Fuminori Nakamura - Last Winter We Parted

The Russian critic goes on further.

“And God, knowing what the clergyman really wanted, granted with a smile not world peace, but something more like a naked little girl. If God, all powerful in his cruelty as well as his purity, had attempted to grant the clergyman’s true wish …”

As I look at the photograph, my heart starts to race a bit. I put the computer to sleep.

Those who saw the original of this photograph on display in a gallery abroad had experienced something similar.

“This photograph looks just like an engraving.”

“Like Van Gogh’s oils, painted with thick brush strokes. Even though this photograph is two-dimensional, it has a physical presence.”

I wish I could see the original. But its location is unknown.

I light another cigarette. Picking up the glass, I down the rest of the whiskey, which has been diluted by melted ice. I don’t stand a chance against this without the help of one thing or another. The image of the photograph is still branded on the black screen of my now-off computer. I shut my eyes, but there it is again behind my eyelids. I move away from the screen.

Other than the desk, I have nothing but a simple bed. There isn’t even a refrigerator in my apartment. It does not in any way appear to be the home of a living being.

How long ago did I lose interest in myself, I wonder.

As if to shake the thought from my head, I open my paper files. I decide to write a letter to Kiharazaka. If I keep meeting with him, I’ll be consumed. First I need to know more about him. I figure if a send a letter, he’ll probably reply quickly. Disturbingly fast. Like he has been waiting hungrily for it.

As far as interview subjects go, Kiharazaka alone won’t suffice. His older sister is currently living on her own in Ueno. Will I be able to meet with her? It will be necessary.

And then there is Katani, the only person who could be considered Kiharazaka’s friend, as well as the members of K2.

K2. Why had I myself been drawn to a group like that?

“True desire is hidden.”

I try to smile but I can’t.

Like I told you before, don’t jump to conclusions. That’s the only rule I want you to follow.

You’re going to write a book about me. That’s fine. But I’d like you to stop trying to intrude on my mind. Because … for the time being, I’m still human. I may be sentenced to die, but I’m still a human being.

Was that really your game plan? To get me to write it all in a letter? It’s true, I do get chatty in letters. They make me introspective … It’s not a bad idea. You must be a pretty sneaky guy. But I don’t like the one-sided intrusion.

Why don’t we try this. You share something about yourself with me. Don’t tell me you’ve got nothing to say. You’re the one who’s so interested in me. What’s more, you’re a member of K2. In short, these are my conditions:

Instead of me sharing what’s inside my mind with you, I want you to share with me what’s inside yours.

You might call it an exchange of insanity .

How does that sound? I’m asking the question, but you really have no choice. You know that, don’t you? At any rate, I’ll start by saying a few things.

K2. What was that group about anyway? A bunch of guys who wanted their dolls; calling it a group provided the sense of acceptance they needed. But before I made my way to K2, I was a member of another group, a butterfly group. It was a small gathering of butterfly collectors.

There are butterfly collectors all over the world. Sometimes, people go mad over butterfly wings. And the butterflies, they dance through the air with those maddening wings. But the collectors — they chase after them, acquire them, and save them. One after another, after another. Unendingly.

There are many fascinating reasons for the various patterns of butterflies’ wings — to attract the opposite sex, to mimic as camouflage, to threaten predators, or to imitate poisonous butterflies. The males are the colorful ones, so that they may attract the more modestly patterned females. I bet the butterflies never suspect that their own wings drive other creatures to madness — that is to say, humans who have no relationship with their sphere of life. By the way, the collective noun for butterflies is a rabble. Did you know that?

I’ve seen many magnificent specimens. For example, I saw the collection of an Irishman who was so crazy about butterflies native to Japan that he lived in the mountains of Nagano. His collection was brilliant. The rainbow of butterflies in his shadow boxes seemed to radiate their colors almost explosively. He was very proud to show off his collection when I asked if it was all right to take photographs. But then — I still remember this — before I was finished he made me stop taking photos. It seemed almost as though he felt like I was going to steal his butterflies. As if he were afraid that they would be absorbed into my photographs.

“They fill a void.”

This is what the Irishman said after he stopped me from taking more photos.

“See, have a look. See the space in this shadow box? I can fit three more specimens here. I must fill this void.”

That was a matter of course; however, once this shadow box was filled, he would just start up another shadow box. And fill it. His so-called void.

He was particularly fond of butterflies that have an eyespot pattern on their wings. There are many of these kinds of butterflies. Originally these spots were to threaten birds away, or another theory is that the spots purposely lure predators into attacking their wings — where they will do less damage — rather than harming their bodies. They inspire fear, and seduce … I thought the inner mind of that Irishman must have been quite a morass, for him to be so attracted to those types of butterflies.

I had no interest in mounting specimens. I was simply drawn in by the beauty of their wings, and I had figured if I hung out with these guys, who were collectors, I might come across some unusual butterflies. Photographs were what I was interested in. Photographs of butterflies.

Except there was a problem. It was a problem with the photos themselves.

I wonder if you can understand what I’m saying. Photographs capture a moment within continuous time. There was this butterfly, this one butterfly that drove me crazy. I caught this butterfly and kept it as long as it lived so that I could take photos of it. But there was no end to it. When I took my eyes away for a single moment, a single second, the butterfly would appear completely different to me.

I would look away from the butterfly. For that instant, the butterfly was no longer mine . Or when I photographed it from the right side, I couldn’t capture its left side. That’s why you think it would make sense to film it, right? Wrong. What I wanted was a single moment. I wanted a single moment of that butterfly. Yet for the butterfly, that moment was one of countless moments. And there was no way that I could capture all of them.

I spent entire days clicking the shutter at that butterfly. I must have fallen in love with it. I don’t know. I put it in a cage and kept it, but I was in despair over the fact that I could never completely possess the butterfly. Well, actually, it was probably despair about the way that the world itself works. Why, when a “subject” is right in front of us, are we only capable of recognizing, of grasping, that one small part we see? That butterfly was the reason I was hospitalized the first time. I don’t remember, but apparently I wouldn’t stop taking photos — not even to eat — and when I collapsed, my sister was the one who took care of me. Then I went to the hospital. I was given a psychological diagnosis. Anxiety neurosis, I think it was. In the medical field, I guess they like to be able to put a name to it when people deviate from the norm.