was so determined to attend the first public hearing in the Apartment Serial Murders trial that I asked to take a leave from my job at the ward office. Do you find that surprising? The courtroom looked like any other courtroom, but it was the largest one in the courthouse, and I was astounded to learn that they had had to dispense spectator tickets by lottery to those who wanted to view the proceedings. Nearly two hundred people lined up for a chance at a ticket. That just goes to show you how fascinated people were with Yuriko and Kazue. A lot of reporters and people from the media came to cover the case, but I heard they wouldn’t let the cameras in. When I asked my boss to let me have the time off, his lips twitched. I knew he was dying to ask me about it.

Earlier, I noted that I had absolutely no interest in whether or not that Chinese man named Zhang had actually murdered Yuriko and Kazue. I still feel the same way. I mean, those two were streetwalkers. They met freaks and perverts all the time. They had to know they might be killed if they weren’t lucky; it was precisely because they knew this, I assume, that they found what they did so thrilling. Moving from customer to customer, never knowing if this day might be their last; when they left home, they couldn’t be sure that they’d ever return. And then when the night was done and they did make it home in one piece, they must have felt such relief as they counted the money they’d earned. Whatever danger they might have faced, that night and others, they stored away in their memory to draw on again and again as they learned to survive by their wits.

The reason I went to court in the first place was because I had read the copy of Zhang’s deposition that Detective Takahashi gave me. “My Crimes,” he titled it. What a ridiculously long and tedious piece of work. Zhang goes on and on about completely irrelevant matters: the hardships he faced in China, all the things his darling little sister did, and so on. I skipped over most of it.

But throughout the report Zhang repeatedly refers to himself as “smart and attractive,” noting at one point that he looks like Takashi Kashiwabara. When I read this I began to feel curious about what kind of man he was. According to Zhang, on the day he killed her, Yuriko told him, “You have a nice face.” All her life, Yuriko was praised for her own beauty. If she thought Zhang had a nice face, I had to get a look at him.

You see, I’ve never been able to forget little Yuriko, back in the mountain cabin, snuggling up to Johnson’s knees. One of the most handsome men in the world with one of the most beautiful girls. No wonder they were attracted to each other and unable to separate for as long as they lived. What? No, I most certainly was not jealous. It’s just that beauty seems to function as its own compass; beauty attracts beauty, and once the connection has been made it remains so for life, the arrow holding steady, pointing in the opposite direction. I was half, myself, but unfortunately I had not been blessed with a similarly fantastic beauty. Rather, I knew my role in life was to be the observer of those who had been so blessed.

For the event at the courthouse I borrowed a book on physiognomy and took it with me. I planned to study Zhang’s features. A round face indicates a carnal personality: someone who is easily contented, does not fuss over details, but is indecisive and promptly loses interest in things. An angular face indicates someone who has a calculating personality, is physically robust, hates to lose, and possesses a stubbornness that makes it difficult to get along with others. On the other hand, those with triangular faces are delicate and sensitive; they are physically fragile and tend to be artistic. These categories are then further divided into three positions—upper, middle, and lower—starting from the top of the face and working toward the sides. By reading these various positions, you can determine someone’s fortune. For example, I suppose I would conform to the “sensitive personality.” I am physically delicate, drawn to beauty, and fit the artistic type. But the part about not being sociable is me in a nutshell.

Next we have the five endowments, the major areas or landmarks of the face: eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. One item of particular note is the brightness of the eyes; the more penetrating the gaze, the more substantial the individual’s vital force. A nose with a high bridge indicates an equally high sense of self-pride. A large mouth suggests aggressiveness and self-certainty.

If it is possible to predict someone’s character and fate by observing their face and physical attributes, how is it that the beautiful Yuriko met such a tragic end? Beautiful, brainless Yuriko! There must have been an imperfection in her face that brought her to this fate. Perhaps it was her perfect beauty?

A young detective, clearly on the side of the prosecution, leaned close and peered into my face. The eyes he turned to me behind brown-framed glasses were full of pity, as if he’d marked me as the grieving sister of the victim. “They’ll be starting soon. Take a seat on the front row to the right,” he said.

I had been given special treatment from the very beginning, not needing to line up for a ticket or for admission. I went directly to the front of the courtroom. I was the only one present who was related to Yuriko, which was to be expected. I had not told my grandfather that Yuriko had died. Grandfather is currently being cared for at Misosazai Nursing Home, where he is off chasing the dreams of his past—or perhaps being chased by his past nightmares. The present has been cleared completely from every corner of his memory. The simple happy time I spent with Grandfather was very brief. He moved in with with Mitsuru’s mother once I entered the university. It was fine with me if she wanted to take care of a senile old man, but as soon as Grandfather started showing signs of dementia, she abandoned him. Well, none of it really matters now.

It was time for the trial to begin. The spectators made a great fuss scrambling for seats. I sat in the far corner of the very front row with my head bowed, looking like a relative of the victim. With my long hair hanging down over my cheeks, I doubt if it was possible to see much of my face from the spectators’ gallery.

At last the door opened and a man appeared, sandwiched between two fat courtroom guards. He was manacled, a chain leading from his handcuffs to a belt around his waist: Zhang. Wait a minute! Where was the resemblance to Takashi Kashiwabara? I was appalled as I stared at the shabby man in front of me. He was squat, pudgy, and bald. His face was round and his eyebrows short and bushy. To top it off, he had a pug nose. Most notable about him was the expression in his eyes; they were squinty and gleamed with light as he looked out over the spectators, darting here and there. He looked desperate, as if he were searching for someone he knew, someone who would help him. His mouth was small and constantly dropped half open. If I were to make a physiognomic analysis of Zhang’s character, I would say he is easily bored and he must have a difficult time getting along with others, because he is stubborn and yet is weak-willed. I sighed audibly from my seat in the gallery, disappointed.

Perhaps my sigh created a ripple in the air that was transmitted to Zhang. He turned and looked directly at me from where he was seated, ramrod straight, in the defendant’s chair. Maybe he’d already been told that I would be there as a connection to Yuriko. When I returned his stare, he averted his eyes timidly. You killed Yuriko. I glared at him with accusing eyes. He seemed to sense my scowl. He squirmed in his chair and swallowed so loudly I could hear it.

Well, I glared at him, but in fact I did not blame him for his crime. How can I explain this? If Yuriko and I were compared to the planets, she’d be the one closest to the sun, always basking in its rays; I’d be the one off in the dark on the far side. Planet Yuriko would always be there between me and the sun, soaking up its rays. Am I wrong? I managed to enter Q High School for Young Women in a desperate attempt to escape Yuriko, but it wasn’t long before she followed after me and I sank back into the misery of being her older sister, confronted regularly with unflattering comparisons. Yuriko, whom I hated down to the very marrow of my bones, was killed so easily by this pathetic man. Yes, I despised Yuriko from the bottom of my heart.

The court proceeding was over in no time. Zhang was once again handcuffed, manacled, and led from the room. I felt as if I’d been tricked by a fox. For a time I was unable to move from my seat in the gallery.

Where did that jerk Zhang get off, telling such a pack of lies—things like “My sister and I were attractive,” and “I look like Takeshi Kashiwabara!” These had to be the most flagrant lies I’d ever encountered. And since he was so fervent in declaring his innocence in Kazue Sat’s murder, I was all the more convinced he did it. I mean, think about it. If a person is so incapable of viewing himself objectively, if he’s convinced that he is good-looking when he’s not, obviously he’s going to come up with all sorts of outrageous lies.

“Excuse me, may I speak with you for a minute?”

I was cornered in the corridor in front of the courtroom by a pale woman. My book on physiognomy notes that people with combination pale and blotchy complexions have bad kidneys, so I felt a twinge of concern for this woman. But then she said she was from some television station, a fact about which she clearly felt considerable pride.

“I believe you are Miss Hirata’s older sister, is that correct? What did you think of the court proceedings today?”

“I was unable to take my eyes off the defendant.”

The woman began scribbling furiously in her notebook, nodding encouragingly as she did so.

“I hate the man for killing my only sis—”

“The defendant has clearly admitted to Miss Hirata’s murder,” the woman cut in, without waiting to let me finish. “The problem lies with the Kazue Sat case. What do you make of the fact that an educated career woman turned to prostitution? After all, weren’t you and she classmates?”

“I think Kazue—I mean Miss Sat—was after the thrill. She thrived on it; she lived for it. I imagine the defendant was one of her customers. I think he has a carnal personality, or—oh, I don’t know.”

While I was blundering through my explanation of physiognomy, the reporter stared at me, perplexed. She continued to nod, but she was only pretending to take notes. And before long she’d lost interest in anything I said. No one cared about Yuriko’s death. It had no impact on society. But Kazue? Kazue had worked for a respectable firm. Isn’t the attention she was now garnering just so typical of her?

The woman left me alone, standing on the highly polished floors of the courthouse corridor. Then a skinny woman with uncommonly large eyes stepped in front of me. It seemed she’d been waiting for me to be alone. She looked carefully around, ensuring that no one was nearby. Her hair was long and hung straight down her back. She was wearing an outfit that resembled an Indian sari, but it was cotton, not silk, and stiffly starched. She stared at me intently and then smiled lightly.

“What’s the matter, you don’t remember me?” When the woman got closer, I caught a whiff of chewing gum on her breath. “It’s Mitsuru.”

I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Of course, the papers had recently been full of articles about her. Mitsuru had been one of the central figures in a religious organization, whose members several years ago had been involved in carrying out terrorist activities and been imprisoned.

“Mitsuru! Are you out of jail already?”

My words caused her to flinch. “Oh, that’s right. Everyone knows all about me.”

“Yeah, everyone knows.”

Mitsuru looked back down the corridor with an irritated expression.

“I’ll never forget this courthouse. My case was tried in room four-oh-six. I had to appear at least twenty times. And no one came to support me. My one and only ally was my defense attorney, But even he, deep in his heart, thought I was guilty. He didn’t understand,” Mitsuru grumbled. “All I could do was sit there wishing it would be over.” Then she tugged gently at my arm. “Look, if you’ve got time, let’s go get a cup of tea. I want to talk to you.”

She was wearing a black jacket over her sari. I was reluctant to be seen with her, her outfit was so bizarre, But when I saw how happy she looked I didn’t have the heart to say no.

“There’s a coffee shop in the basement that should be okay. Ah, what a luxury this is—to be able to move about freely!” Mitsuru’s voice was buoyant, but she kept looking nervously over her shoulder. “I’m followed by detectives, you know.”

“That’s awful.”

“But what am I complaining about? You’re the one who’s really had it rough, aren’t you?” Mitsuru said sympathetically. She gave my arm a squeeze as we stepped into the elevator. Her hand was warm and damp and I found it annoying. I pulled away.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, Yuriko. It’s so awful—to have had something like that happen. I just can’t believe it. And Kazue! What a shock!”

When the elevator reached the basement, I moved to get out and collided with Mitsuru, who had stepped ahead of me. She had stopped square in the doorway, too nervous to go farther.

“I’m really sorry! I’m just not used to being out in public.”

“When did they release you?”

“Two months ago. I was in for six years,” she whispered.

I looked at Mitsuru from behind. There wasn’t the slightest trace of the bright studious girl she had been in high school. Squirrel-like, sagacious Mitsuru! Now she was thin and flimsy and rough like a nail file. She looked like her mother—her mother who was so frank and so pathetic. Her mother who had betrayed my grandfather. I’d heard it was her mother who encouraged Mitsuru—and also her husband, who was a doctor—to join that religious group. But I wonder if that was true.

“How is your husband?”

“He’s still in. I have two sons, you know. They’re being brought up by my husband’s family, and I worry about their education.”

Mitsuru sipped her coffee. A few drops dribbled off her lip and onto the front of her sari, staining it, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Still in?”

“In confinement. I imagine he’ll serve the maximum sentence. It’s to be expected.” Mitsuru looked up at me, somewhat embarrassed. “But what about you? I just can’t believe what happened to Yuriko. And Kazue too. I can’t imagine that Kazue would do such a thing. She was such a hard worker. Maybe she just got tired of trying so hard.”

Mitsuru pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the cloth bag she was carrying and lit one. She started to smoke, but she didn’t look used to it.

“We’ve put on the years, you and I! I think the gap between your teeth has grown larger.”

Mitsuru nodded in agreement. “You’ve aged too. Maliciousness just gushes from your face now.”

The words triggered thoughts of the events in the courtroom that day. If anyone had a face from which maliciousness gushed forth, it was Zhang! That’s the face of a lying scoundrel if ever there was one. His ridiculous deposition was just varnished with lies. It’s clear that he killed a whole host of people in China to get their money. He raped his younger sister and killed her. And there’s no doubt he murdered both Yuriko and Kazue.

“Tell me,” I asked Mitsuru. “A face that gushes with maliciousness: is that someone dogged by bad karma? I’m wondering what kind of karma I have, and I figured that if anyone could tell me, it’s you.”

Mitsuru stubbed her cigarette out and frowned. She looked nervously around the room and finally spoke in a hushed voice.

“Please don’t say such crazy things. I’ve quit the organization; I smoke now as proof. But you’ve misunderstood the doctrines of my former religion. Buying into all the garbage the mass media spews out just makes you despise people who are really sincere about what they believe.”

“Are you showing me a face that gushes maliciousness, then?”

“I’m sorry! I was wrong. I keep doing these things ever since I got out. I have no self-confidence, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to act. I mean, I’ve forgotten. I really need to get into some kind of rehab. I came here specifically because I thought I’d see you. I just used the Yuriko-and-Kazue trial as an excuse to see you again. Since I hate class reunions and gatherings of that kind, I figured it was the only chance I’d have.”

Mitsuru raised her face as if she suddenly remembered something. “The letters I sent you from prison—did you get them?”

“I got four: New Year’s cards and midsummer wishes.”

“Sending New Year’s cards from a place like that was hard. They played the ‘Red and White Singing Contest’ on the radio. I’d listen to it, sitting zazen style, and cry. What the hell am I doing here, contemplating my navel? I’d wonder. But you never answered. Weren’t you pleased to learn that the straight-A student had ended up in prison? I’m sure you thought it appropriate. You must have thought it justified.” Her voice grew rough. “I made a royal mess of things, and I’m sure all the world rejoiced.”

“Mitsuru, you’ve come to resemble your mother, haven’t you?”

Whenever Mitsuru’s mother wanted to say something, she just blurted it out, letting the chips fall where they might. It always had an avalanche effect. Things would take on a momentum of their own; before she knew it, she’d said more than she should have and ended up where she hadn’t anticipated. The liar Zhang was the exact opposite, I thought, and once again I recalled his crafty face in the courtroom.

“Hmm, have I?”

“I remember your mother gave me a ride to school in her car once. It was on the same morning I learned that my mother had committed suicide. Your mother said she probably killed herself because she was menopausal.”

“Right. I remember. How I wish I could go back in time! If only I could return to the days when I was able to live without knowing any of what I know now. If I could, I wouldn’t spend all my time studying like a maniac. I would fool around like the other girls and have fun dressing in the latest fashions. I would join the cheerleading squad or the golf team or the ice-skating club. And I would hang out with boys and go to parties. I just wish I’d lived the life of a normal happy teenager. You probably feel the same way, don’t you?”

Hardly. I had never once thought of returning to the past. But if there were a time in the past that I would have wanted to return to, it would have been those peaceful days I spent with my grandfather when he was obsessed with his bonsai. However, then he got all tangled up in the lustful ripples that reverberated from Yuriko, went crazy over Mitsuru’s mother, and changed completely. So, no, there really was no time in the past I would want to visit. I suppose Mitsuru had completely forgotten the way we had convinced each other of our talents for survival. She began to irritate me, rather like the irritation I had felt earlier for Yuriko and her stupidity.

Mitsuru peered at me anxiously. “What are you thinking about?”

“About the past, of course. The distant past that you say you want to return to. I’d go back to the point in time when Yuriko was a flowering plant, and I was a naked-seed plant. Except, of course, Yuriko would be all dried up.”

Mitsuru stared at me quizzically. I didn’t try to explain. When she saw I wasn’t going to continue, she blushed and turned away. There it was! There was the expression that was unique to her in high school.

“Sorry, I know I’m acting strangely,” Mitsuru said, as she gripped her cloth bag. “It’s just that I can’t help feeling that everything I worked so hard for, everything I believed in, is now meaningless—and I can’t bear it. When I was in prison I did my utmost not to even think about it. But now that I’m out, it’s all coming back to haunt me, and I just panic. Of course, what we did was horrible, a huge mistake. I don’t know how I could have killed all those innocent people. But I’d been brainwashed. The leader of the sect could read what I was thinking and he controlled me that way. There was no way I could have escaped. I think it’s all over for me. I’m sure my husband will die in prison. I just cling to my children and wonder what to do. I’ve got to try my hardest to ensure they’re brought up safely, since I’m all they have left. But I don’t think I can do it. I’ve got no confidence. Here I am: I studied my brains out, I got into Tokyo University Medical School, I became a doctor—yet I can never make up for those six years I spent in prison. And because of that, no one will ever hire me.”

“What about Doctors Without Borders?” I asked, though I knew nothing about them myself.

“Oh, so you don’t care because it’s not your problem,” Mitsuru mumbled darkly. “Talking about not one’s problem, everyone acts like they were shocked when they found out about Yuriko and Kazue. But I wasn’t. Those two were always defiant, swimming against the tide. Especially Kazue.”

Mitsuru echoed what the female reporter had said earlier. No one seemed particularly interested in Yuriko. Kazue was the only one they treated as a celebrity. Mitsuru’s eyes were empty, completely devoid of the sparkling brilliance and bold independence they had once had.

“Where are your children now?” I asked.

Mitsuru had lit another cigarette. She squinted in the smoke. “They’re with my husband’s parents. The older boy is a sophomore in high school. The younger is preparing for his junior high entrance exams. I hear he wants to get into the Q School system, but there’s no way he’ll succeed. It’s not a question of his grades, he’ll never escape the curse of having us for parents. It’s as if he’s been branded.”

Branded—that’s a good way to put it, don’t you think? It so perfectly suited my own situation and the way I had to go through life branded as the older sister of the monstrously beautiful Yuriko. I was seized with an intense desire to see Mitsuru’s children. I wondered what kind of faces they had. I was fascinated by the way genes are passed along, the way they are damaged and mutated.

“I know you resent my mother,” Mitsuru said, breaking into my thoughts by saying something completely unexpected.

“Why do you think so?”

“Because she abandoned your grandfather. You probably don’t know, but your grandfather caused Mother to join the organization. She’s still in it too. She says she’ll hold her ground until the end. She’s looking after those members who are still practicing.”

My grandfather would be shocked if he heard this. I knew Mitsuru’s mother supported her decision to join the organization; she’d joined too. But I could not for a moment entertain the idea that my grandfather was somehow responsible. Was it the enactment of some kind of karmic retribution?

“My mother has said that disrupting your grandfather’s life like that was what she regretted most in life. And it wasn’t just your grandfather’s life, was it. She upset your life as well.”

When I entered Q University, my grandfather decided to move in with Mitsuru’s mother, who bought a luxury apartment nearby. I went there once. I remember that the front door to the building locked automatically and you had to call up on the intercom to be let in. It was a new system at the time and my grandfather was terribly proud of it. But, ironically, it was because of that locking system that we knew he was growing senile. Each time he went out, he’d forget to take his key. Then he’d push the intercom button for the wrong apartment and stand there shouting, “It’s me! Let me in!”

“It was on account of the love affair between my mother and your grandfather that both you and I were forced to live on our own. And then Mother came running back to live with me. She left everything in a shambles: my place, your place, the place she shared with your grandfather. She couldn’t forgive herself for what she’d done, so she decided to take up religious training. That’s what got her started.”

“Was she able to forgive herself through religious training?”

“No.” Mitsuru shook her head proudly. “That’s not it. She selected the path she took because she wanted to know more about the laws governing the human realm. She wanted to understand how human beings could possess such dark, selfish passions. At that time, my husband and I were tormented by questions of death. All humans die. But what happens to them after death? Is transmigration possible? As doctors, we could not avoid direct confrontation with death as an inevitable outcome—but now and then we encountered some inexplicable cases. That’s when my mother recommended that we meet the leader of the organization she had joined and talk with him. And that’s how we ended up joining too.”

I was growing annoyed with this conversation and began avoiding Mitsuru’s gaze. It seems in the final analysis that people who get involved in religion are only after their own personal happiness. Am I wrong?

“Well, my grandfather doesn’t care now,” I said. “He’s completely senile now and spends all his time in bed.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Very much so, though he’s now past ninety.”

“Really, I’d just assumed he was dead.”

“Well, I suppose that’s what your mother thinks too.”

“We seem to be missing each other’s points.” Mitsuru hung her head so low I thought her neck would snap. “It’s probably because I haven’t properly returned to society yet.” A vacant gaze swept over her face. “In high school, I tried so hard to remain number one. Med school too. And I got everything I wanted. I was at the top of my department and was one of the best at the hospital. But gradually, things began to feel less clear than they had before. It makes sense when you think about it. A doctor is not evaluated by test scores. Of course, I know it’s important for doctors to save lives. But in the ear, nose, and throat specialty we rarely encounter cases that are life-threatening. Day after day I was faced with allergy-induced nasal inflammation. Only once did I see a patient who was in critical condition, owing to a tumor on the lower jaw. But that was it. That was the only time I felt my work was really worthwhile. So I lapsed into a kind of fog. That’s when I thought that if I underwent religious training I could bring my life to the next level.”

I let out a long sigh. This was excruciating! You understand why, don’t you? I had loved Mitsuru. I had believed that we polished our respective talents—me my maliciousness and Mitsuru her brilliance—not because we wanted to be cool but because we needed them as weapons in order to survive the Q School for Young Women.

Mitsuru glanced up at me uncertainly, “Did I say something to upset you?”

I decided to give her some indication of the dark mood building inside me. If I didn’t, she’d lapse back into her “while I was in prison” routine.

“When you were in college, were you able to keep your position at the top of the class?”

Mitsuru silently lit her third cigarette. I waved the smoke away with my hand and waited for her to answer.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Well, then, I’ll tell you the truth. I wasn’t first in the class, not by a long shot. I probably came in around the middle. No matter how hard I tried, how carefully I listened in class, or how many all-nighters I pulled studying, there were always others I could not beat. But what do you expect? I mean, the school admitted the brightest students from throughout the nation. To make it to the top you had to be naturally gifted, an absolute genius—otherwise you could study forever and it was still hopeless. After a few years I finally realized that far from being first, I’d be lucky if I ended up twentieth. It really gave me a shock. That’s not like me, I thought, and I began to suffer from an identity crisis. So do you know what I decided to do?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I decided I would marry someone who really was a genius. That’s my husband. Takashi.”

When she said his name was Takashi I immediately drew the association to Takashi Kashiwabara. But I remember seeing her husband’s photograph in the newspapers, and he didn’t look a thing like Takashi Kashiwabara. He was skinny, wore glasses, and looked like an overly studious scholar. No matter his genius, he was much too ugly for me to ever want to marry! From the point of view of physiognomy, his ears were pointy like a demon’s and his mouth was small. The middle and lower phases of his face indicated weakness. His was a face that foretold great tragedy in the middle to late years of life. When I consider Takashi’s fate, I can only conclude that physiognomy is amazingly on target.

“I’ve seen your husband’s face.”

“Right. He’s famous.”

“And so are you.”

Mitsuru flushed red—whether because of my sarcasm or a hot flash, I couldn’t tell. As a cult member, Mitsuru had been involved in a number of cases involving the kidnapping of believers. If these so-called believers tried to escape, Mitsuru and the others would lock them in a room, force them to take drugs, and then begin the initiation. If they weren’t careful, the victims would overdose and die.

Still, those deaths were nothing compared to the time Mitsuru’s husband dropped poison gas from a Cessna airplane on a number of farmers and their families. The leader of their religious organization suffered from some kind of persecution complex, which was triggered when local farmers staged protests against the establishment of his religious headquarters near their farmlands, so he ordered Mitsuru’s husband to drop mustard gas on their fields. At the time, as luck would have it, a group of elementary students were visiting the farms for a little hands-on agriculture study, and they were caught up in the gas. Fifteen people died.

Mitsuru tried to change the subject.

“Do you know about osmotic pressure? I thought, if I married a brilliant man, that some of his genius would brush off on me.”

I noticed that as she began to talk, her body started to cave in on itself, like a sail that loses the wind. Her thin body grew all the flatter. I could see the veins crawling over the fingers clutching the cigarette. I was amazed by how empty-headed Mitsuru had become.

“By that time, my mother had separated from your grandfather. She joined the organization, saying she wanted to eliminate her illusions. By illusions she meant her selfish passions.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be good, to eliminate them, I mean. It’s not as if she had actually cared for my grandfather,” I said harshly.

Mitsuru responded mockingly. “You can’t forgive me, can you? You think you’re better than I am because I ended up in a religious cult.”

I tilted my head to the side. “Are you sure you haven’t lost a few marbles?”

“Oh? So we’re going to resort to insults, are we?” Mitsuru raised her head suddenly. “I remember not so long ago you were more than a little obsessed with looks. How should I put this? You just cared about faces. I knew you had an inferiority complex because Yuriko was so pretty. But you went way beyond a complex; you were a fanatic. Ever since high school you’ve been really proud of yourself for being half, haven’t you? Everyone laughed at you behind your back, you know. You weren’t even remotely pretty. But you can transcend your body with how you discipline your soul.”

I never would have believed I would hear such abusive lies from Mitsuru. It was too much. I could not, however, bring myself to speak in my own defense.

“Your hatred of Yuriko was really bizarre,” she continued. “It was more like jealousy. I know you were the one who leaked the news about Yuriko and Kijima’s son. Whatever Yuriko was doing with the boys in the boys’ side of the school had nothing to do with you. But Yuriko was popular. Everyone idolized her. Still, to get your own sister expelled from school by spreading rumors about her being involved in prostitution—that was really vicious. And until you lessen your store of bad karma, you have very little chance of transmigration any time in the future. If you are reborn, it’ll be as some bug that crawls through the dirt.”

I was furious. I had tried to let Mitsuru have her say, knowing she’d been brainwashed, but she’d gone too far.

“Mitsuru, you are a complete idiot. I’ve listened to you go on and on about being at the top of the class, getting into Tokyo University Medical School, and all that crap about osmosis, and I’m just fed up. All this time I had thought you were a clever little squirrel, but you were nothing but a slug. You were just a puffed-up little show-off, no better than Kazue!”

“You’re the one who’s crazy. Look at you—you look absolutely evil. Why do you think you’re any more sincere than I am? You go through life telling nothing but lies. And even now you’re sitting here thinking how wonderful you are because you’re half. I sure wish I could trade you for Yuriko.”

I stood up angrily, kicking the chair back as I did. The waitresses, suddenly noticing us, looked up from what they were doing and stared. Mitsuru and I glared at each other until she hid her face. I shoved the bill for our coffee over to her.

“I’m leaving. Thank you for treating.”

Mitsuru pushed the bill back across the table. “We’ll split it.”

“I had to sit here and listen to what you wanted to say; we’re not splitting the bill. You say I have a complex about Yuriko. I have to hear this today, on the day of the trial? I’m here as a bereaved member of the victim’s family. What gives you the right to insult me like that? I demand compensation for damages.”

“You think I’m going to pay compensatory charges?”

“Well, you have that rich family of yours. Your mother owned how many cabarets? And you rented that luxury apartment in Minato Ward just to flaunt your wealth, didn’t you? Then your mother went out and bought a condominium with a fancy intercom in that swanky Riverside area. All I’ve got is my measly job.”

Mitsuru launched into her response with apparent relish.

“My, you pick a convenient time to start complaining about your measly job. Just amazing. And here I remember you ever eager to boast about the way you were going to become some famous translator of German. But your marks in English class were just deplorable, weren’t they? Hardly what you’d expect from a half! And for your information, my family is not wealthy. We sold our house and our business, and the money we made on that and on the sale of our two cars and our resort property in Kiyosato all went into the coffers of the religious organization.”

I placed my coins begrudgingly on the table. Mitsuru counted out the change and continued.

“I’m going to go to the next hearing too. I think it’ll be really good for my rehabilitation.”

Suit yourself, I wanted to say, but thought better of it. I turned and exited the coffeehouse, walking away briskly. As I did I heard the pitter-pat of Mitsuru’s canvas sneakers following me.

“Wait! I almost forgot the most important part. I got letters from Professor Kijima.”

Mitsuru dug through her bag, pulled out an envelope, and waved it in my face.

“When did you get letters from Professor Kijima?”

“While I was in prison. I got quite a few. He was really worried about me, so we corresponded.”

Well, wasn’t Mitsuru just beside herself with pride. I hadn’t heard anything about Professor Kijima for such a long time, I’d just assumed he’d died. And all this time he’d been sending Mitsuru letters.

“Well, how kind of him.”

“He said it wounded him terribly for one of his students to be involved in a scandal—just like I would worry over my patients.”

“Your patients weren’t out murdering people, were they?”

“I’m still recuperating, you know. Still only halfway in my struggle to return to society, and your cruelty is not appreciated.” Mitsuru gave a big sigh. But I’d had just about all I could take, I wanted to get out of there. Still, if she wanted to talk about cruelty, she ought to examine the way she was using Yuriko and Kazue’s trials as her own personal class reunion.

“He wrote about you too, so I thought you’d like to see. I’ll let you borrow them. But you have to be sure to give them back to me at the next hearing.”

Mitsuru passed the thick envelope over to me. The last thing I wanted was a packet of letters I had no interest in reading. I tried to hand them back to Mitsuru but she was already walking away, staggering slightly. I watched her depart, trying to find in her something that resembled the girl she had been in the past. The Mitsuru who had been good in tennis. The Mitsuru who had been so light on her feet during our rhythmic dance routines. I’d been vaguely fearful of her—with her physical agility and her brilliant mind. She had seemed like something of a monster to me.

But the Mitsuru I saw now seemed awkward, uncoordinated, even in the most casual of movements. Concerned about being followed by detectives, she was so busy looking over her shoulder that she practically ran into someone who was right in front of her. Anyone who had known Mitsuru in the past would have had a hard time recognizing her in the idiot she’d become. This hollow Mitsuru had transmigrated into an entirely different monster.

I remembered that when we were in high school, I used to think of both Mitsuru and myself as mountain pools formed by underground springs. If Mitsuru’s spring was deep beneath the surface of the ground, so was mine. Our sensibilities were complementary and our train of thought was exactly the same. But now those springs had disappeared. We were now two separate pools, lonely and remote. Moreover, Mitsuru’s pool had already gone dry, exposing the cracked earth at the bottom. I wish I hadn’t seen her again.

I heard someone calling to me. “Aren’t you Miss Hirata’s older sister?”

I hurriedly stuffed Kijima’s letters in my pocket and looked up. A familiar-looking man was standing in front of me. He was around forty and wore a fairly expensive brown suit. His beard was flecked with white whiskers and he was as rotund as an opera singer, a “carnal personality” who clearly ate delicious food.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, “but might I have a brief word?”

I was trying to figure out where I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t place him. As I stood there with my head cocked to the side, the man launched into a self-introduction.

“I see you don’t remember. I’m Zhang’s lawyer, Tamura. I hadn’t expected to see you just now. I had thought I would try to call you la

ter this evening.” Tamura led me to a corner of the corridor, clearly annoyed. We were next to the cafeteria. Lunch was over, the cafeteria had closed, and the employees inside were moving the tables around, carrying bottles of beer, and setting up for some kind of private function. Upstairs in the courtrooms they’re deciding someone’s fate, while downstairs in the basement they’re whooping it up. Easy for them. I’m just glad I’m not the defendant.

“Sensei, I don’t know what you think, but I’m certain Zhang killed Kazue.”

Tamura straightened the knot to his mustard yellow tie while he prepared his lines. “I can certainly understand how you must feel, as a member of the family, but I have to say I think he’s innocent.”

“Surely not. The study of physiognomy makes clear Zhang’s a killer. There can be no doubt.”

Tamura looked troubled. He didn’t dare try to refute my argument. I suppose he realized that he had to let the victim’s family members say whatever they pleased. But I wasn’t some sentimental idiot who sympathized blindly with the victim, I was trying to explain things from the scientific perspective of physiognomy.

I needed to make that clear, but Tamura said in a whispery voice, “Actually, what I wanted to ask you is whether you had had contact recently with either Yuriko or Kazue. I can find no proof for this in the investigation, but it seems such an unlikely coincidence, don’t you think? I mean for your younger sister and your former classmate to be killed the same way, less than a year apart. It’s just too bizarre to be happenstance. So I was wondering if you’d heard anything from either of them?”

Yuriko’s diary immediately came to mind, but I didn’t want to tell him about it. Let him find out about it on his own. “I don’t know. But then, I hadn’t seen either Yuriko or Kazue in some time. Don’t you imagine they both just hit a patch of bad luck? If you’d consider the physiognomy, Zhang is somewhere between a ‘calculating personality’ and a ‘carnal personality’—the type to go for prostitutes. He killed them both. Kazue too. There’s no doubt—”

Flustered, Tamura interrupted me. “Yes, yes, I see. That’s fine. Zhang’s case is now under deliberation, and it’s best if I don’t discuss it with you.”

“Why? I’m related to the victim. I’m the one whose only sister was murdered! Her precious sister.”

“I understand. Really I do.”

“What do you understand? Tell me.”

Perspiration had begun to dot Tamura’s forehead, and as he patted through the pockets in his suit searching for his handkerchief, he changed the subject.

“I believe I saw one of those cult members here not too long ago. Wasn’t she also a former classmate of yours? You certainly had a—well, what should I say?—unique high school class.”

“Yes, it’s been a virtual class reunion here today.”

“Well, yes, you could look at it that way. Excuse me,” Tamura said. He turned to leave, heading hastily into the coffeehouse. And here I had more to say, I thought, as I glared at his muscular back. First of all there was his remark about my unique class. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. And then there were the words Mitsuru had said to me earlier; they started spinning around and around in my head as well.

When I finally managed to slink back to my apartment in the government housing complex, I found it cold. The tatami was old, stained here and there where miso soup had been spilled on it. And it smelled. I lit the kerosene heater and looked around the room. It was shabby and small. Back when bonsai pots crowded Grandfather’s veranda, we were poor, but oh, I was happy! Yuriko was still in Bern, I’d just entered Q High School for Young Women, and I had dedicated myself enthusiastically to looking after my grandfather, my true flesh and blood. I suppose I liked my grandfather so much because he was an affirmed scam artist. And yet he was so timid, even more so than I. Yes, it was odd. He was not a bit like me. The “class reunion” had brought me down.

The letters? Once night fell I pulled them out and looked through them with disgust. Here they are. The handwriting is shaky—written by an old man’s trembling hand—so they’re hard to read. And, as I expected, they are preachy. But if you want to read them, go ahead. I don’t mind.

Greetings and Salutations.

My dear Mitsuru:

Are you well? The winters in Shinano Oiwake are particularly severe. The ground in my garden has frozen over into tiny pillars of frost. Before long it’ll all be frozen and then the long winter will set in. I’m sixty-seven now and heading into the winter of my life.

I’m still running the dormitory for the N Fire Insurance Company. Not much has changed. Now that I’m past retirement age, I fear I’m not much use anymore, but the director of the company has very kindly asked me to stay on. He’s a graduate of the Q School system.

Well, then, let me begin by congratulating you on your release from prison. Now I can finally send letters to you—and hopefully receive them—without worrying about the prying eyes of the censors. You have certainly put up with so much and weathered it all with such fortitude. I feel deeply for you and the way you must worry over your husband and the children you’ve left with others to raise.

But Mitsuru, my dear, you are not yet forty. Your future lies ahead of you. You have awakened from the nightmare of mind control, and if you struggle to live an upright life from here on, never forgetting to pray for the souls of those whom you harmed and beg their forgiveness—I am confident that you will be all right. If there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask.

Dear Mitsuru,

You were the brightest student I ever had, and I never once worried about your future. To have seen the way you have stumbled, however, has urged me to reconsider the past. I feel responsible for your slide into criminality; my careless manner of teaching must be held accountable. I have determined that I shall repent alongside you.

To tell you the truth, ever since the religious organization you were affiliated with committed those crimes, I have hardly had a day free of turmoil. And then with the tragedies last year and the year before, I have had cause to grieve all over again. I am sure you are aware that both Yuriko Hirata and Kazue Sat were killed. They say the same murderer is responsible. To think of the way they were both so cruelly murdered, and their bodies abandoned, is more bitter than I can bear. I remember them both so well.

Kazue Sat’s case has garnered particular attention, with headlines screaming OFFICE EMPLOYEE BY DAY, PROSTITUTE BY NIGHT! She was such a serious student when she first entered my classes—and then to have her turned into fodder for the rapacious media! To think of how this must mortify her family makes me want to rush to her house and throw myself before her mother and apologize. My dear, I imagine you must be mystified as to why I might feel this way. But I cannot overcome the feeling that somehow I failed as a father—consider my eldest son—and as an educator.

We at Q High School for Young Women espoused an educational tenet that advocated self-sufficiency and a strong sense of self-awareness in our students. And yet, among the girls who have graduated from Q High School for Young Women, there are data to prove that the rate for divorce, failure to marry, and suicide is much higher than that in other schools. Why is it that girls who come from such privileged backgrounds, who are so proud of their academic accomplishments, and who are such excellent students must meet so much more unhappiness than students elsewhere? Rather than suggesting it is because the real world is crueler for them, I think it more accurate to suggest that we allowed the creation of an environment that was too much of a utopia. Or, to put it another way, we failed to teach our girls the strategies that would enable them to cope with the frustrations of the real world. It is this realization that continues to haunt me, and the other teachers feel the same. We realize now that it was our arrogance that prevented us from coming to grips with the real world.

I’ve mellowed now that I have been living here in a severe environment, going about the mundane job of looking after a dormitory. The naked human is powerless against nature. As a scientist, I clothed myself with knowledge and believed that one could not live without the study of science. But now I realize that science alone is not enough. I suppose that when I taught school, all I taught was the heart of science; I am ashamed to think of it now. I wonder if there are similar teachings in your religion?

My dear Mitsuru,

I believe I need to rethink my approach to education. But when I finally came to this conclusion, I was well along in years and no longer actively teaching. I was retired—forced to resign because of my own son’s delinquent behavior. My regret over my failure to realize this sooner has only deepened over the years, made more painful still by what befell you, my dear, and the horrible business with your classmates Miss Hirata and Miss Sat.

While tending to the dormitory I’ve also been busy with my life work of studying the behavior of the Kijima Tribolium castaneum. T. Castaneum is a species of beetle, aka the Red Flour Beetle. I discovered a strain quite by accident in the woods behind my house, so I was allowed to give it my name. Being that I was the one who discovered the strain that now bears my name, it’s necessary for me to follow up with an appropriate study.

The behavior of a living organism is really a fascinating subject. If furnished with sufficient food and favorable living conditions, the reproduction rate of an organism will increase exponentially. As the rate of individual reproduction increases, the group population expands, as you well know, my dear. But if the increase in food supply is not commensurate with the increase in population, fierce competition will ensue among the population, at which point the birthrate falls while the death rate increases. Eventually this has an impact on the development, formation, and physiology of the organism—which is the foundation of physiology.

In my research on the Kijima T. castaneum, I discovered a mutation—a beetle with longer wings and shorter legs than the others. This mutation was clearly the result of the intensification of a sense of individuation. I believed that modifications resulted in the insect’s shape and structure so as to enhance its speed and mobility. I want to study this mutation, to verify it with my own eyes. But I doubt I will live as long as will be necessary to complete the study.

My dear Mitsuru,

I wonder if perhaps your religion—or Miss Hirata’s work in prostitution, or Miss Sat’s double life—is not an outcome of shifts in the structure and makeup of our populations. Is not this intensification of individuation—this heightened sense of awareness of self—a result of the suffocating burden of being trapped within the same social community? It is from the pain this produces that we find changes occurring in our makeup and structure. Without a doubt the experiences that unfold are cruel and bitter. Perhaps it is not possible for us to teach about these bitter experiences. More likely it is impossible for us to articulate the findings we extract from our painful experiments in life.

As bright as you are, I am sure that even you are not able to figure out just what it is I am trying to say. Let me be more direct. When I first read about the Yuriko Hirata incident in the newspapers, I was just as shocked as I had been when I learned about your crimes. No, I was even more shocked. More than twenty years had passed since Yuriko and my son were expelled from school. I remember that Miss Hirata’s older sister (I forget her name, but you must remember her; she was in your class, a fairly drab person) came to me and asked me what she should do about her sister, who was going off with my son to engage in prostitution. At the time I said, without even thinking, “I will not tolerate this. Most likely we will expel them.”

If I am to be perfectly frank about what I was thinking at the time, it was Yuriko, rather than my own son, whom I was disinclined to forgive. I was feeling selfish, and my behavior was utterly unbecoming to a teacher. But as ashamed as I am to admit it, I am committed to describing things just as they happened. I am not trying to write a confession. But I realize that the decision I made lacked a basis in either pedagogical wisdom or prudence, and I deeply regret it now.

Ironically, I was the one who saw that Yuriko Hirata was admitted to the Q School system in the first place. Miss Hirata had just returned from Switzerland, and her scores on the entrance exam for transfer students were not good. Her marks in Japanese classics and mathematics were particularly low. The other instructors all felt that she did not meet our minimum requirements, but I saw that she was admitted over their objections. I had a number of reasons for doing so. First among them was the fact that Miss Hirata was so beautiful she stole my heart away. I was a junior high school teacher, but even so I was not immune to wanting to have a pretty girl around to observe. But what was foremost in my mind was the potential of conducting a biological study of what happens when a mutant member of a species is introduced into a population.

I had dual motives in admitting her, but my plan backfired and cost me my job. I should have known better than to introduce such an abnormally beautiful creature into a population of her normal peers. To deepen the irony, it was my own son who served as Miss Hirata’s procurer, humiliating me with the filthy money he earned as a result. Now I am haunted all the more by the unsettling belief that it was my unreasonableness in admitting Miss Hirata and then seeing to her expulsion that led to her further depravity and ultimately to her death.

When I decided to expel Miss Hirata, I called her guardians, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, and spoke to them about it. Mrs. Johnson was furious, much more so than her husband; I remember her saying that she wanted to throw her out of their house immediately. I encouraged her to do so. I was angry with Miss Hirata. But no matter what she had done, she was still under-age and should not have been held responsible for her actions. Rather, the blame lay with the environment in which she was being raised. Even though I realized this, I was still unable to overcome my anger at the girl.

And her elder sister as well. I heard that after Miss Hirata was expelled, far from growing more lively, the elder sister turned more and more morose. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that I was responsible for creating the discord between them. The older sister entered this school by her own hard work. Only my curiosity permitted the admission of her younger sister, Yuriko. Human beings are not subjects in biological experiments.

The fate of Kazue Sat also weighs heavily on my mind. It is true that Miss Sat was the target of bullying while she was in Q High School for Young Women. I cannot help but conclude that the cause of this bullying was directly related somehow to the fact that Yuriko Hirata had been admitted into the school system. Because Miss Sat admired Miss Hirata and had a crush on my son, Miss Hirata’s older sister treated her terribly. News of her behavior reached me, I’m quite sure, and yet I did nothing—pretending not to be aware of any of it. For Miss Sat, life at Q High School for Young Woman—a life she had struggled long and hard to enjoy—must have been a torturous nightmare. Believing competition to be an inevitable aspect of any population of species, I stood on the sidelines and watched.

Effort has nothing to do with the changes to structure and physiology that develop as a consequence of the intensifcation of individuation. Indeed, it is futile. That’s because changes are carried out at whim. And yet I, as a teacher—no, the educational system itself—pushed Miss Sat toward this futility. She drove herself to work hard while at the university and again at her workplace, until she finally just wore herself down. Tragically, that’s when the change to her structure finally took place, and unfortunately it was a change that depended entirely on attracting male desire. That this change was diametrically opposed to our school motto of self-sufficiency and self-confidence is a consequence of my own selfish whimsy. I am convinced of this. If I had not admitted Miss Hirata into the school, Miss Sat might have completed her high school years without suffering from bulimia.

When population figures are low, individual life-forms learn to survive independently in isolation. When individuation intensifies, life-forms develop group survival strategies, changing in size and structure as they do. But girl students can’t help but feel that they can’t survive in isolation. The competition among them is severe. The basis for this competition is grounded in scholastic performance, personality, and financial security, but the greatest of these is physical beauty, which is determined entirely by birth. And here’s where things get very complicated. Some girls may be more beautiful than others when it comes to one aspect of their looks but will not pass muster when a different aspect is compared. The competition between them thus intensifies. I placed Yuriko Hirata into this mix: the super-beauty. I learned, after Miss Hirata and my son had been expelled, that even in the boys’ section of the school the competition she inspired was tremendous. But I continued to close my eyes. That is to say, I left things to resolve on their own. I was the one who triggered the events that have unfolded over the last twenty years. Do you understand now why I say I feel responsible?

My dear Mitsuru,

I do not think even a brilliant student such as yourself escaped this battle. Perhaps you managed to stay on top because of a fierce effort. You were very pretty, and your grades excelled all others. But on the dark side of that bright offense, I know you were working tirelessly, weren’t you? And the power that urged you on was born of your fear of losing, was it not? The minute you forgot this fear, that was the minute you would fail to attain your goal.

I ignored this as well. And I call myself an educator! How I regret that I failed to offer anyone the kind of education that might have saved them from this “failure.” But it is all in the distant past. So many lives have been lost. And the years when you should have been laying a foundation for your maturity have been spent locked away in prison. How sad this makes me. I feel I should at least try to convey my sentiments to Miss Hirata’s older sister, but I regret to say that I cannot remember her name. Yes, that’s right, I can remember that even back then I was so entranced by Miss Hirata’s beauty that I was overcome with jealousy for my own son. How it shames me to admit it!

I cut ties with my son Takashi. I do not know where he is or what he is doing or even if he is dead or alive. Strictly through rumor, I learned that after he was expelled he continued in the same line of work. He is drowning in a sweet poison (making a living off exploiting women is the darkest of poisons), and I find it highly unlikely that he will ever be able to drag himself from the mire that claims him. My wife may have been in touch with him secretly for all I know. But he has not once tried to contact me. My anger was that great.

My wife died three years ago of cancer. My younger son’s family took care of the funeral. I have no idea if Takashi knows of his mother’s death. My younger son has also cut ties with him. Although he did not understand the reason why, he had to change schools when Takashi was expelled and I was dismissed from the Q School system.

My wife loved Takashi dearly, and she was consumed with regret over the turn our life took. She could never forgive me. But whether she liked it or not, hadn’t our son introduced his own classmate to customers and accepted the money he got from the transaction? What Takashi did was shameful and deviated from my own sense of values. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that what Takashi did led to my destruction.

Based on an investigation the school conducted, Takashi had earned several hundred thousand yen! He took the money he earned and his license and went out and got a foreign-import car. He sneaked around behind my back, living a wild and extravagant life. He paid Miss Hirata nearly half of the money he pulled in. His behavior was despicable, no better than that of a beast. He was lining his pockets by wounding her body and spirit. My wife and I had no inkling of any of this. We all lived in the same house; how could we have not noticed? I’m sure you find it hard to accept. But when he was at home, my son kept everything secret and acted just as he always had. He lived a double life.

Now I’ve come to the conclusion that Takashi must have harbored some kind of resentment of me, some need for revenge. I was his father, but I was also an instructor at the school he attended. And my feelings for Miss Hirata defy easy explanation. If Takashi had really shared my feelings for the girl, could he have prostituted her like that? To think of calling what he was doing a business is so cold-blooded it makes me tremble with horror. Depriving me of my love for another person and for my enjoyment of my imagination was another way he wounded me. Gradually I began to realize the grievous mistake I’d made in enrolling my sons in my own school. That is what started it all off. I am responsible, therefore, for everything that happened afterward.

I suppose you could say that mine was a strange fate. I knew that Miss Sat had sent my son any number of letters. At the time, I told Takashi, “Reply in all sincerity.” I said this because I knew he had no interest in the girl. I have no way of knowing if he followed my advice or not. But the fact that Miss Sat developed an eating disorder leads me to wonder if perhaps Takashi was involved. There is nothing I could have done about it, but I do feel pangs of regret for having placed Takashi in the school.

Mitsuru, dear,

I’m nearly seventy years old, and here I am reflecting on the past, seeing how cruel youth was. It’s not unusual for young people to be overly fixated on themselves and to exclude others. But the students in the Q system were far worse than most. And it’s not just the Q system that is at fault. Surely, Japanese education as a whole should accept the blame. Earlier I wrote that all I taught students was to think and feel scientifically. But now I have something far worse to write about.

Not only did I not teach the truth at school, I was beside myself with worry that I would end up burying a different kind of “weight” in my students’ hearts. That was brought on by the fact that I participated in encouraging their belief in an absolute value system, a system in which one sought to outdo everyone else. In a word, I am afraid I advocated a form of mind control. And that is because those students who worked as hard as they could but received no reward for their efforts have been forced to live a life burdened by this weight. Wasn’t this the way it was for Kazue Sat or even for Miss Hirata’s older sister? Both were different from the other girls, but they were no match for you, my dear, when it came to scholastic abilities.

The weight we buried in their hearts was powerless against those who would destroy them. They lacked beauty. And no matter how hard they tried, there was nothing they could do to change that.

Mitsuru, dear,

In a letter that you sent to me earlier from prison you confessed to having been attracted to me. Your letter surprised and gladdened me. To be perfectly honest, while I was teaching you in high school, my heart was captivated by the beautiful Miss Hirata. She was so much more beautiful than any woman I’d ever seen before, that just to gaze upon her filled me with joy. I suppose this is what rendered me powerless in the face of the tremendous weight we all felt—the need to be better than others. Or rather, I should say, the weight became utterly meaningless. You see, natural beauty creates such excitement that the existence of the weight is negated. And once it is negated, the heavier it is to bear. Therefore, Yuriko Hirata was hated just for existing. We could not help but want to run her out of school.

Perhaps what I’ve written is a bit exaggerated. But am I wrong? I do not know. When I spend these quiet days here in Oiwake, I remember bits and pieces about the past. If only I’d done this, that person would not be dead now, I think to myself. Or if only I’d said such-and-such, that person would not have done those things. I am overwhelmed with shame.

Mitsuru, dearest,

I can see the good and the bad in the actions you and your husband took. What you did was absolutely unforgivable. I say this because I believe your religious faith is another problem altogether. Religious faith in and of itself is neither good nor bad. But how could it lead you to believe it was all right to kill other people? You were such a superior student, easily a match in your own way for Miss Hirata. But you lost the power to reason. And Miss Hirata? Did she think she had no other way to survive in this world than as a prostitute, accepting any man who came along and selling herself to him? How is that possible? Was the education she received so easily overturned?

I wrote that I want to throw myself at the feet of Kazue Sat’s family and beg their forgiveness. In the same way I would like to meet Miss Hirata’s older sister and apologize for the horrible mess my selfish whimsy created. A precious life has been lost. It’s such a tragedy.

While I go about my study of insects, I shall remain tucked away here in my frozen mountain fastness. It is for the best, I think. But what shall I do to relieve myself of the mourning I feel for you, my dear, for Miss Hirata’s older sister, and for Miss Sat’s family? Ah, I shall never rid myself of this turmoil.

Well, here I’ve gone and written another long and meandering letter to you, just as you have been released from prison. Please forgive me. And when you are feeling stronger, please come to Oiwake for a visit. I should like to show you my fieldwork.

Most sincerely,

Takakuni Kijima

What do you think? Aren’t these letters from Professor Kijima a riot? It’s a little late to be feeling regret now, but he goes on with his tedious convictions. I really can’t make any sense of them. I’d completely forgotten that Kijima’s son’s name was Takashi. When I saw the name in his letter, I burst out laughing. Mitsuru’s husband is also named Takashi. Neither one has the kind of looks I fancy. And then Professor Kijima goes and writes that he’s completely forgotten me! “I forget her name, but you must remember her; she was in your class, a fairly drab person.” Shit! A little rude, don’t you think? And he a former teacher! What a farce! The old fart must be going senile. And now all I am is “Yuriko’s older sister.”

Professor Kijima wrote about the intensification of the individual’s sense of self and the changes in the shape of life-forms and such, but I don’t think that’s what’s going on. Mitsuru and Yuriko and Kazue didn’t mutate; they simply decayed. A biology professor certainly ought to be able to recognize the signs of fermentation and decay. Isn’t he the one who taught us all about these processes in organisms? In order to induce the process of decay, water is necessary. I think that, in the case of women, men are the water.