"I hope this book can become a feeble lamp in the darkness for those who feel powerless."
"I hope every single person can reach out and grasp it."
"And be granted courage…"
He fell silent for a long time.
Dassai-ya-sensei surely wouldn't want to see him walk from one dead-end road onto another.
That would be doing Dassai-ya-sensei a terrible disservice.
He fell silent for a long time.
As expected — I really can't be the cause of trouble for Dassai-ya-sensei…
After wrestling with his thoughts, he at last drew the kitchen knife from inside his overcoat and laid it down on the dining table.
Then he tucked that thick copy of Shinchō into his coat.
Out of the living room, out of the entryway, out of the front door, and into the night.
Shinagawa Ward — a cramped little apartment.
A woman sat by the window, that magazine cradled in her hands.
She was in her early thirties, in loungewear washed white with use, her hair loosely tied behind her head.
On the windowsill, a few small pieces of children's clothing hung drying, swaying gently in the afternoon sun.
She was a single mother.
Two years ago, her husband had cheated on her; after the divorce, she'd been raising her child on her own.
Working during the day, looking after the child at night, working overtime on weekends.
Her days ran on like a machine, with no end in sight.
It had been a long time since she'd last cried.
Not because she didn't want to — because she had no time to.
But in this moment, looking at that suicide note, looking at that line, "To have been born a human being — I am sorry," the tears would not stop pouring down.
She thought of countless nights — once the child had fallen asleep, sitting alone in the dark, wondering whether it might be easier if she just vanished like that.
She thought of looking at that sleeping little face, and then feeling she had a reason she absolutely had to go on living.
When she saw, in the book's afterword, that Dassai-ya-sensei had even quoted a passage from his own Hear the Wind Sing—
[From the far side of the mountains you can see a great many lights, though of course I have no way to know which one is the lamp of your hospital room…]
[Some are the lamps of poor households, some are the lamps of rich households.]
[Some belong to hotels, some to schools, some to offices.]
[There's something I want to say. I'll say it only once, so please listen very carefully.]
[I… I love you all so very much!]
"I… I love you all so very much."
She read that line — and suddenly, covering her face, she broke out into sobs.
Setagaya Ward — a hospital ward.
A young boy lay in his hospital bed, the magazine in his hands.
He was sixteen, leukemia. He had been hospitalized for half a year now.
But it had been a long time since he'd been outside.
He didn't know how much longer he had to live.
The doctors had said the bone marrow matching was still ongoing — that he should be patient and wait.
But the longer he waited, the more remote his hope became.
He looked at the book, at Oba Yozo's shameful, disgraceful life.
He thought — could this be me?
Is this how I'll end?
"No — I definitely won't live as long as he did, will I."
Then he saw that line in the afterword.
"I… I love you all so very much."
His hand trembled faintly.
He suddenly remembered, a long time ago, the summer his mother had taken him to see the sea.
Waves breaking against the reef, the salt wind on his face, sunlight warm on his skin.
Suddenly — he wanted to go and see the sea one more time.
Shinjuku Ward — a battered old apartment.
A middle-aged man sat in a darkened room, a memorial portrait of his father placed before him.
His father had passed three days ago.
Lung cancer. By the time they'd found it, it was already at the late stage.
From diagnosis to death — only four months.
He had stayed by his father's side the whole time, watching him grow gaunter by the day, weaker by the day, until at last he couldn't even speak.
At the moment they'd sent his father off, he hadn't cried.
He'd thought he must have simply gone numb.
But in this moment, turning the pages of that book, reading the suicide note in the preface that a mother had written to her daughter, seeing the line "Mama loves you, will always love you," he suddenly felt the sting rise behind his nose.
He thought of when he was little — how his father had taught him to ride a bicycle.
He thought of when he'd gotten into university — how his father had been so happy he'd gotten drunk.
He thought of his father at the very end, how he had used the very last of his strength to grip his son's hand.
He lowered his head, buried his face in the pages of the book.
His shoulders trembled lightly.
Shibuya — the back kitchen of an izakaya.
A young man squatted in a corner, a magazine clutched tight in his hand.
He was a helper at this place — he worked from afternoon through to the small hours, chopping vegetables, washing dishes, carrying plates: he did anything and everything.
He had no education, no skills, no future.
He didn't know what he had done wrong, that his life had ended up this way.
But today he had read that book.
He had seen Oba Yozo's fear, his pretense, his despair.
He had also seen that line in the afterword.
"I… I love you all so very much."
He squatted there, motionless.
A long time passed, and his break came to an end.
He stood up, carefully tucked the magazine into his bag, and went back to washing dishes.
The tap was running with a rushing sound, the suds of the dish soap shimmering with iridescent colors under the light.
He thought — tomorrow, he would go sign up for an evening school program.
Hachioji City — inside a café.
A young woman in business attire sat in the corner, a now-cold latte set in front of her.
She was a company employee. Every day she was berated by her boss, ostracized by her colleagues, harassed by her clients.
Countless times she had thought of quitting — but she didn't know what else she could possibly do.
She gazed at the book in her hands, at the way Oba Yozo strained to flatter others, strained to disguise himself, strained on and on to keep on living.
She thought — am I the same?
Am I just like this too, desperately flattering others, desperately disguising myself, desperately keeping myself alive?
It really is exhausting.
Then she saw the afterword.
She saw that line.
"I… I love you all so very much."
She paused for a moment.
And then she smiled.
Adachi Ward, Nishiarai.
Shimizu Nayotake and her mother leaned against one another, slowly reading their way through No Longer Human.
At times the two of them wept, at times their tears broke into smiles.
And when they reached the afterword—
In the end, the two of them quietly held each other close.
At that same moment, all through this deep night, more and more people pulled out the copy of No Longer Human they hadn't dared to look at for long during the day.
And began once again, over and over, to turn its pages…
The next morning, at the crack of dawn.
A newspaper boy rode his bicycle through the quiet streets, dutifully slotting one paper after another into each household's mailbox.
The culture sections of the major papers — the Yomiuri Shimbun, the Asahi Shimbun, the Nikkei Shimbun, and so on — all carried the same piece of news:
[Strange Reversal in Sales of the November Issue of Shinchō: Sold Out in the Morning, Yet Unsellable in the Afternoon — Industry Takes Notice]
[According to investigation by this paper's reporter, the November issue of Shinchō released yesterday saw its initial morning print run of twenty thousand copies sell out in short order, but of the additional forty thousand copies put out in the afternoon, only a few thousand sold — a rare "sales fault line" phenomenon.]
[Dassai-ya-sensei's myth of the bestseller — it may yet be broken!]
Unfortunately, however, compared to this report, there was another, far more sensational report that had drawn everyone's eyes away.
As many people ate breakfast and opened up their papers—
The front-page headline was not the news of Shinchō's slumping sales.
It was, instead, a piece of news:
[Man Catches Adulterers in the Act, Beats Lover and Wife Black and Blue with Magazine Before Scattering Photographs, Arrested]
[This paper reports: in the small hours of this morning, a bizarre case took place at a certain apartment in Tokyo.]
A middle-aged man burst into the home of a friend, catching his wife and his friend red-handed in their affair.
The man used the magazine he had on his person to beat the two of them into serious injury, and scattered indecent photographs of the pair in bed before the onlookers gathered around.
On top of that, even after being subdued by police, he happily presented the original photographs to the officers as a keepsake.
According to reports, this man had just been fired from his company — and the one who had fired him was none other than this very friend, who was also his superior.
Before coming here, he had already scattered a batch of the pair's indecent photographs through the company's hallways and at the street corner outside.
Before he was taken away by the police, the man shouted that it was the Shinchōsha author Dassai-ya-sensei's No Longer Human that had given him the courage to go on living.
At present, the man is in police custody, and the case is under further investigation.]
Beneath was a photograph — the man, as he was being marched into the squad car, holding the issue of Shinchō up high.
Reading this news over breakfast, people reacted in any number of ways.
Some laughed out loud.
Some shook their heads.
Some sat lost in thought.
Most of the salarymen, however, were thinking that on their way out the door they might just stop by the bookstore nearby and pick up a copy to take a look at.
At that same hour, in front of every major bookstore in Tokyo, long queues had formed.
"Boss, you got Shinchō?"
"One for me too."
"Me as well."
A few salarymen who'd just come along for the spectacle stared at the long line stretching out the door, completely baffled.
Wasn't it supposed to be slumping?
How come there were so many people lined up today?
Suddenly he thought of the news he'd seen that morning.
"Ahhh — so that's it…"
And at this very moment, still at home eating his breakfast, was Tsushima Kagami.
His own guess had been that it would take at the very least three to five days, time for everyone to recover their composure, before things would slowly begin within literary circles — readers passing the book around, word of mouth slowly fermenting.
Not even by racking his brains to the breaking point would he have ever guessed—
That No Longer Human would, in this manner, catch fire well ahead of schedule.
____
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