Pathway to Japanese Literature

Virginity

"Am I going to die here..."

With that thought, Kousaku feebly came to a halt.
When he braced one hand against the utility pole before him, the blazing sun's heat needled its way into his palm.

He coughed convulsively as though about to collapse while looking at his own shadow cast on the ground—wildly overgrown hair… unkempt beard… tattered summer kimono… rope belt with dangling knots… emaciated arm… bare feet caked in gray dust—the black silhouette crawling across sun-baked pavement like some storybook dwarf’s shade.

While staring at his feet he once more...

“Am I going to die here...”

Thinking this through gritted teeth he clamped shut bloodshot eyes.
In that suspended moment he felt—truly felt—the gargantuan earth spinning beneath wasted limbs.
Then beyond that whirling horizon’s edge they appeared: stark white capitals materializing against azure void—GENIUS PIANIST VIRGIN CONSUMPTIVE BEGGAR DEATH—each block letter plunging sunward in grim procession while fever-glazed pupils tracked their fatal parade.

...genius pianist...

...virginity...

...tuberculosis...

...beggar...

...death...

It was a marking of his own fate that only he himself knew. Born from innate timidity, it was the symbol of his entire life—this wish to die without knowing anything but music.

That what must destroy his weak body was none other than the opposite sex. That marriage must be the destroyer...that nothing but music could sustain his fragile soul—clinging to this conviction with tightly shut eyes and blocked ears, he had fled from them all: the doctors who abandoned his illness; kin; friends; mentors; young admirers of both sexes; every last member of society—vanishing utterly alone to return to the earth. This solitary pride...so noble...so wretched...this virgin's pride...whenever he recalled it, heat would flare behind his eyelids.
...Even now it was so...

“Hey... just a sec...”

When he thought he heard a sultry voice saying “Hey... just a sec...” right beside his ear, he jolted his eyes open. Rubbing his tear-dampened eyelids with one hand while regaining his fading consciousness, he timidly scanned his surroundings.

Where he had stopped was unclear—a narrow alley where fierce sunlight beat down in full force. With only the distant sound of a train slipping away, devoid of any passersby, the midsummer midday stillness hung so profoundly silent it seeped into the depths of his ears.

……A hallucination at death’s door, I wonder……

Faintly thinking this, he weakly closed his eyes once more, but soon an indescribably elegant fragrance seemed to undulate before his nose, causing him to start and open them again.
Then, almost simultaneously, from the dark alley before his eyes, a dazzling mass of beautiful colors slid out soundlessly and came to a swaying halt, radiantly suspended.

When he focused his eyes properly, it was a young lady wearing a plain white one-piece dress.
Wearing a blue hat, white socks with white shoes, holding a modest black parasol... Though pushing this handsome rattan baby carriage with its white linen canopy seemed incongruous with her appearance, to Kousaku's fever-addled eyes, such contradictions held no meaning.
He didn't even consider whether the owner of that sultry voice he'd just heard and the beautiful young lady before him might be one and the same...

When the young lady saw Kousaku's face, she laughed with glittering white teeth.
Rolling her long-lashed eyes amiably while rapidly uttering words, she pressed a fifty-sen silver coin into Kousaku's grimy hand and bowed with childish affectation.
Pushing the baby carriage toward him as she retreated into the opposite alleyway, her vanishing figure possessed an indescribable charm.

Kousaku remained dumbfounded, his gaze shifting between the dark entrance of the side alley and the glittering new fifty-sen silver coin in his palm, until at last he recalled the words the young lady had entrusted to him.

“Hey... Mister Wanderer.”
“Excuse me, but would you take this baby carriage all the way to the tram street over there?”
“Then turn right... go along the tram road as far as it goes... all the way to Suidobashi... okay? I’ll catch up with you soon... alright...”

Kousaku stared at the fifty-sen coin clutched in his palm, trying repeatedly to grasp the meaning of those words.
But within his brain adrift in the high fever’s haze, there existed no possibility of comprehending such strange utterances.
And so—still understanding nothing—while rubbing eyelids aching from the silver coin’s glare, he found himself grasping the baby carriage’s handle and had begun rolling it forward before realizing.

It was a conspicuously light carriage with delicate rubber wheels; atop the white linen quilt lay nothing but a single blue merino cloth bundle that appeared to contain a kimono or similar garment. For him—on the verge of utter exhaustion from illness—clinging to that handle and pushing the carriage felt far easier than staggering along empty-handed. At times he leaned too heavily on its handle, nearly tipping it over, yet like a man under hypnosis he staggered unsteadily out to the tram street. Bathing his entire face in the reflection from the white canopy, he pushed on and on along the dust-choked road.

Kousaku's appearance was more than enough to draw the eyes of passersby. The number of children following behind him grew with every step he took. Some children circled around to the front, taking turns peering into Kousaku’s face. Among those children, Kousaku caught sight of one irresistibly adorable face that so resembled what might be the young lady’s younger brother that he instinctively smiled. Then that child, startled, rounded their eyes into perfect circles and ran off. All the passing adults too turned to look back at Kousaku's figure. There was even an apprentice who deliberately jumped off his bicycle to follow along. Some even stuck their heads out of train windows and had their hats blown off. However, Kousaku remained utterly indifferent to such matters, his grime-coated neck hanging limply as he continued pushing the carriage feebly onward.

“Hey!”

When his shoulder was suddenly grabbed from behind, Kousaku reflexively came to a halt. The impact sapped all strength from his legs—he thudded down onto his backside—and then even the baby carriage he'd frantically tried to grab hold of tipped over sideways with a clatter, sending the blue bundle and white quilt inside tumbling out from under the canopy while still tangled together.

When Kousaku fell on his backside, the impact sent his vision spinning; propping himself up with both hands in the sandy dust, he slumped forward heavily. ...And...soon, amidst the thin dust rising from the feet of people gathering around him, he found himself choking—each breath coming in ragged gasps.

From above his head came the clattering sound of a saber and the hushed whispers of two men.

“This baby carriage, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.
This is definitely it.
The one Ruriko was pushing…”

“Shh... inspect the contents of the package.”

“Mm... Wait a moment... Ah... This is it, this is it... What she was wearing until just now... Look.”
“The gauze sash… the veil… ah… this topknot wig… Damn… She must’ve changed disguises somewhere.”

“Tch...” The plainclothes detective clicked his tongue.
Silently righting the baby carriage, he began inspecting its interior.

“Hey... hey...” The uniformed patrol officer prodded Kousaku’s back with the hilt of his saber.

“...You... this baby carriage... where were you told to take it...”

Kousaku heard the voice right by his ear, but found himself utterly unable to respond.
Just as his coughing had finally begun to subside, he had to hold his breath completely to steady himself, remaining slumped forward with both legs splayed out in perfect stillness.

“You there...!”

The patrol officer viciously kicked Kousaku’s tailbone with his boot tip.
Unbearable pain shot up to the crown of his skull, but with that impact came wave after wave of violent coughs until all sounds from the street faded into nothingness.

“Wait, wait...”

The man who appeared to be a plainclothes detective restrained the patrol officer and crouched down before Kousaku.

“Are you sick?”

During a lull in his painful coughing, Kousaku nodded slightly while looking up through lowered eyelids. The man—his sun-seared face sporting sparse black stubble beneath a pale gray Inverness coat—readjusted his new straw hat squarely on his head while peering into Kousaku’s face.

“...You were asked by a young woman to push this baby carriage all the way here...”

Kousaku nodded faintly.
While struggling to suppress his cough...

"Hmm—— So you remember her face... Right?... You do remember... Yeah yeah... You remember—— She had big eyes... small mouth... round cheeks... a double-chinned woman."
"Sensual at first glance... hmm... That woman's earlobe—— didn't it have a tiny hole?... Where she wore an earring... hmm... I won't stand for lies... got it?... And then——"

The man briefly paused his words. When the crowd behind him laughed at something, he appeared to turn around. Then, clearing his throat with exaggerated importance, he thrust his face close. He asked in an extremely low voice, audible only to Kousaku.

“...And then... *Ahem, ahem*... And then—that woman—when she entrusted you with the baby carriage—wasn’t she wearing Western clothes?... I say... Answer clearly... Right?... She was wearing a blue hat... dressed in white like a schoolgirl... carrying a black parasol... Trying not to stand out... Right?... Right?... That’s how it was... Mm-hmm.”
I thought as much.
The items bought yesterday exactly matched.
“Hmm… Now then—where did that woman flee to? You don’t know?... Right?... Which direction she went—if you know, tell me... I know it’s painful... Right?... Tell me and... I’ll feed you whatever you like... Tend to your illness too... Right?... Right?”

While Kousaku vividly absorbed this fervent, urgent tone through his ears, he found himself growing inexplicably afraid to respond. As his fever-addled mind gradually recalled the woman's face—one he'd nearly forgotten—his feelings toward her coalesced into a single surge of simple sympathy. That such an innocent, charming girl was being hunted down by the police in this manner now struck him as unbearably cruel—a terrifying reality. Vividly envisioning that girl in white clothes being handcuffed and shoved by officers before his very eyes, he nearly blurted out—"You've got the wrong person"—but those words were instantly swallowed back into the depths of his throat. With the roar of passing trains and car sirens assailing every nerve, while thin dust endlessly surged up from beneath the crowd's feet to attack his face, he found himself unable not only to speak but even to draw breath. All he could manage was a faint shaking of his head from side to side.

“Hmm. Don’t know... I see, I see... Then tell me where you received that money from her... Eh... Hey!... Where’d you get it... That money you’re clutching in your left hand now...”

Kousaku slowly unclenched his left fist coated in white dust. From between quivering slender fingers emerged a single new silver coin damp with sweat and gleaming. As he stared fixedly at it, a momentary resolve—“I mustn’t lie”—welled up within him. Without lifting his head, he tried to raise one hand toward the alley they’d just turned from when a searing pain pierced his chest and he felt all his blood surge upward to his face. Unexpectedly, his nose buzzed thick with a metallic stench as something dark went zhu—— swirling before his eyes, and before he knew it he was crawling on the dirt. Breathing in short gasps, he vomited gushing bright red blood.

The blood was absorbed by the parched dirt and rapidly darkened.
The intense sunlight reflecting on the blood's surface also slowly and deeply sank into the earth.
While watching this before his eyes, Kousaku arched his chest with every ounce of his remaining strength in an attempt to vomit fresh blood again.

“Ah! No no! It’s a contagion case! This one—”

Flustered, the detective-like man stood up.

“Agh—
“Tuberculosis! Tuberculosis!”

“What’s going on? What’s going on?”
“A street collapse?”

“Couldn’t it be sunstroke?”

“Stay back! Stay back! It’s contagious!”
“It’s contagious!”

While hurling curses in unison, both the surrounding people and the crowd shouted.

“You there—go fetch some water from around there.”
“Then drag this wretch further aside and throw something over him—anything will do.”
“We might question him again if he comes to... I’ll telephone headquarters from that greengrocer’s across the way.”
“I believe the woman remains nearby...”

While drifting through these urgent commands, Kousaku clenched his eyes tight and vomited blood anew.
Within crimson-caked lips...

“Water... water...”

He collapsed into a prone position while muttering.

……How many minutes had passed……how many hours had elapsed was unclear, but shortly after Kousaku regained consciousness, the conversation of two or three men came distinctly to his ears.

“……Was this man the lover of that foreign concubine Ruriko?”

“No.”
“That’s not the case.”
“I’ve been observing since earlier... He’s neither her lover nor anything of the sort.”
“This man was merely a vagrant suffering from severe tuberculosis who had collapsed upon reaching this state.”
“The patrol officer has gone to fetch labourers now... It appears that when this man was walking through the side street of the fourth block moments ago, the woman called Rashamen Ruriko entrusted him with this baby carriage and asked him to push it as far as the tram street.”
“A student who had been watching from a boarding-house’s second floor took the opportunity—while coming to check on this collapsed man—to report it to the patrol officer.”
“The student mentioned she apparently changed her disguise near the fourth block.”

“Huh… She disguised herself right in the middle of the thoroughfare?”

“Well... Regarding that particular detail—it seems the student didn’t actually witness it himself... but when the patrol officer heard this report, he became thoroughly delighted.”
“They’ve just now gone off together toward Manaita Bridge...”

“Huh——. What exactly is this Rashamen Ruriko woman?”

“It was in the papers two or three days back, wasn’t it? Didn’t you see it?”

“Ah...”
“I don’t know...”
“Which paper was it, that...”

“Well——”
“Which paper... Seems it ran in most of ’em.”
“About some Westerner from Yokohama—Mr. So-and-so—who went missing with his beautiful wife called Nobuko or such... big story...”

“Huh… Must’ve missed it… Haven’t been reading much lately, see… Huh——”

“...But this Mrs. Nobuko was actually a Rashamen specialist—she tried to kill that foreigner somewhere and make off with valuables before fleeing.”
“They detected her scheme and completely outmaneuvered her, forcing her to flee into Tokyo... Though the papers wrote she’d escaped toward Shanghai, that was likely the organization’s doing.”
“I see… So she isn’t some harmless woman after all.”

“What’s more, that Ruriko woman’s apparently a master of disguise.”
“After coming to Tokyo, she supposedly disguised herself as a young wife or such and went on the run pushing a baby carriage—but once the organization’s net started closing in, she changed into a Western-dressed young lady in that back alley, dumped the carriage—with her cast-off kimono and geta hidden inside—on this fellow here, sent it barreling this way, then vanished into thin air.”
“A damn reckless stunt if you ask me...”

“Ah, I see… So she slipped through the police cordon while the detectives staking out were busy interrogating this man.”

“That seems to be the case.”
“Just my speculation, mind… but she must’ve resorted to her final gambit.”

“Huh—— That’s astonishing...”
“But you’re remarkably well-informed… aren’t you?”
“Everything…”

“Hahahaha! No, no—
“Oh, it’s nothing.
“I tagged along when that detective rushed into the greengrocer’s over there to make a call just now and managed to overhear everything.”
“...being a household I’m familiar with...”

“Ah... I see... So there’s already a police cordon set up all around here, then.”

“Yes. Of course that’s the case.”

There, the conversation broke off and the surroundings plunged into silence—but before this realization could settle, a shrill child’s voice pierced through from at Kousaku’s feet.

“I saw that Ruriko woman go by.”

“What? Where...?”

“She was walkin’ by the lumber yard at Iidamachi Station. All prim-like...”

“Liar! You’d screw up somethin’ that obvious?”

“But it’s true... Mister... She had a blue hat ’n white clothes ’n a little camera.”

“Hmm. Her earlobes pierced?”

“Dunno ’bout earlobes... But she was real sharp-lookin’.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”
“Hey—”
“You shrimp.”
“There’s still hope for you!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Heh heh heh heh heh...”

Kousaku heard this laughter and quietly turned his head sideways as he started pushing himself up. Even amidst such derisive sounds, the vivid recollection of that girl—Ruriko’s innocent demeanor—made remaining still unbearable. He desperately wanted to meet her immediately—to warn about her compromised disguise while apologizing for having confessed everything to the detectives himself... Clutching this half-delirious wish to help her escape safely, he strained with all his might to rise from his prone position.

Supporting his upper body with both hands and staring wide-eyed, he discovered an inexplicable moist charcoal bale lying diagonally across his head. Where he’d apparently vomited blood earlier, white lime powder lay scattered about—its harsh, suffocating stench assaulting his nostrils in acrid waves.

Cold sweat dripped from his armpits.
Suddenly overwhelmed by unbearable shame, he pressed his forehead against the ground once more.

Then again, he had no idea how many hours had passed.
Where had he wandered about?
Not a single trace remained in his own memory.
Even the precious silver coin he had received from her had vanished from his palm without him noticing.

Yet whenever he caught sight of a young woman, he would stop as if suddenly remembering and fix his gaze.
He thought it might be Ruriko and peered intently up and down beneath the parasol… but… though occasionally there were women who somewhat resembled her, upon drawing closer, they all proved different.
Among them were also women who, noticing they were being watched by him, abruptly turned around midway and walked back.
Each time, he let out a faint sigh of disappointment and shambled onward once more.

That might have been his first love.

In the glistening, flickering light ahead of him, her face—with its large eyes, small lips, and plump features—would emerge, white teeth gleaming.
In the shade of a roadside tree stood the phantom of her innocent figure.
He clearly heard the secretive voice calling "Hey... wait a second" and found himself stopping in his tracks—not just once or twice.

...But... that too was a mere brief moment.
Even these persistent illusions of hers were increasingly erased by the intense physical pain closing in on him.

He was ravenous. He was utterly exhausted. He was parched to the point of scorching. The boundless scorching sky enveloping him and the endless white road guiding him—combined with his body's raging fever—parched his soul to dust.

For what purpose had he begun walking? He no longer understood what aim drove his faltering steps. Even when passing young women, he lacked the strength to turn his head. No—it would be truer to say he had ceased noticing them altogether. He no longer felt heat or cold, merely drifting forward like a daylight phantom with bowed head—even the will to halt himself had long since abandoned his flesh. The sole sensation piercing through was the putrid stench lingering in his mouth: blood vomited earlier now mingling with fever-thickened saliva into an unbearable reek—fishy and sulfurous—that no amount of retching could purge from his wretched chest.

Then again—he couldn’t tell how long he had walked—but when he came to his senses, he found himself lying spread-eagle on his back in a corner of wild grass growing in a vacant lot. And above his face stretched a paint-like blue sky that dissolved two or three wisps of white clouds while glittering brightly, its expanse pressing down upon him.

The grassland's surroundings were enclosed by large, deserted factories that appeared idle, and with just a brief glance around, he couldn't discern where any gaps might be or even how he himself had entered. The sun now appeared to be on the front side of the large structure toward which his head was oriented, its yellow light illuminating approximately one-fifth of the upper portions of the red brick and concrete houses lining beyond his feet while tinging their lower sections with cold purple shadows. At the end of the grassland to his left lay something pale blue stretched straight—likely a tennis court. Beyond them stood two or three poplars piercing through the building's shadow, their verdant treetops rustling with an air suggestive of the nearby suburbs as they gleamed in the western sun.

Before his nose lay piled haphazardly what appeared to be remnants of the earthquake disaster—red bricks and concrete fragments. From there across the entire grassland, crimson-rusted galvanized iron scraps, old newspapers, old buckets, rubber boots, old tires, straw hats and such were scattered in irregular calico patterns. All that remained were nameless creeping vines and spindly, elongated weeds thriving vigorously together.

He had apparently come there, slept for some time, and only now finally awakened. The pain in his chest subsided. He forgot both his hunger and his thirst, his mind becoming strangely clear. He quietly closed his eyes without even attempting to crush the ants squirming into his back. He tried once more to recall the day’s events, but within his consciousness—still as an ancient well’s water—not a single fragment of memory surfaced. He could only feel that his own emptied soul and enfeebled body had been cast out into the grassland. Amidst such sensations, he strained his ears—now quieted—without consciously trying to listen.

...In the distance came drifting various sounds.
The drone of trains, cars, airplanes, factory whistles...along with other melancholic...lonely noises of all kinds flowed into this vacant lot, creeping up to his ears pillowed on clumps of grass.

He immersed himself in that symphony of urban noise.
Without a single thought being formed, he found himself drawn toward it.

The endlessly arising melodies of new clamor... Tokyo's murmurs drifting up like wind... like water from near and far... Within this turbulence he discovered a profundity more compelling than any score he had ever composed.
Neither Constructivist nor Realist... A noise-symphony of "human culture" played directly by earth and firmament... Lying prostrate upon the ground while earnestly listening to this utterly sincere music... There he apprehended infinite new techniques.

It was at this moment that he first realized how small and cheap his own genius truly was—that genius he had once so deeply believed in and cherished.
And so he had stiffened to his very core from inexpressible emotion… His eyes fixed on the crimson sunlight crawling up the distant slate roof… His heart entranced by the elegiac tones of this earthly orchestra—the Metropolis at Dusk woven from subtle atonal notes that would never repeat, intertwining and layering as they played—now felt an unprecedented solace and happiness… Human music is all imitation.
…his own music too had been imitation.
…I was ultimately unnecessary… Even if I die, true music will continue repeating eternally like this upon the earth… Grateful… so grateful… Nostalgic… so nostalgic… Happy… joyful… Such feelings coalesced in his chest, and tepid tears overflowed naturally from his eyelids.
…The red sunlight… blue sky… white clouds… bricks swaying and flickering as they streamed one after another from both corners of his eyes.

Overcome by sentiment, he averted his weary gaze from the red sunlight. And at that very moment, his head—now utterly emptied by that surge of emotion—rolled limply from the clump of grass as if it no longer belonged to him.

In the blurred corner of his tear-blurred gaze, a small human figure entered—precisely in that moment.

It was light brown sailor pants crawling backward slowly along the tennis court's white straight line visible through gaps between overlapping grass stems before his eyes. That retreating figure appeared no larger than a bean-sized doll when compared to the grass stems before his eyes, yet this doll-like form—clutching what seemed to be a camera while tilting a brown-striped hunting cap toward two or three poplars—gradually grew larger as it cautiously withdrew into the grassland. When she reached the shadow of piled bricks and concrete before his nose, she suddenly crouched down into a four-limbed crawl. Lifting her hunting cap's brim, she removed Lloyd-style tinted glasses and stuffed them with the camera into her coat pocket before slowly raising her head from the grass to survey the vacant lot's surroundings. Scrutinizing each empty window while retreating deeper as if to conceal herself, she tried entering the thick madder grass before his feet—but when her laced boot tip struck his ankle, she startled and whirled around.

"Ah—"

The sailor-pants-clad figure emitted a small cry and tried to bolt away—but upon turning back to meet his calm gaze peering through the grass, she sank heavily into the foliage once more, remaining face-to-face with him. She pressed both hands sharply against blood-drained cheeks as her jaw quivered uncontrollably. Simultaneously, the hunting cap pulled low over her forehead slipped off with a dry rustle behind her, exposing bobbed hair.

This was unmistakably the Western-attired woman from before. Though she no longer appeared as youthful... with those large eyes... small lips... double chin... and earlobe marks from jewelry... she seemed a fully matured woman... yet no trace of sensuality could be found in her entire being. Suddenly gripped by nameless terror and despair, she stared at him with eyes gone white and wide, continuing to pant raggedly all the while.

“Ah... Ah... You’re... the... earlier...”

She uttered this in a raspy voice and swallowed hard.
She hunched her shoulders again and continued gasping.

He stared through the blades of grass at her expression with vacant eyes devoid of meaning.
His brain had gradually been pared down to a simplicity separated from death by mere paper's thickness.
Memories of the past and dreams of the future had completely vanished without trace, leaving only the capacity to accept present sensations as they were.
Even facing her like this, he lacked even the power to wonder why she seemed so startled... what she found so terrifying... merely confronting her with the indifference one might show toward a marionette.
The two continued glaring at each other like this for some time.
They stared wordlessly, gazes locked without blinking.
While sensing the grassland around them steadily sinking into dusk's depths.

She finally seemed to regain some composure within that strained atmosphere.
While her small lips quivered and trembled, she let out a fragmented, hollow voice.

"You're... a detective... aren't you?"

As she spoke while drawing her eyebrows taut, she made an unbearably anguished, despairing expression.

"...You're in disguise."
"...And then..." she uttered while swallowing hard again.
"I... you've been tailing me... haven't you..."

As she stated this bluntly, pearlescent tears began falling drop by drop from her large eyes.
Without attempting to wipe them away, she tightly clutched her own chest.

While looking up at her face through the blades of grass with calm, clear eyes, he managed a feeble smile.
A flush of crimson spread across her cheeks.
Her eyes began to glitter with hope.
Simultaneously, from her entire body began to emanate a sensual glimmer so vivid it remained clearly visible even in the gathering dusk.
Precisely because she was dressed as a man, it appeared all the more exposed.
As he watched, she suddenly began making stiff, artificial bows.
Without wiping the tears on both cheeks, she aligned the fingers of her pale hands, pressed her bobbed head into the grass, and prostrated herself before him again and again.
She let out a voice as earnest and pitiful as a beggar's.

"Master, Master, Master, Master... Please, please help me... I implore you... Truly I implore you..."

"...I shall speak the truth.
"I did not kill my husband Butler.
"Butler failed in his business ventures and secretly returned to America... As for myself, having pursued him in attempting to cross to America only to be misunderstood by Yokohama police, I now endure such hardships indeed.
"I earnestly wish to reunite with my husband at the earliest moment..."

"...Truly I am none other than Rashamen Ruriko, exactly as you all have surmised."
"As for my real name, there is no mistake—it is indeed Onozawa Nobuko, exactly as you have surmised."
"I am truly an unfortunate woman repeatedly bereaved of husbands."
"But... but... I truly have no memory of ever committing wrongdoing until now."
“I swear by God that no such thing truly exists.”

"...Please... please I beg of you..."
"If you would but let me pass tonight, I shall perform any manner of recompense."
"I shall certainly... certainly perform."
“As… a token… even such… a trifling thing… if Master would… find it acceptable…”

She incoherently strung together these words. At each pause in her speech, while pressing her hands together two or three times in prayer, she gradually crawled closer to him. Then extracting a single bluish-black large gemstone from her trouser pocket, she forced it into his right palm splayed out in a 'dai' shape, and clamped down firmly with both hands from above while looking back at him with a sidelong glance.

“This... is truly the largest emerald in all of Yokohama. Butler bought this for me…”

However, he found greater joy in the sensation of her soft, cold palm than in the gemstone.
It was undoubtedly his first contact in a long time with a young member of the opposite sex.

He weakly gripped her palm through the hard gemstone.
And from the dim grass shadows, he gazed steadily up at her face.

She who had been looking down at that face—for reasons unknown—slightly altered her complexion.
She raised her head and quietly scanned their surroundings.
When she finally confirmed no one else was present, she crawled closer like an animal, rustling through the grass, then settled directly before his face.

“Ohohohohohoho! Well now... so that’s how it was... You should have said so plainly from the start... Ohohohohohoho! I... intend to remain here until pitch darkness falls, so I shall obey your every command... Why, I wouldn’t even mind staying inside this factory until the police cordon lifts. There’s no one here...”

She broke off her words there and once more scanned the area.
Then bringing her face close above his while peering intently into his eyes, she showed a sorrowful, bewitching smile.

“Now… but in return you must promise to let me escape.”
“And then you must come to my hideout after me—I won’t have it otherwise.”
“I... have never encountered someone as clever... as quick-witted as you... To tell the truth... I’ve always thought... rather than wealthy Westerners... I should struggle once with a capable Japanese gentleman... You see... It’s certain... My destination is a house called Baigetsu on Zhapulu Road in Shanghai... You don’t know it?... Shanghai’s Baigetsu, you see... Certain... It’s certain...”

In the midst of saying this, she suddenly pressed down on top of him.
She wrapped both hands around his neck and pressed her pale cheek and lips tightly against him.
He was nearly suffocating.
His hands flailed wildly in the air.
But that lasted only a brief moment.

Suddenly thrusting him away as if to push him off, she leapt back and began running while clutching the nearby hunting cap, taking two or three steps.
Before she could even think, she thrust one lace-up-booted foot into an old bucket with a clatter.
With a thud, she collapsed onto the grass and immediately tried to push herself up with both hands, but instead twisted her entire body and began vomiting white matter with gurgling, retching sounds.
Wiping her mouth with the hunting cap again and again, she mustered a voice that sounded on the verge of death in the quiet vacant lot.
And still suffering, spitting thick saliva over and over, she staggered up as if to leave—but when she reached the far side of the brick pile, she paused for an instant and looked back at him.

He thrust his face back into the grass as before. In the bluish dusk's depths, gripping the gemstone she had given him, he lay with eyes wide like voids—yet his gaze held the sheer ugliness of her face when she had properly turned back... Then she fled as if collapsing into the brick pile's shadow. The sound of grass being parted grew ever fainter into the distance.

As that happened, the surroundings fell completely silent.