Fuminori Nakamura - Last Winter We Parted

I light a cigarette.

“By the way, what do you intend to do, now that you’ve quit this project?”

“I’m going to marry Yukie. And then, I’ve got work as a celebrity ghostwriter.”

My voice quavers slightly.

“When I figured out what was going on with you and them, I was reminded of that photograph, Butterflies . What’s inside each person, the true desire that people aren’t even aware of … Yudai Kiharazaka had no desires of his own. His envy of others, that imitation was all there was for him. That was even what led him to just want to die. It’s terrible, but that was when I figured it all out. It’s not my true desire to lead a ruinous life. Desire for something wild and violent is not what creates beautiful art. I want stability — though occasionally I yearn for ruin — and since it doesn’t matter to me what kind of work I do, everyone is just a little envious. I realized that I would never be a novelist. That’s why I can’t write this book about you and them. The ‘sister’ told me so from the start. She said, You aren’t capable of writing a book about us. She said, You cannot simply come into our realm . She was right.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take over. Together you and I will make this into a ‘novel.’ The only thing I ask of you is to write this scene of us here, if you can.”

I stare at my cigarette, which had burned down to a nub.

“I’m quitting smoking from now on. To mark this day, this will be my last cigarette.”

I take a drag, and exhale slowly. The white smoke gently drifts away. As if something inside me is quietly emerging. I put out the cigarette in the ashtray. A thin line of smoke rises faintly from the extinguished stub, disappearing before long. There is a smile on the editor’s lips.

“That’s great. You should take care of yourself. Despite the inherent tedium of the world, it’s beautiful to see those people who still live fully. But, every so often, I want you to remember the utter folly of what we did with our lives. And the fact that it was the way we truly wanted to live.”

He stands up slowly, still holding his whiskey. He lights yet another cigarette.

“Akari told me. She said that the reason I fell in love with Akiko Yoshimoto was so that I could suffer through the pain of worrying about her. She was a woman who said terrible things. Still … whatever the reason, that was all I felt when I fell in love with her, and I wanted to believe it was the real thing. That was the only time … when I felt like the world was truly beautiful.”

“… Yes.”

“I wonder. If Akiko saw me now … what would she do with me?”

I remain seated on the sofa, watching him. He seems far away from where I am.

“It’s not simply a duality between either acceptance or rejection, nor between acknowledgment or denial. She … I think she might just take you in her arms, tearfully … As foolish as you are. But I don’t know.”

He smiles at what I say.

“Would it really work out that easily …? And what I also wonder … well, my actions were unilateral.”

He takes a sip of whiskey.

“She liked the books I edited. A long time ago, she said something to me in jest. She said, If I’m ever murdered, like in a mystery novel, I want you to make that into a book. Hunt down my killer, and take revenge for me. She was a very energetic person. I decided to create the ‘novel,’ and I thought I’d send it first to Yudai Kiharazaka. It would be a strange mix of archived materials and fiction chapters. This would be after his death sentence had been definitively determined. He would read the novel in prison, and knowing the truth about what had been done to him would likely drive him insane. And thus, my revenge would be complete … It’s a rather editorial revenge, isn’t it? Because he’s already crazy, right? He’d make a big commotion, saying it was a conspiracy between the state and the judge, and even though he knew the truth, nobody would pay him any attention. He’d be executed. After his execution, they’ll say, maybe there was something strange about that ‘novel’…”

He is looking off somewhere. I can’t tell where.

“And I will dedicate the book to her. She was blind. That’s why everything is written out, even the video archives. Later it would all need to be put into Braille. That’s why I’d write their names on the first page of the story. A dedication, like in foreign novels … But because the Japanese are easily embarrassed, I’d use the alphabet. Since it’s a ‘novel,’ I used aliases in the main part of the book, but these would be their real initials. The first one would be for the photographer on death row, and then for my beloved.”

He is still looking off somewhere.

“It would be just like the book itself: on the one hand, a manifestation of pure hatred, and on the other, a manifestation of true love … Dedicated to M.M, and to J.I.”