shore after dinner—a rare occurrence—where a seventeen-day-old moon hung at zenith, casting blinding light across wet tidal flats.
……Yet he soon abandoned his stroll—young couples sat nestled together or walked arm-in-arm across the sands everywhere he turned, their honeyed whispers and suggestive laughter grating against his ears—each sound amplifying his wretchedness.—They too would die someday—yet now they lived, bound fiercely to lovers brimming with vitality—this realization made prolonged endurance impossible—he retreated home as if fleeing.
Upon entering his study, he—as though performing some obligatory gesture—reached for his diary in the desk drawer but found it absent.
Though he always stored it neatly under lock, now both lock and diary were missing……He stood to search the desk—and discovered it beneath a newspaper.

Did I forget to put it away?
Shinzo tried to recall when he had left early that morning—but such actions had become so routine and half-unconscious that he couldn’t determine whether he had properly stored it or simply forgotten. ...I must be careful—if someone were to see it...
He gave a slight shudder, then sat back down in his chair, took up his pen, and opened the diary.

That night, he couldn’t write anything coherent—no matter how much he scorned himself, the crowd of youths he’d seen on the beach under the evening moon kept resurfacing in his mind, their whispers and provocative giggles lingering in his ears.
He tried making tea, tasted gin straight from the bottle, but soon succumbed to exhaustion and chaotic lethargy, flinging down the pen.
……The clock still showed just past twelve; he tried flipping through the diary with dismay, but every line seemed filled with exaggerated expressions—hollow, pretentious descriptions devoid of true feeling—until, overwhelmed, he shoved it back into the drawer.

Dragged down and disheartened, he left the study with the gait of a wounded beast.
However, the moment he opened the bedroom door, he nearly cried out and halted in the doorway.
The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft light through its blue shade; bathed in that glow from the side, Masako stood before the bed—and not only that—she wore nothing but a blazing crimson underrobe secured with a sash.
The defined curve of her waist and the taut fullness of her breasts were not so much sensual as they were proudly exposed.
She lowered her hands, raised her face, and gazed steadily straight at Shinzo.

“What’s wrong?”

Shinzo uttered these words in a parched voice that caught in his throat.

“...What does this mean?”

“I have come.”

Masako’s voice quivered too—

“...But I had no other choice.”

“You had no choice?”

“Yes—absolutely none.”

Shinzo realized Masako’s entire frame shook visibly. With immense effort to steady himself, he shifted from the doorway and silently gestured her away.

“Please leave now. You’re misunderstanding something. Please go back and rest before your sister-in-law notices.”

“I will not go back.”
Masako turned pale abruptly. “I will never go back—never.”

Nine

“You must have loved Masako.”

She continued, her voice trembling,

“...I loved you too. That day—what would happen if we went on that trip—not just I, but my brothers knew as well. No—you yourself must have known full well. I waited. Do you understand how painfully I waited? But you never told me to come. So I came here.”

“You don’t understand what you’re trying to do—if this—”
“No, I know.”

Masako vehemently interrupted him,

“...If you would but look upon these preparations of mine, you too should understand.”
“This is what my late mother had made for my wedding.”

“I can’t endure this conversation any longer. Please—I beg you—leave this place.”

“Even after I’ve pleaded this much, do you still intend to conceal the truth? Do you believe I remain ignorant of everything?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I have read your diary.”

“……Oh, you would…”

“I believed I would be forgiven—because you have loved me and I have loved you—Beloved Shinzo—Masako has read the diary.”

She said this and looked up at Shinzo as though challenging him, her breasts heaving as she panted,

“...I have finally understood why you began avoiding Masako—why you gave such a large sum from the funds meant for building the new laboratory to my sister... You learned your life would end in just four years—so you abandoned constructing the new institute and ceased our marriage plans.”

“For what purpose—on earth what necessity compels you to say such things?”

“Last August—at the war’s end—you said this,” Masako continued relentlessly,

“……From now on, this work ceases to be my personal side pursuit—I mean to dedicate this research to atone for maddening destruction and cruelty… I believe you’ve not forgotten uttering those words—and can you not remember that this work of yours remains unfinished?”

“My work isn’t something that takes form in three or five years—whether it’ll take ten or twenty, I haven’t even begun to estimate.”

“Then all the more reason we mustn’t waste a single day.”

Masako stepped forward.

“……You despair upon hearing your life has only four years left—but before resigning yourself to that despair, could you not consider how fragile human life is? How one never knows when death may come—whether thrown from trains, struck by automobiles, perishing through wholly unexpected tragedies… My ever-cautious brother’s death from cadaveric toxin stands as proof enough. Compared to such fates, might we not say four years stretches long as eternity itself? Even should completion elude you, think how much progress could be made in four years! And if this work—no mere personal endeavor, but an atonement for destruction and cruelty—is truly your conviction, then do you not bear responsibility to continue it at any cost?”

Shinzo was drawn to look at Masako’s face and listen intently to her words; Masako, staring at him with eyes blazing like embers, continued half-absorbed in her plea.

“Beloved Shinzo, accept me; teach me to better grasp your work. Should four years pass and you depart this world, I shall carry on your research in your stead. Beloved Shinzo, to truly inherit your work, let me bear your child. With our child, I will surely continue your legacy—accept me, make Masako your wife.”

It had become something like a scream.
And the moment she finished screaming, Masako resolutely stepped forward and threw herself into Shinzo’s chest.
Shinzo embraced her with both hands—the pungent scent of perfume and the sound of shuddering sobs seemed to fill the suddenly hushed bedroom.
Shinzo tightened his rigid, pale face, clenching his teeth as he listened to Masako’s sobs.

“...Thank you. You said what needed to be said.”

After a long while, Shinzo whispered softly,

“...Now was not the time for us to despair over personal feelings. If a life has only four years left, we must make those four years worth eight or ten through our work—Masako.”

And he said in a tone that bore into her,

“...But you won’t regret it, will you?”

Masako nodded through her tears and pressed herself fiercely against him.
Shinzo lifted her up and pressed his lips to hers—a kiss far removed from passion, one that held even a solemn gravity.
He went to the corner sofa, lowered Masako onto it, and made to move toward the doorway.

“Please don’t go.”

Masako screamed as if seized by terror.

“...Please do not leave me alone.”

“Just to the basement.”

Shinzo gazed intently at Masako and said,

“...I have champagne saved for tonight. I’d thought there would be no occasion left to use it—but now it serves its purpose. Let’s celebrate just the two of us. I’ll return straightaway.”