Chapter 9

Act 3 1 I found myself in an unfamiliar part of town. As I came to my senses, I realized I was wedged into a depression by a narrow road, soaked from the heavy rain, with a twenty-ounce can of a high-content-alcohol cocktail in one hand. I didn’t have my cell phone or wallet, so I had no idea how I got the booze. My teeth rattled, and my whole body was freezing. I felt nauseous but drank the booze anyway, hoping to warm up. A book was stuffed into my rear pants pocket: The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. In the story, the protagonist suddenly finds himself transformed into a bug one day. It felt like that had happened to me. My stomach churned, and I retched. I almost tossed the book away but stopped when I remembered how much Miri treasured books. My sinuses burned as I sobbed. Without a doubt, I had seen a memory from the future—Miri really was going to die. I didn’t understand the meaning of the shadowy moon and the flames, but somehow, she would die, a hole torn through her stomach, somewhere dark and cold. It was unbearably sad. I also thought about Kuroyama. Was he truly destined to die? Could I have prevented it if I had just tried harder? As those thoughts swirled in my mind, the rain stopped, and the sky began to brighten. I felt utterly miserable, but the morning light filtering through the tall buildings was undeniably beautiful. I stumbled home. I must have tried to run as far as I could yesterday but hadn’t made it very far. I arrived home at nine in the morning, took a shower, and went straight to bed. 2 Five days after Kuroyama’s murder, we traveled to his hometown in Tochigi for his funeral. A clear blue sky reflected off the traditional Japanese roof tiles of a wide, wooden one-story house surrounded by nature. A flycatcher sang brightly, perched atop an Onigawara gargoyle. Beneath it, our solemn ceremony continued in silence. White chrysanthemums surrounded a picture of Kuroyama smiling reservedly. He had always appeared aloof, with a cigarette in his hand, but his snaggletooth smile made him look innocent and frail. Occasionally, people who looked like newspaper reporters tried to approach but were turned away. Information about the police officer’s missing gun being used in a series of murders had been leaked to the press, causing a major commotion among the daily news outlets. None had mentioned the word mummy yet, so they didn’t know about that part. The ceremony reached the moment for lighting incense. A priest appeared, and suddenly someone screamed—it was Hirutani. She began hyperventilating, repeating, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die…” Some club members escorted her out of the room. “The robe probably reminded her of the incident,” I whispered to Umeko, who was sitting next to me. With her hair sprayed black, she looked like a prim, regular woman in a moderate amount of makeup. She covered her mouth and whispered back. “She thinks it’s the mummy’s curse.” “A-a curse?” I stammered. “Come on.” “She’s really into the occult. Lives by her horoscope, believes in conspiracy theories. She once cursed Karin and thinks that curse affected Kuroyama. Now she believes it might have passed on to her.” “Well, as they say, curses come home to roost.” The priest played the prayer through his cell phone, explaining that it was a precaution against infection, and then struck a wooden bell. People really do think differently. We moved to the crematorium to say our final good-byes. The sound of gentle sobbing filled the hall as I approached the coffin. Kuroyama looked as if he were sleeping peacefully; the bullet had passed through his heart, sparing his face. Tears welled up, and I hurried away. Amou, his eyes bright red, stood rigid before the coffin. In a small voice, he whispered, “We’ll meet again on the stage.” The body was then moved into the cremation chamber. We headed to the reception hall for the traditional post-ceremony meal. The Drama Club members mingled with Kuroyama’s family, sharing stories. Making it through the cremation had somewhat calmed our nerves. “You still look grim,” Chitose remarked from my left, through the plastic panel erected for infection prevention. She wore a formal dress and a pearl necklace. “I’ve been trying to contact you. Why haven’t you texted back?” “Sorry, I haven’t been feeling well…” In truth, I had caught a cold after being out in the rain that night. I could have texted her, but I just didn’t have the energy. Misunderstanding my silence, she said: “You don’t think you’re responsible for this, do you?” “What—?” “You probably think you should’ve done more to find the killer. Don’t be so full of yourself. Are you trying to be a detective or something?” I couldn’t reply. Suddenly, she slapped me on the back, surprising me. Then she kindly added, “Don’t overthink it. I know you’ll make me proud, my little detective.” With that, she moved seats. I scratched the back of my neck, feeling lighter, as if a weight had been lifted. She really was something else. “I suspected as much. You two are dating, aren’t you?” Umeko asked casually from my right. “We’re not dating. But it seems like you might be interested in someone. Or am I wrong?” I pointed to the caricature of Isemi she had drawn on the sleeve of her disposable chopsticks. “Oh, that? I was just doodling. It helps me relax. I’m not interested in him at all. Actually, I can barely tolerate him. He’s such a show-off. He took out a loan during college to buy that fancy watch, flaunts his family’s wealth to impress girls, and only wears brand-name clothes. I despise people like that.” “Geez…” Her bluntness made me feel a bit sorry for him, so I let the subject drop. She pointed to the man talking with Isemi. “That guy is Yukinao Kandagawa, the producer.” Producers oversee planning, progress, and budgeting. Rumor had it that he managed a theater company and had been so moved when he saw The Specter of the Furrow that he backed its commercial production. With his help, we’d perform The Vicissitudes of the Three Realms on a big stage. “Oh, that’s him? He seems as nice as they say.” Kandagawa, a man in his late fifties, looked every bit the part of a gentleman, with streaks of white in his neatly styled hair. His round, black-rimmed glasses and mustache gave him an artistic air, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened when he smiled. A while later, he approached me and introduced himself. “Kuroyama told me about you. He said you came out of nowhere to grab the lead for The Vicissitudes of the Three Realms.” “Yes… I was lucky. I only hope my work ethic can make up for my lack of experience.” Kandagawa looked me straight in the eye and nodded. “Could we meet tomorrow? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” I was surprised but agreed to meet him, and we exchanged contact information. As I walked away, I overheard Kuroyama’s parents talking. “He had just gotten over COVID, and then this…” So those two weeks he had been absent were due to COVID. But I still couldn’t tell how it all connected. We returned to the crematorium to transfer Kuroyama’s bones to the funeral pot. In that silent space, I couldn’t help but wonder where Miri’s bones might be at this moment. The funeral concluded without incident. As we were leaving, Kuroyama’s parents called Amou over. They spoke kindly to him, then handed him a small box. He bowed humbly several times before suddenly breaking into a wail. Walking back to us with tears streaming down his face, he declared, “I will do whatever it takes to make The Vicissitudes of the Three Realms happen. Are you with me?!” We all responded with a spirited cry, wrapping our arms around the sobbing Amou as we walked to the station. On the Shinkansen ride home, Sugai drank too much beer and threw up in the toilet. 3 I met Kandagawa at three in the afternoon in a café near Shinjuku Station. He wore a light-blue knit polo shirt with slim-fitting ankle-length pants, completing his stylishly casual look with a pair of sandals. When I arrived, he stood to greet me with a smile. We both ordered Vienna coffees. “So you’re from Hyogo? I went there once. What was it called? There’s a row of gorgeous cherry trees…” “The Ono Sakura Zutsumi Corridor. The tunnel of cherry trees goes on forever.” “Yes, that’s it. It was stunning. These days, I can never seem to remember the words I want. It’s quite annoying.” He laughed, covering his embarrassment. But when the conversation shifted to theater, he seamlessly rattled off specific names and ideas. Along with his theories on acting, he shared fascinating stories about theaters and famous actors. “He’s handsome, but he’ll show his true colors soon enough. In the end, anyone who doesn’t work hard and with passion will never make it. He’s a complete ham who never practiced, so I had to fire him.” I nodded, then said, “And today, you’re trying to figure out whether I’m a ham who will practice hard, right?” Kandagawa raised his left eyebrow slightly, lowered his glasses, and looked at me over the rims. “You’re quick, just like they said… Don’t think less of me for saying this, but I’m betting what’s left of my life on The Vicissitudes of the Three Realms. I need to weed out the bad seeds early.” “I understand,” I replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And I’m prepared to withdraw gracefully if needed.” He pursed his lips and nodded twice. “You’re…not bad. I saw the video of your zombie étude. I’ve never seen an amateur act so well in my entire career. If you’re a ham, you’re a good one.” “Thank you,” I said sincerely. I wasn’t upset at all. He laughed, sounding youthful. “Good. There’s something I’d like to show you. Come with me.” We left the café and walked for about ten minutes until we reached an old building with a tiled facade. “This is my studio. It has a rehearsal space, a sound room, and a small stage.” The rooms were old but well maintained. We headed to a southwestern room on the third floor, which housed a projector, a screen, and a row of folding chairs. As Kandagawa closed the blackout curtains, he said, “Seeing is believing. More often than not, experience is the best teacher. Do you know who Ason Amou is?” I shook my head. “He’s Shimao’s grandfather. About thirty years ago, I saw a video of his Maiden of Kissho. It was black-and-white, and the video quality was terrible, but that didn’t matter. The play captivated me instantly, and I watched it obsessively. That moment taught me everything I know about theater—like a torch coming to dispel the darkness.” He flicked a switch on the wall, and fluorescent lights illuminated the room. “The Maiden of Kissho,” I murmured. “That’s the same title as the first part of The Vicissitudes of the Three Realms.” “I thought I’d never see anything better, but The Vicissitudes of the Three Realms might surpass it. I believe Shimao is trying to outdo his grandfather, to finish what Ason started.” “What did Ason start?” “Ason staked everything on The Maiden of Kissho, a three-part work. He poured his life savings into constructing a building called the Goddess House to perform it. But when his wife, the lead actress, died by suicide for unknown reasons, everything fell apart. In his despair, Ason never set foot onstage again. He eventually grew very sick, and in his final days, barely conscious, he kept muttering, ‘Burn the Goddess House down,’ over and over.” A heavy silence fell. Kandagawa finished setting up the projector and turned off the lights, plunging the room into darkness. “Ason was probably the victim of a curse,” he said quietly. I shivered. “All his plays dealt with curses—creating them, breaking them, dissolving the barrier between fiction and reality, opening a crack between this world and the next, drawing the audience in, and then releasing them. Do you know how curses are made?” I shook my head again. “Ason was known for his innovative theatrical techniques, like rotating platforms and trapdoors, but he was also an avant-garde artist. He once created a piece called The Life of a Curse. It was just a featureless white wall with a single hole in it. Nothing else. But every person who looked inside screamed hysterically. Nervously, I approached the hole and looked in.” “What did you see?” I asked, swallowing hard. “Someone’s back,” he replied. “A figure stood with their back to me. Then a shadow slowly stretched out and consumed the back. The space emptied, and another back appeared. It, too, was devoured by the shadow. And then another, and another… That repetition imprinted something unsettling in my mind. At some point, a gap opened in my consciousness, and I saw a back that looked familiar. A sudden unease gripped me, and then I realized—it was my back. An indescribable terror overwhelmed me. I screamed and pulled away from the wall. The person behind me looked shocked, but I forced a smile, trying to pass it off as a prank. That night, I had nightmares about what would’ve happened if I had kept looking into that hole…” “You would’ve been cursed.” Even in the darkness, I sensed him nod. “Curses are born from small things, like that hole. Ason must have looked into a hole somewhere and been devoured by it. The Vicissitudes of the Three Realms is about breaking curses. It piles curse upon curse, and the final part, The Light of Salvation, simultaneously creates and dismantles a torus that breaks them all.” A heavy silence followed. Kandagawa cleared his throat and continued. “But I’ve gotten off topic. I wanted to show you an exceptional performance. Until three years ago, a group I sponsored had a real talent—a prodigy on par with Ason’s wife. You’ll understand what I mean when you see her.” The screen lit up, and a theater curtain appeared. It slowly rose. The play was Hamlet, one of Shakespeare’s great tragedies. Hamlet meets his father’s ghost and goes mad when he learns the truth behind his death, waiting for the chance to take revenge. “Here she is. Watch closely. She’s pure talent,” Kandagawa said, pointing to the woman playing Ophelia. I stared, dumbstruck. Chills ran up my spine, and goose bumps covered my skin. Time seemed to distort, and I was completely immersed in the world she created on the screen. Kandagawa was just as transfixed, watching the mesmerizing performance. My breath caught in my throat, and I pointed at her, my finger trembling. “She… Who is she? Please tell me her name!” “Is everything okay?” Kandagawa asked, eyeing me suspiciously. But maybe my urgency compelled him to answer. “Miri Yuzunoha.” My mind wouldn’t work. I just sat there, staring at Miri on the screen. She was pure genius. So much so that Chitose seemed mediocre by comparison. Miri looked elegant simply standing there, and her performance was delicate and precise, each moment a cascade of emotions. It was as if the audience’s soul was entangled in the folds of a bolt of smooth, unblemished silk. Her descent into madness stole the show. Her eyes held a darkness deeper than anything this world could offer. “She… Where is she now?” I asked. Kandagawa stroked his mustache, his eyes tearing up slightly as he replied, “Sadly, she died in a plane crash.” On the screen, Ophelia, lost in madness, floated briefly in the river with her garland of flowers, like a mermaid, singing a song of prayer before finally sinking. 4 I came out of the long tunnel into a country of snow. I could see nothing but white, and I found myself shaking. No, this wasn’t a country of snow. Everything was white. The sky, the ground, all of it—a vast, empty void. A horizon stretching endlessly, without limit, continuing as far as I could see. I wandered aimlessly, my footsteps echoing like the sound of a lonely winter night. Gradually, I lost all sense of distance and balance, and dizziness crept in. Ultimately, even my sense of time became skewed, my mind clearing to nothing. I focused on my heartbeat to keep myself grounded. Thump…thump…thump… Its rhythm was the only thing tethering me to this world. Thump…thump…thump… I walked for what felt like an eternity until I came upon a wall. It, too, was white—gigantic, like the end of the world. I looked to the right and left and strained my neck upward, but I couldn’t see the edges. And there, right in the middle of the wall, was a hole. I wondered if something existed beyond the end of the world. I peered inside. But all I could see was darkness. Thump…thump…thump… I blinked, straining my eyes. Still, nothing. I was about to give up when, suddenly, a white shadow rose from the darkness. I screamed. But no sound came out. I couldn’t move, my hands and feet felt tied. The mummy man. Horror filled me. His face wrapped in bandages, he stood there, staring directly at me. In the next instant, he leaned toward me, and— A pair of eyes open in the darkness. The mummy man was crying. I peered into that even deeper darkness, and— I awoke with a start, lying in my bed drenched in my own sweat. Looking around my room, I realized that it had all been a dream and finally released the breath I was holding. 5 I entered a diner near the Nakano Broadway shopping mall. I grabbed a table for two by the windows and got myself a cup of coffee from the drink bar, sipping it while I waited. A little while later, a woman with long black hair approached my table. She had pale white skin and dark bags under her large, round eyes. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Mio Kashimo.” Her small voice was hoarse as she rubbed her vocal cords and cleared her throat. “I usually don’t speak much.” She filled her glass with peach juice, then sat down across from me. Gazing out the window, she made no attempt at conversation. Growing impatient, I explained the situation: I told her the story I had made up—that I used to know a girl named Miri Yuzunoha, but we had lost contact. Recently, I saw her in a video Kandagawa showed me, so I decided to reach out to one of her old friends. “Miri Yuzunoha…” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “There was no one like her.” They had met when Kashimo was fifteen and Miri was seventeen. “My first impression was that she was really cute. But once I saw her perform and talked with her, I realized how beautiful she was. The way she lived was beautiful. A person’s soul makes them beautiful, and no one in the world was as beautiful as her.” She sipped her juice, enchanted by the memory of Miri, then continued. “When I entered high school, I thought I was better than anyone. I was full of myself because I had won first place in the All-Japan Drama Competition in middle school. Kandagawa discovered me and got me into the Virgo Theater Troupe. I was sure I’d get the lead role… But once I saw Yuzunoha onstage, I was devastated. It wasn’t about her being good or bad. She was frightening. Yes, that’s the only way to describe it. I knew I’d never be better than her. I cried, resented her, even thought about quitting acting… But in the end, I admired her. A lot.” She drained her glass and went for a refill. “Kamisuki, who is Yuzunoha to you?” “Miri’s cute, kind, a little clumsy, mysterious,” I rambled for a bit, but then Kashimo gave me a blank look. “Have you ever actually met her?” I hesitated for a moment. Then, with more force than I expected, I replied, “I have.” “I doubt it,” Kashimo said, smiling vaguely, almost mockingly. “You might think you know her, but in reality, you just passed her by. You haven’t really met her. And you never will. Because she fell from the sky and died—like a goddess who lost her heavenly raiment.” She told me she had saved some news articles about the crash, so we went to her house. The walk was unsettling. Her words, that I hadn’t “really met” Miri, had cut deeper than I expected. Kashimo lived within walking distance—in a mansion, actually. It was a geometric, two-story building, surrounded by a well-trimmed hedge and aesthetic lighting. The front door unlocked automatically when she approached it, and the lights inside turned on by themselves. An arowana swam lazily in a fish tank in the living room. We ascended an open-air spiral staircase to the second floor, and as we entered her room, Steve Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians played in the background. “It’s always playing, twenty-four-seven,” she said. Something felt off, but I stepped inside. The air in her room hung heavy, stagnant. Photographs covered the walls. My eyes landed on one: Kashimo and Miri at Disneyland, both giving the peace sign. A wave of bittersweet emotion washed over me. Kashimo retrieved a thick photo album from a bookshelf and opened it to the last page, motioning for me to come closer. I cautiously peered over her shoulder. A news article about a plane crash was pasted inside. It detailed the crash three years ago, when a passenger plane traveling from Tokyo to Fukuoka crashed in the mountains of Gifu Prefecture. The crash was caused by engine trouble, and the airline and maintenance company had been tried in court. There were no survivors. Miri Yuzunoha was among the names on the list of the deceased. “When Yuzunoha left this world, I thought I would die, too,” Kashimo said. I stared at her in disbelief. She flipped back to a page filled with pictures of Miri. She gently stroked Miri’s face with her slender finger. “She died the spring she was supposed to turn twenty. Since then, I’ve lost the will to live. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist and stayed holed up here until recently.” Something felt wrong. I flipped back one more page, and it, too, was filled with pictures of Miri—as was the page before that. A cold realization hit me. Every photo in the room had Miri in it. A chill ran down my spine. The album’s first page had a picture of Kashimo smiling awkwardly next to Miri, likely from when they first met. “Yes, you see.” A thin, cold smile appeared on her face. “I love Miri.” I took a step back instinctively. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. “Is something wrong?” she asked, her expression unchanging. “Yes,” I finally replied. “Having so many pictures of someone else…” “Someone else?” she echoed. It was as if the concept of “someone else” was foreign to her. “These photos aren’t of someone else. They’re photos of me.” I shook my head. “What are you talking about?” “There’s no difference between me and anyone else. I am you, and you are me. Babies, the elderly, saints, murderers… We all have the same color in our souls. But people don’t understand that, so we still have violence in this world.” She caressed a set of LEGO blocks in the back of her room, which formed a stage depicting the scene where Ophelia falls into the river. A sole spectator sat in the audience. “Sitting alone in the dark for so long lets me examine my soul. I tried to discover its true nature and started ridding myself of all unnecessary things, like peeling layers off an onion.” She began disassembling the LEGO structure one piece at a time. The seats disappeared, then the curtain, followed by the set. I watched, frozen in place. Finally, only Ophelia and the spectator remained. “Most things in life have nothing to do with the soul. In hell, everyone is naked, right? It’s like that. And in the end, even that vanishes.” I felt sick as Kashimo removed the spectator. “Even the self is a stranger to the soul. What we think of as ourselves is not us. We don’t even empathize with ourselves. So, to me, Yuzunoha was more me than I was. She understood that, and that’s what made her a genius.” “You’re insane,” I muttered hoarsely. “You would have known it, too, if you had really met Yuzunoha.” I fled. I bolted down the spiral staircase, past the arowana fish tank, and through the front door. Behind me, the door locked automatically. 6 I turned off all the lights in my room and watched the video of Hamlet that Kandagawa had lent me. The second time was somehow even more absorbing than the first. As soon as it finished, I immediately started it again for a third time. I couldn’t tire of it—there was always something new to learn. This cycle of endless discovery might eventually help me understand what Kashimo had been talking about. I still hadn’t “really met” her. Those words kept echoing in my mind. The more I watched, the more it felt like Miri was slipping away from me. By the fourth time, as I hovered my finger over the PLAY button, I realized I needed to apologize to her. I called Saburou over. He jumped down from the catwalk and hopped onto my lap. I looked into his eyes, and— She gazed at the floor, crestfallen. My chest ached. I had placed another burden on the small shoulders of this woman with a fate already marked by death. “I’m sorry, Miri.” I finally squeezed out. “I was upset and took it out on you. You have it harder than anyone, and I didn’t stop to consider that. I’m sorry for being so immature.” Miri shook her head. “No, I should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about Kuroyama. Blindly knowing the future disrupts the space-time continuum, causing everything to spiral out of control…” “Actually, I didn’t know anything at all… I met Kashimo today.” Miri looked absolutely stunned. “Mio? How is she?” “She’s doing well, all things considered. Miri, you were an incredible actor. I saw the video of you in Hamlet—it blew me away. Now I see why you’re such a good teacher.” She remained silent, her lips pressed tight. “I saw the article about the plane crash, too. It said there were no survivors. Even if you don’t get on that plane, it wouldn’t change anything, would it?” She looked down, absently stroking the earring in her left ear. “No. I would just die some other way.” I wrung my hands tightly and bit my lip. It was so frustrating. But I felt utterly helpless to change anything. “That’s fate. I get that. I’m trying to accept it. I’m sorry I’m still so naive, but I’ll always be here for you.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she smiled. “Thank you. Me too.” I did my best to force a smile. And in that instant, an intense feeling of uneasiness overwhelmed me. No one survived. I recalled what I had seen in Miri’s eyes. The shadowy moon, the flames, and someone standing over Miri. If no one survives, then how is someone standing over her? A chill ran up my spine. I racked my brain, trying to keep my smile intact. The plane crashed in the mountains of Gifu Prefecture, most likely at night. The passengers must have died instantly. It was hard to imagine any witnesses or first responders arriving before they did. Seeing her smile, I felt wretched. Even now, I still doubted her. It was a dreadful feeling. But I had to know for sure. Thankfully, Miri had tears in her eyes. I looked into her eyes, and— The same tempest and confusion greets me. It’s that night once again. A burning smell reaches my nose. Cold rain strokes my cheeks. And the shadowy moon. Through a blurry world, the shadowy moon rules the sky, surrounded by a ring of flames. My life pours from my stomach. The memory threatens to fade, but I hold on to it tightly. Someone is looking at me. Who are you? Let me see your face! The flickering flames glow on their face. They look familiar. The person at Miri’s accident is someone I know? No. I know that face all too well. It is more than familiar. I know that face intimately. It is; it has to be—! That person takes a step forward. The flames illuminate their face. My soul screams in torment. That person is me. Without a doubt, I see myself staring down at me. Soaked through by the rain, he looks down in astonishment and fear. Then he bends down, shakes my shoulders, and screams hysterically. My ears ring horribly, and I can’t make out the words. I gaze down at my stomach as life seeps out from it. A small blade sits nestled deep in my stomach. The red jewels embedded in the handle flicker ominously. And then Miri dies again. I returned from inside Miri’s eyes. She was still smiling, having just said, “Thank you. Me too!” Not even a second had passed since I looked into her eyes. Sweat covered my entire body. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. My cheeks threatened to twitch from the strain, but I forced them to hold the smile. Behind that mask, my mind raced.