Fuminori Nakamura - Last Winter We Parted

“Well, the first victim, Akiko Yoshimoto, burned to death. It was deemed an accidental fire, because Kiharazaka suffered major burns as well, and his studio was completely destroyed. But, I knew it then. That it hadn’t actually been an accident.”

“… What do you mean?”

“I saw the photographs he took.”

Suzuki looks directly at me with his narrow eyes. My heart starts to race.

“Photographs of Akiko Yoshimoto, in the raging fire. Are you familiar with the story, ‘Hell Screen’?”

“… Yes. By Ryunosuke Akutagawa.”

“That’s right. Kiharazaka was morbidly fascinated by that story. There must have been somebody who had casually recommended it to him … He set fire to his lover, and then took photographs of her. But he didn’t show them to anyone. Of course not. If such photos existed, they would find out what he had done. After all.”

The doll maker draws in a quick breath.

“ He thought they would become more beautiful — the photos he took of her — if she were to die . Once the real her was dead. Like Saito’s doll. Like that doll made by the doll maker during the Onin War. Kiharazaka tried to create art that he shouldn’t have. Just like me. He ventured into territory where he didn’t belong. Akiko was visually impaired. To do such a thing to a woman like that. And in imitation of someone else.”

“… Ryunosuke Akutagawa’s ‘Hell Screen’ is based on The Tale of Uji Shui and the Kokon Chomon , isn’t it?”

“Yes. The work has a cultural lineage. That’s what he was trying to do with his photographs. But it led him to a strange question. Which photos were actually more beautiful — the photos of his lover on fire? Or did the photos he had already taken of her gain in beauty, now that she was dead?”

He shows me several photographs. I reach my hand out to them. My fingers are trembling slightly.

The first one is a photograph of Akiko Yoshimoto on fire. Her eyes are closed as she is engulfed by intense flames. The second one is a photograph of the interior of the room, engulfed by the same inferno. The third one is a photograph of Akiko Yoshimoto, the victim, taken when she was alive. She is in the studio, seated in a chair, her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips. There are also photographs of the other victim, Yuriko Kobayashi. One photo of her engulfed in flames, another of the room as it looked at the time, of the walls and equipment about to collapse. There are numerous other photographs as well. Of the flames, of the women as they are burning, of the studio on fire.

But, I think to myself. But …

“Do you see? They’re quite terrifying, aren’t they? This is his failure. He photographed women to their death . What’s more, his photos of them aren’t even particularly powerful. He was in the midst of a slump at the time. He took these photos in an attempt to break out of his slump. I say slump, but it’s not what an ordinary photographer would consider a slump. What I mean by slump is, well, ruin. And by ruining himself, it’s not just that he would be rendered incompetent — he would have driven himself mad in the process, creating photographs that should never have existed. But he failed. There have been whispers from various quarters about the mystery of why, if he went to the trouble of burning these two women, did he not take any photographs, but the reason is simple. He did take photographs, and he failed. He couldn’t show them to anyone. He asked me to keep them to myself.”

“You mean that’s why he tried again? With the second woman?”

“That’s right. The second victim, Yuriko Kobayashi, who was working for him as a model, was killed in exactly the same way. As a result, the true facts of all that happened were brought to light. He will always be one to lie about everything, but that is the whole truth. Then again, there was more to it than just that. Kiharazaka’s sister is probably a lesbian.” The doll maker’s voice lowers another register.

“What?”

“You should back out of this. Coincidentally, I was thinking of getting out of it myself. There are things here that even I don’t understand. No matter how obsessed he was with photography, for his madness to have compelled him to go so far as murder — something else must have been at play. Do you really think that a person could murder someone, purely for the sake of art ? There must be something that fostered his madness to such a point. There’s a more brutal madness to this than two simple murders. Why Akari made me such an offer … Look closely at this. You may not have noticed it.”

Suzuki points to one of the dolls among the many behind him. My heart begins to race.

THE HUGE CLOCK hanging on the wall seems to have stopped moving.

“I think I want to quit working on this project.”

The moment I say it, I feel a small pang of regret, along with a calm sense of release. My editor gazes across at me, looking slightly dazed.

“Why …?”

“… It’s too much for me. I’m sorry.”

“I want you to explain to me, specifically. What happened?”

We are at my editor’s apartment. I stare at the glass of whiskey on the table. My editor is staring at the same thing. He lights a cigarette. I remain silent.

“… You mean, you’re in over your head?”

I look at the unmoving clock on the wall. It seems disproportionately large for the room. He opens his mouth to speak.

“Have you read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood? ”

“… I have.”

“After he completed his nonfiction novel, he couldn’t write another decent piece of work. His spirit was broken. Then again, at least he did finish that book.”

Akari Kiharazaka had said something very similar to me. My heart starts to race. My editor raises his voice slightly.

“Sure, the way that I do things may be relentless. Some have even called me pathological because I always push a writer beyond the limits of his abilities. And as a result, some writers’ spirits have broken. But I just want to make a good book. That’s all. It may sound callous, but I’m not thinking about the writer. The only thing I care about it is the work.”

“I understand that.”

“Really?”

The editor looks me straight in the eyes.

“Capote managed to write his all. He put his heart and soul into it. And you — you’re going to give up at this point?”

He still isn’t finished with what he has to say.

“It’s frustrating. I’m disappointed to hear your position. It sounds like you’re putting your personal life above your own work. Get out of here.”

He takes another drag from his cigarette.

“Don’t bother sending me your expenses. This will be a major loss for us. And I don’t want to deal with you anymore.”

A woman with a towel wrapped around her face is being embraced by a man .

The woman’s pleasure is conveyed through her body’s response. She gently caresses the man’s face as his tongue trails between her breasts. The man also has a towel wrapped around his face, but his eyes and mouth are visible .

The man slowly enters the woman. She arches her back, spreading her legs wide and then coiling them around his waist, squeezing. The man thrusts his hips, and the woman takes him in. There is no sound on this picture .

Staying inside her, the man lies down on the bed so that the woman is on top of him. The woman moves her hips vigorously. She is completely absorbed in the act, but every so often, the man steals a glance in the direction of the camera as if confirming its location .