Even with the benefit of the priest’s detailed explanation, both Yūko’s appearance and her character remained enveloped in a veil of obscurity and the only image I could conjure of her was her thin lips, adorned—as they always were—with heavy lipstick.
This vague image, which was so difficult to grasp, was for me just like an old and beautiful, and yet mysterious, piece of folklore that had been buried, and what a valuable scholarly discovery it would be, if only I could capture it now, when it was on the point of being lost—having been passed down in the utmost secrecy.
Then at last, the priest suggested he show me a photograph that was in his possession. As he stood up to open the box where it was kept, I felt overwhelmed with feelings of both hope and unease. Researchers like me often experience disappointment on field trips when, leaving aside the collation of data relating to the oral transmission of language and thought, we are dismayed to find that a particular ancient manuscript that has been described to us in glowing terms actually turns out to be nothing remarkable.
I was afraid that Yūko’s actual photograph would fall short of my expectations. Fortunately, my fears proved groundless.
Besides its being slightly overexposed, the three figures in the picture wore white clothing, accentuating the brightness of the photograph all the more. Despite this, the picture was distinct and above all else the friendly intimacy created a strange impression. Yūko was in the middle of the frame, wearing a white dress and smiling, holding a folded parasol in her hand. If anything, her generously proportioned, gay face gave off a hint of unrefined but graceful sorrow, and while thin, her lips were also beautiful. Delighted that my illusion had not been shattered, at the same time I knew full well that the priest’s storytelling contained no exaggeration.
The photograph had been nonchalantly given to the priest the day before the incident, when Kōji made his customary delivery of flowers to the temple. With the benefit of hindsight, no doubt everyone would agree that this was a suggestive gift indeed. More will be said about this later. The most pronounced impression was left by the priest’s description of Kōji and Yūko the morning after the murder. Being an early riser, the priest was in the habit of going down into the back garden of the temple before daybreak and puttering around.
The sky was beginning to lighten. Just then he became aware of footsteps coming down the slope that led back up to the Kusakado greenhouse and looked up from what he was doing. Usually, no one came down from the house this early in the morning. When he looked again, he realized it was Yūko and Kōji, holding hands as they came toward him. Just at that moment, a flash of light from the eastern mountains illuminated the slope, signaling the arrival of dawn, and the couple appeared brilliantly lit in the first light of day.
Their faces brimming with happiness, and with a youthful spring in their step, they appeared more beautiful than ever before. Descending the dew-wet path, surrounded by the lingering cries of the morning insects, Yūko and Kōji truly looked like bride and groom…
The priest could be forgiven for thinking that they were the bearers of extraordinarily glad tidings. In fact, however, they had come to ask him to accompany them to the police station, where they intended to turn themselves in. They confessed to strangling Ippei to death late the previous night using a thin length of cord. Moreover, Kōji claimed that he had carried out the murder at Ippei’s request. The priest testified that around noon on the previous day, Kōji had given him the photograph when he came to deliver the flowers. It seems that this was Kōji’s attempt to allude to the fact that it wasn’t an impulsive crime, but rather one committed at the victim’s behest.
However, since there was no circumstantial evidence, let alone any direct evidence, supporting his explanation, Kōji’s plea was rejected. Instead, the strange gift of the photograph was seen as proof of the premeditated nature of the crime. Kōji and Yūko were regarded as complicit. Kōji had a previous conviction for bodily harm against the victim, and accordingly there was no chance to plead extenuating circumstances. He was given the death penalty, and Yūko was sentenced to life imprisonment.
Subsequently, Kōji and Yūko both sent letters to the priest from prison, imploring him to somehow arrange for their graves to be erected side by side. While this appeared a strange request, the priest discerned that behind it lay the specter of some mournful hope. Perhaps herein lay the real motive for delivering the photograph the day before the crime was committed.
However, setting aside the question of Ippei’s grave, the issue of placing the other two graves side by side encountered intense resistance from certain influential villagers, and so the priest was forced to wait and bide his time.
Last autumn, Kōji was finally executed.
In the early spring of this year, as the three had wished, the priest arranged for Yūko’s commemorative headstone to be built to the left of Ippei’s grave—which already stood there—and to the left of that, for Kōji’s tombstone to be erected.
Guided by the priest, I paid a visit to the three mysterious graves, and having obtained permission, I took a photograph. As if he had perceived my thoughts, as I did so the priest casually approached me with the following request. He explained that the reason he had not yet sent a photograph of the graves to Yūko was that, if possible, he had wanted to visit her and deliver it in person, but since it had been rather difficult to find an opportunity to do so, he asked if I might go in his place. I readily agreed.
As a result of this, my summer field trip came to an end having yielded an unexpectedly poor harvest. My thoughts continually ran ahead to the meeting with Yūko, and since learning of this story from the priest, I lost interest in devoting myself to my research.
Following my return to Tokyo, with just a few days left before the end of the summer vacation, I decided that at last today would be the day I would pay a visit to Tochigi prison.
At Asakusa I boarded a train on the Tobu line bound for Nikko Kinugawa, alighting onto the platform of Tochigi station at 1:59 p.m.
The lingering summer heat was relentless. Several swallows—which showed no sign of leaving soon—busily flew in and out of the old eaves above the station entrance. The sun was dazzling, and the sweeping shadows of the swallows skimmed past my eyes like a handful of small stones that had been hurled in the air before plummeting onto the deserted white square in front of the station.
The eaves of the houses were low. To the right could be seen the foliage of a row of shabby roadside trees along the wide sidewalk that led to the shopping district. Just like in any provincial city, here, too, were dozens of incongruously large buses lined up, displaying their grandeur. I boarded the bus for Oyama, as I had been instructed to by the priest. With just a few passengers on board, the bus made its way through the shopping district, where, it being afternoon on a Monday, the stores were mostly closed. There was a noodle bar that had a cascade of red roses trailing over a black fence. There was hardly anyone walking along the street. The monotonous sunlight shone relentlessly.
The bus, having gone briefly to the outskirts of the town—which had become disagreeably hot—and picked up some passengers, now returned the way it had come, turning left at the telephone and telegram exchange—situated midway along the shopping street—and then entered an unpaved road. The bus shook terribly.
“The next stop is the prison. Are there any passengers stopping at the prison?” announced a young female conductor, glancing at my face. I was surprised to feel a sense of embarrassment—as if I were doing something a little questionable—feelings I imagined were experienced by any visitor going to see a female relative in this women’s prison. These past few weeks, Yūko, whom I had not yet seen, occupied my thoughts almost night and day.