The screening concluded at two in the morning.
Takayabu lived in a building known as the Yusuiso, located in the Shimogamo Izumigawa neighborhood, but tonight he had decided to spend the night in his lab. To someone like me, in agony at the prospect of remaining until evening in my own Faculty of Agriculture research lab, the notion seemed absurd. I couldn’t begin to fathom the mental workings of someone willing to hole himself up at school twenty-four hours a day.
For me, home served as an extension of the brain. It was a place of liberation. I’d often imagined how splendid it would be if I could take my lodgings with me as a snail carries its shell upon its back. I’d be able to brew a cup of my very own coffee at any time, give my favorite teddy bear a squeeze, and spread out on the tatami to enjoy a cigarette. I’d be able to crack open my favorite books whenever I pleased. If confronted by something unpleasant, I could simply retreat into my door and lock the bolt until the offending element went away.
Takayabu walked with us to the doors of Building No. 4 to see us off.
“Let’s all go out for a drink next time,” he suggested. “Ido’s been looking down. We oughtta try cheering him up.”
Shikama peered up at Orion shining high above. “I’m all for grabbing a drink, but I’ll have no part of this endeavor to rouse a man from his sorrows.”
“But he’s our friend!”
“My consolation would be wasted on him. I’ll, of course, pay Ido the admiration he is due. The man is a monument to worldly envy. But beyond that, I intend only to watch where fate takes him and enjoy the show.”
Takayabu furrowed his brow. “That’s a pretty cold way to treat a brother-in-arms.”
“The purpose of our coterie,” declared Shikama resolutely, “is not to offer solace and pat each other on the back. We are samurai.”
Takayabu sighed, but Shikama ignored him, breaking out in impromptu song.
“O young samurai!” he warbled.
He began walking toward Hyakumanben, fading into the darkness among the engineering buildings along with his curious tune.
Shikama would occasionally bandy about the term “samurai,” but I’d yet to hear what, precisely, he meant by the term. It was unclear whether Shikama’s definition shared any common ground with Dr. Inazo Nitobe’s writings on bushido.
“See you next time,” I said to Takayabu, raising a hand in farewell.
And with that, Shikama and I set off in opposite directions.
On the university campus, there are some buildings with research labs that operate on a twenty-four-hour schedule, windows glittering throughout the night. But others are left to sink deep into darkness. It is not a very joyful experience to walk alone among the latter at two in the morning.
I detest unwarranted cowardice. Fear of the dark, however, is a primal human instinct. It is not a thing easily dispelled by reason, even for an elite specimen of humanity such as myself. I am aware of only two effective methods for temporarily ridding the mind of illogical fears. One is to focus intently upon ideas that stir up great feelings of rage. The other is to imagine lurid scenes that incite the carnal passions.
It seemed somewhat disrespectful to walk the grounds of an institution dedicated to higher learning with a head full of lustful fantasies, so I elected instead to ponder Shikama’s recent revelation.
I’d been humiliated at Endou’s hands. In fact, I would submit that there is nothing more flagrantly demeaning than to be erroneously branded a deviant by someone who is demonstrably one himself. Even more so, considering the motives of a lawless degenerate like Endou are so clearly distinct from my own.
In a small way, it was my own fault. I’d been unobservant. The night Endou had admonished me in Mizuo’s parking lot, he was almost certainly there waiting, watching for her arrival.
The threatening letter he sent had also struck me as curious. I’d sensed there was something strange about the man, but I hadn’t quite been able to put my finger on it at the time.
In any case, I was elated to have established beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was in no position to criticize me. I felt like Siddhartha walking the perimeter of his lotus pond in paradise. I could, if so inclined, dangle a spider’s thread of mercy down to hell for Endou to grasp onto. But I would also be free to cut it loose long before he climbed out.
Forget male solidarity. I hadn’t the slightest intention to forgive him.