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Hanasaki Tarou (Detective) &
Touki (Girl)
2:40 PM

With his hand on the door, leaning against it, Kitsukawa Eiji was looking down at me.
The man’s tongue, whose ill humor and nasty glare seemed entirely natural to him, kept on moving, ready to continue its activity. I wondered if it was fair to dress up this kind of neuroticism with the convenient term “artistic temperament”—the way he kept spouting complaints without pausing for breath, to the point where I worried he might need an oxygen mask.
At least five minutes had already passed since we’d first met. And I needed to be back before four.
“I can forgive it at other shops. But hotels jack up their prices more than necessary, you know. What I can’t stand most is when they charge high prices and then don’t do their job satisfactorily for that amount. It’s the same with sushi restaurants. If some cheap conveyor belt sushi place that sells itself on low prices has a bit of foreign matter mixed in, I can let it slide, like, ‘Oh well, can’t be helped.’ But at a high-class place, finding a hair in the vinegared rice, that kind of sloppy work is unforgivable. That’s what paying a high price means. Well, I can’t eat raw stuff anyway, so I don’t go to sushi restaurants in the first place, though!”
“Yeah, right.” As I stuck to a fixed response, I remembered an old commercial. I wanted to eat curry.
“So, after the room service was delayed by several tens of minutes, it finally arrived. I paid the bill and sarcastically told them to take it all away right there. But that attitude! He mumbled ‘I’m very sorry’ so quietly I genuinely wondered if the bastard was even a living creature breathing the air of this planet, then he just smiled and quickly retreated! Make a more annoyed face, damn it! Get annoyed! Otherwise, there’s no point in me acting sarcastic! Aaargh, I’m so pissed!”
“Yeah, right.” If I looked diagonally behind me from here, there was a vending machine blinking like a nighttime electronic billboard (it seemed to be slightly malfunctioning), and in front of it, that restless, college-student-looking guy was still pacing around. He seemed to be occasionally checking on us. Well, not that I cared, though.
“So, who are you? Some kind of listen-to-customer-complaints service?”
As if his tongue had finally come of age, he brought out the main topic he’d set aside, his tone now calm.
“That’s a service you’d need a stomach stronger than any human’s for, so they haven’t introduced that at the hotel yet, you know.”
“Oh, really. Well, my bad then, for making you my complaint department. So, what do you want? I don’t think we’ve met.”
He didn’t seem suspicious, and despite asking, his tone suggested he had no particular interest.
“You’re Mr. Kitsukawa Eiji, right?”
I deliberately made my voice crack, feigning a nervous expression.
“...Someone from a publishing house or something?”
He guessed it was work-related. Still, Kitsukawa Eiji’s attitude didn’t change. Is he just ill-natured, or simply rude, this guy?
“No, I’m just a fan. I’m staying here too, and I heard a rumor that you were also staying, Mr. Kitsukawa, so I just had to come and ask for your autograph. I’m sorry to impose.”
“Hmm... Oh.”
*Hmph, hmph,* he nodded twice, like a deflated vinyl doll letting out air from within. “And?” he pressed, pursuing the matter further. There was an air about him, like he didn’t believe my “I’m a fan” statement.
“No, well, I was hoping to get your autograph in my book,” I said, taking out Kitsukawa Eiji’s book, its cover slightly bent at the edge, as if this was the perfect moment. Just as the author himself looked down at the book’s cover and was about to say something, an electronic sound at a ridiculously loud volume echoed through the hallway.
“Whoa!” Turning towards the source of the sound, I saw the college-student-looking guy had dropped his cell phone and was crouching down to the floor. It seemed his phone was ringing. I wasn’t sure if that was what he’d been waiting for, but he looked terribly tense, his shoulders stiff. He answered the phone, spoke for about ten seconds, then ended the call as if frightened, and shot to his feet. What a strange guest, I thought, conveniently forgetting about myself.
Kitsukawa Eiji, who had been watching the college student, swallowed the words he’d been about to say and scratched his temple with a finger. “Ah—” he began, as if marking a pause, then said,
“Well, then, come on in. I’ll sign it for you inside.”
Holding the door open with his large hand, he indicated for me to enter. I feigned reluctance, “Are you sure? Into your workspace…” This wasn’t a bad development, surprisingly. But perhaps the reason I couldn’t simply be pleased was the somewhat shady air the man before me exuded. Or rather, what kind of image did I even have of people in the profession of novelist to have come this far? I felt like I wanted to mix my fantasy with this reality and sort it all out for once.
“Even if I call it a workspace, it’s just a laptop. It’s no different from any other room,” he said. The veins standing out on the back of the hand holding the door seemed to urge me to hurry up and get in. I looked down. “Excuse me,” I said, feigning humility as I stepped into room 1707. Just before that, as I was looking down, I thought I saw a white cat walking down the hallway. But I didn’t have time to check; as soon as I entered, Kitsukawa Eiji closed the door, overtook me, and walked quickly towards the back of the room. Judging by how fast his mouth and tongue moved, he was probably a fundamentally impatient person. Well, according to the information from the client, he was also a sore loser. A laid-back, calm sore loser is hard to imagine, after all.
Kitsukawa Eiji’s long-stay room was indeed ordinary, except for a cardboard box packed with paperbacks placed in a corner. Perhaps it had just been cleaned; the bed was perfectly made, and the trash can was empty. A closed laptop sat on the desk, and beside it was a glass of milk. The window was also closed, making the room a bit stuffy. And then… oh, there were Lego blocks. A hobby, perhaps?
Kitsukawa Eiji gestured vaguely around the entire room. “Sit wherever.” His nonchalance clearly conveyed his sentiment that anywhere was fine, and he didn’t care.
Since it was a twin room, there were two chairs. I pulled out the one Kitsukawa Eiji wasn’t using and sat down. Come to think of it, this guy was staying alone, but his room was a twin. Was it because it’s spacious? As I was thinly stretching this thread of doubt, Kitsukawa Eiji opened his mouth.
“Let’s say, for example,”
“Yes? …Yes.”
“When you’re writing a story about space, it’s difficult to casually ask an astronaut questions, right?”
Opening his white laptop and starting it up, Kitsukawa Eiji began a conversation whose purpose I couldn’t grasp.
“Right? First of all, how would you even meet one, I wonder. It’s not like they live in the neighborhood.”
“Well, that’s true.” I suspected it was a topic he’d self-concluded in a monologue, but since he was seeking my agreement, I supposed it was, at least, a conversation.
“Writing a story based on a murder case, well, honestly, there probably aren’t many novelists in a position to meet a murderer and casually hear their story. No, maybe they do live in the neighborhood. But there’s definitely no one who’ll raise their hand and say, ‘Yes, that’s me.’”
“Hmm…” I nodded vaguely, remembering the Chief in winter, curled up under the kotatsu set up on the office floor, muttering, *‘I wanna solve a murder case or somethin’~’*. At the same time, a murderer I’d met in a case I ended up solving without going through the office came to mind—they’d been a surprisingly ordinary person.
“When you think about it that way, being able to meet people in special professions or circumstances is a good experience. I don’t think knowledge or experience directly makes a work more interesting, but I do believe it can broaden the range of expression.”
“Ah…” I was finally starting to see the gist of his talk. So, he was discussing his theory of creation.
Kitsukawa Eiji didn’t look at me, his gaze fixed on the laptop screen. He had launched a word processing software and was staring at the blank document, his cheek resting on his hand on the desk.
“I’ve been asked before. How can one become a novelist? At that time, I was also asked, ‘Do you need to have lots of different experiences…?’ and I answered, ‘Not really.’ But now, I’ve tried to formulate an answer as if I would respond that way.”
“Also, I’ve been asked, ‘What are the tips for submitting to a novel award and winning?’ but that’s something I’d like to ask myself.”
“That’s so true, isn’t it?”
*Ahaha,* I offered a light agreement and a smile to his cheap joke. *Someone tell this guy, he failed to win an award.*
Ignoring my laughter, Kitsukawa Eiji said, “Well then,” and his index finger slammed down on the Enter key.
A keypress that made you worry his very soul might peel off, accompanied by a heavy sound effect.
The word processor screen displayed on the laptop’s LCD distorted for a line.
“In that sense, you’re second best, but you’re valuable enough in your own way, so I invited you into my room.”
…
“You’re a detective, aren’t you? What are you here to investigate about me this time?”
Turning around with a weary tone, Kitsukawa Eiji demanded that ‘Hanasaki Tarou’ disclose his intentions.
Had my cover ever been blown before I slipped up myself, I wondered?

---

Shiina Kouji
2:40 PM

If I’m allowed an excuse, I’m turning fifty-three this year.
In other words, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t expect much from my physical attributes, like stamina, is what I want to say.
Therefore, moving along the edge of an outer wall with all my might is a prime example of overworking both mind and body, and my willpower, too, was about to hit rock bottom. No, initially, I had decided to escape partway and then return to room 1701. There’s no lie in that decision. But, however, that boy was persistent.
The boy peeking from the window of room 1702, where I had fled, kept staring at me with eyes devoid of light, as if they reeked of death, no matter how many times I looked back, so I couldn’t go back at all. And with an eyewitness currently active, I couldn’t stop (or rather, there was no way I could stop, I was about to fall), and as a result of continuing to move further and further away from the room, I reached the limit of my exhaustion, like collapsing on a sandy beach after finishing a long-distance swim. Even so, I had only moved about five or six rooms to the right, but it wasn’t a distance I could easily make a U-turn from. Dizziness and shortness of breath had my consciousness on the verge of clouding over.
It was then that, lo and behold, open window number two appeared right before my eyes. Not only that, the window was left wide open, a testament to extreme carelessness. Were they so complacent, thinking that at the height of seventeen floors, not even a newt or a gecko would be clinging to the wall? Don’t underestimate us, I fumed internally. Humans, too, live and move along walls like this, you know. Though I’m just an old guy who looks like he could fall to the ground any second. If an acquaintance looked up from the road and saw me like this, would they believe my explanation that I was playing ninja? In my prediction, any outcome would result in my company desk and chair being cleared out.
Having reached my limit, I slid inside the window without even checking within. Like a puddle flowing unreservedly down a prepared channel. This time, I landed feet first onto the carpet, and the impact sent a shockwave of numbness through me.
My heel slipped, and I landed hard on my butt. It’s almost a miracle that my clothes aren’t torn anywhere. I half-seriously lamented that someone should film my journey so far and use it in a movie or something. Catwalks Even Humans Can Do, perhaps. No good, circuses probably have tons of more amazing acts.
Covering my head with my right hand, my vision spun as if my semicircular canals were confused by the impact, and I looked around the room. Since no scream was the first thing I heard, my hazy mind had judged it to be an empty room even before confirming. I can’t deny there’s a conveniently favorable aspect to this again. But this time, too, my wish and fate aligned, and the guest was splendidly absent. I prayed that, like before, this wasn’t just superficial good luck.
I pressed my back against the wall, trying to catch my breath while choking. I stroked the floor with my palm, relieved that there was definitely ground beneath me, and let my tense shoulders drop dramatically. I’m glad I’m alive.
*It’s better than dying, right?* If I could become pessimistic-yet-cheerful like that, I could swallow most embarrassments and hardships and keep moving forward. I remember hearing my late son mutter that on his futon.
My hands unconsciously fumbled with my clothes, trying to satisfy a deep-seated smoking habit. I didn’t resist.
The lighter was easy to find since I’d designated a pocket for it. I couldn’t manage a full grin in this situation, but a wry smile did appear. And then, the cigarettes… “...Aargh.” Right, I’d dropped them.
I’d been careful about managing the lighter, all prepared, but now the main star had no role to play. Just like life, things don’t go as planned. No, at least not for me. There are guys for whom everything goes smoothly, lickety-split.
The moment I idly flicked the lighter in my hand, lighting and extinguishing it out of habit, my gaze distant, the murky sound of water draining flowed from the bathroom.
And then, faster than I could react, someone burst out of the bathroom yelling, “Ah—cooold!”
…Well then, in this case, for which crime do I need to express my apologies? For illegally entering the guest room, or for…witnessing a young woman stark naked?
“…” My silence, sitting seiza-style on the floor.
The woman sitting seiza in front of me was also, for some reason, silent. Naturally, she was already dressed. Both top and bottom were black, and facing each other in seiza created a solemn atmosphere, almost like a greeting at a funeral. Her half-dry hair and the way her eyelids were half-closed, giving her a languid look, should have given the woman a gloomy impression… normally. But despite her dark aura, there was a strangeness in her eyes that made her features seem bright. Her eyes, hard to see under her eyelids, were shining brilliantly. It was predictable that they would look even more like lightbulbs if fully opened.
After our eyes met and her stiffness melted away, the woman rummaged through her suitcase, took out clothes, then, like a rewinding tape, muttered, “Co-o-old,” and retreated back into the bathroom. She re-emerged after changing. And then, while staring at me, she sat seiza-style opposite me without raising her voice.
She wasn’t making a fuss and escalating things, nor did she seem frightened, and somehow I couldn’t find a chance to escape. She wasn’t taking any concrete action like contacting the front desk either; the woman was as quiet as a dozing baby.
The woman was probably still around twenty. Engaged in expressing her own troublesome emotions, her face currently looked plain. But there was also an impression that it wouldn’t be difficult to describe her as a dark-haired beauty.
And I had seen this woman naked, which, well, was also a factor making it difficult to flee this situation. I thought an explanation or apology was necessary, but I couldn’t decide on a course of action and couldn’t move.
However, just like the white hairs mixed in my scalp, my eyeballs were also aging with the years, so I could only see her as a mass of color. She just looked like a human-sized crayon (pale orange). My eyes don’t have a zoom function. It’s true. It’s not a lie. Look at my eyes. Anyone who says these three things is usually a big liar.
“Uu… …ld.”
The woman muttered something in a voice so faint it was doubtful her lips had even moved.
“Y-yes. What is it?”
I leaned forward, adopting a humble posture due to my position. The woman, looking flustered, averted her gaze and started muttering again.
“No, it’s just, it’s hot, huh? Ah, I just got out of the bath, and I messed up the water temperature adjustment, or something…”
Brushing back the hair that curled at the ends and hung around her neck, the woman cupped her face with her hands. Could it be that this woman was so slow to react because she was dizzy from the hot bath? If so, once this rise in body temperature passed, she might regain her composure and brilliantly report me.
I instantly thought of a solution—keep pouring scalding water on her—but immediately rejected it.
I should apologize now, and then leave the room. In the first place, remembering the dead body and money in room 1701, I felt a sense of urgency, wondering if I even had the luxury to apologize to someone in this situation. But, this was a temporary escape from the reality of having to leap out the window for a third time to buy time.
“Anyway, I’m truly sorry.”
I bowed my head. Placing my hands on my knees, I bowed deeply, showing a posture like a pseudo-dogeza.
“Huh… um, for which one?”
“Uh, both… I guess.”
“Proportionally?”
“70% for seeing you naked, 30% for trespassing,” I reported honestly.
Since only the floor and such were in my field of vision, it was difficult to grasp the woman’s reaction. For a while, there was no reply, only the occasional sound of the woman fidgeting, as if to relieve the numbness in her legs, echoed in the room.
What am I doing? Why am I doing a dogeza to a strange woman? I could faintly experience the feelings of the girl from the Alps seeking teachings from her grandfather. If only someone would tell me, I thought, now I could punch that past version of myself—the one who used to gently admonish subordinates and colleagues who lamented, “Tell me what to do,” with a “Think for yourself, okay?”—with all my might.
In the end, it’s just my own head. To act on my own judgment and expect good results is overconfidence to an extreme. The reality is that this world is full of people who think for themselves, act, and end up hurting others.
“Outside the window.”
“Huh?” Drawn by her tone of voice and the incomprehensibility of its content, I raised my face.
“How was it, outside the window?”
Just when I thought she’d finally opened her mouth again, she threw an elusive topic at me. *‘You must be tired, how crowded was the bullet train today?’* The gist seemed similar to the small talk my mother-in-law would invariably ask when I visited her family home, but the content was far too wild.
In the first place, I couldn’t even decipher what this woman meant by her question.
“How was it… well, exhausting. Mentally draining. While I was walking, I truly felt like I was going to die.”
“Felt like you were going to die… Are you planning to die?”
The way the woman said that, her words somehow driven by a kind of longing, was strange.
“Eventually. But I don’t want my cause of death to be a fall.”
“Huh, the opposite of me.”
“Hmm?”
“Growing old, getting sick. Both are scary to me.”
“Death is hope.”
As if sarcastically reciting wedding vows, the woman flatly stated her fears. Was she truly scared? Her hoarse way of speaking, from which her true intentions couldn’t be read, nevertheless made me suddenly regain my composure.
*What am I getting engrossed in conversation for?* my reason cowered. And this woman was stalling me. I should have felt a sense of incongruity that a discussion was even taking place, that she wasn’t rejecting a suspicious person.
Had the extraordinary experience of fleeing along the outside of a window shattered my common sense? I shook my head and looked at the window. Then at the door of this room. It was possible to exit the room into the hallway, but what then? The card key was in room 1701. This listless woman, who seemed to be maintaining her sanity with everything but motivation, energy, and common sense, might send me down in the elevator if I begged her… but if I was going to give up everything and run away, I wouldn’t have jumped into this tiger’s den of a hotel in the first place.
Digression aside.
So, I guess I have no choice but to go back along the window again, acutely aware that my lifespan is dwindling by the minute, and aim for the window of room 1701. However, doing it immediately is tough. I want to take a little more rest.
In that case, huh, having a friendly chat with this woman, the master of this guest room, right now, turns out to be the correct answer. My reason is astounded. I’m not sane anymore. Is this hotel full of weirdos?
Come to think of it, I feel like the couple in room 1702 also had their fingers tied with thread.
I’m out of touch with the fads of youth culture, but is piercing flesh and threading string through it some kind of derivative of earrings? I tried to recall the student couples I passed by in front of the station or around the company, along with the scenery of the bustling crowd, but perhaps because I don’t usually pay attention to people’s fingers in my daily life, I couldn’t find any corresponding similar examples.
What’s important now is why this woman isn’t overwhelmed by me, letting me stay in the room, and not calling the police.
Unless I find out the reason, my cowardly self can’t fully accept the facts and can’t feel at ease.
I have to peek behind this good fortune.
“If anything, aren’t you the one who should be scared?”
“Of what?” Her wandering gaze refocused. Her skin was probably still flushed from the bath.
“Huh?”
“Well, I’m a suspicious person. If I were a robber who عادي carried a weapon, wouldn’t that be scary?”
“That would be a wonderful development in its own way, though.”
“No, don’t mind me…”
The woman left her mouth slightly open and let out a laugh like a ventriloquist, “Ahaha.” Her expression didn’t change. She looked like she might say that changing it each time was too much trouble.
“But robbers don’t usually relax in the rooms they sneak into, do they?”
“I think there was a thief who got caught watching TV in an empty house.”
“Huh. Thieves have it tough too, climbing up to such a high place. Didn’t you consider compromising at the fifth floor or so? Was there some saying like, ‘Rich people like high places’?”
“No, I’m not a thief.”
“Ah, right, you were a suspicious person.”
“Right, right.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
…
“…” My eyes unfocused, staring blankly.
This is no good, there’s no progress. This woman is too passive. Only her self-assertion of having lived her life so far by being swept along, without moving her limbs at all, stands out. There are people like this at the company too. It’s fine if they wait for instructions and move when ordered, but some of them react sluggishly even when instructed. That’s extremely troublesome.
“Well… then, I’m sorry.”
I apologized again with a slight bow. For a while now, I’d been letting my gaze wander around the room, searching for a weapon to threaten this woman with, but I couldn’t find anything. I couldn’t just aim for her carotid artery with my bare hands, could I? There was the option of strangling her with a bath towel, but murder wasn’t my objective.
Certainly, if I killed this woman, the possibility of being reported within at least a few minutes would be completely eliminated. But that was not a preferable means. In the first place, I hated my current self for even arriving at such an idea.
“Regarding that, I don’t particularly mind, but…”
“If you have any complaints about me, feel free to say them.” Or rather, if she didn’t, that would be scary.
And why am I so calm, having this conversation with this woman? Even as I thought that, my mouth wouldn’t stop.
“Well then… as a simple atonement.”
“Ah.” I raised my face.
“Won’t you jump with me?”
Her index finger, like a perfectly boiled whitebait, pointed past me, towards the window.
*Huh, were you that shocked? It was your naked body, after all. No, but together. A double suicide. Unable to bear the shame, she’ll commit suicide and get her revenge at the same time. It’s a choice overflowing with rationality, but so lacking in humanity that it’s beyond consideration.*
“Unfortunately, I don’t want to die yet. Even if nine-tenths of my life were almost over, I don’t even have the guts to despair completely, so I’ll keep on living, even if I’m just swept along.”
“…Is that so.”
Without any particular disappointment, the woman shook her head from side to side, her hair swaying.
Perhaps because she hadn’t expected anything from me from the start, she wasn’t dejected.
“So, in the end, what did you come here to do?”
Oh, here it comes, belatedly, the main question from the woman that should have been asked first.
A question devoid of emotion, as if she’d found a board with my lines written on it behind me, delivered in a monotone.
Why am I here now? That’s what I’d like to know.
Was it because the hotel employee delivering room service knocked persistently on the door? Was it because the phone rang annoyingly? Was it because a white cat was walking outside the window? Was it because I was kicked and trampled by a couple? Was it because I had a fear of heights? Was it because I had no stamina? Was it because an email arrived? Was it because my son died that day?
I can’t determine now which was fatal and which was decisive. Even if I look at the overturned cards of a game of Concentration, if I can’t understand what picture is drawn on them, there’s no way to check the answers.
So, I just need to flip one card. It’s still too early for the game, or the conclusion.
Let’s just try to resolve what I can understand right now.
Circumstances and falsehoods intertwined complexly, forming one end of a branch. That branch, drawing a vein-like trajectory, entwined around my arm, dominated my right arm, and manipulated it.
I extended my arm horizontally, straightened my wrist, and ran my fingers in a straight line forward.
It passed over the woman’s head, even through the white wall of the room, and pointed further beyond.
Faster than the woman could follow its trajectory and turn around, I stated my business succinctly.
“Can I use your toilet?”
I was reminded anew that my nervousness always went straight to my stomach.

---

Sakurayama Eko
12:30 PM

Right then.
I’ve been to the toilet, and all preparations are complete. I spun around the house, doing a patrol, and after confirming the locks with a “Alright, alright,” I left the house. *Wait for me, Anata,* I poured all my messages into the still-unanswered phone… Oh, that’s right. I should send an email too.
While locking the front door of the house, I operated my cell phone with my other hand. My email inbox was entirely filled with emails from my dear husband, and my outbox, naturally, was also all about my dear husband. Such purity, like a black-and-white TV, mhm, mhm. Which of us is the “black” one, me or my husband? It makes me ponder ju~st a little. Provisionally, my husband is “black.”
“To Anata. Answer your phone, okay?” Send. *Message sent successfully.* Alright, alright. One more.