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  Near dawn, while Kyūzō was rebuilding the extinguished fire, Kō began singing in a spooky nasal tone. “Young lady”: he sang only the single lyric and hummed the rest in a melody that was irritatingly cheerful. Rather than hum the full song, however, he would like a broken record soon return to the “young lady” at the beginning. Young lady, young lady … After the sixth time Kyūzō could no longer bear it. Extending his leg, he kicked Kō in the shin. “Ah,” cried Kō in surprise, ending his song. They say that some people sing right before dying. He’ll finally die at dawn, Kyūzō thought.

  Dawn came, however, and Kō still wasn’t dead. Kyūzō now believed that he might not die. Using vodka to wash out the wound on Kō’s wrist, he then rewrapped it in a hand towel. The wound didn’t look like it had gotten worse.

  He climbed up to the top of the cliff. The fire on the field had stopped. It had blackened the right side of the marsh, and another marsh could now be seen near the horizon, where the fire had finished burning. Kyūzō walked for a while along the bank. Making a rustling sound, the dried ashes buried his shoes to the ankle. The wind had fallen off, and it seemed like the temperature would grow higher than yesterday. Once the wind changes, it will soon be spring. A large mouse had burnt to death, its teeth bared and white belly swollen to the point of bursting.

  A thin, square cloud passed by. It was quite unusual. Perhaps somewhere there was someone else who also regarded it as unusual. Suddenly Kyūzō thought about putting up a flag. Crossing to the far side of the bank, he began looking for moderately sized branches. The knife came in handy. He cut down five branches about the length of his arm.

  He opened the wrapping cloth and made a pouch by tying together the sleeves of a shirt. Transferring the contents of the wrapping cloth to the shirt, he ripped the cloth in two. Using one piece as a flag, he tore the other into several smaller pieces, forming strips of rope, which he used to join the branches together. The flag fluttered lightly when he mounted it on top of the cliff. It was like an invisible hand reaching out, calling to the distant world. The flag was clearly visible from the bottom of the cliff. It appeared as high as the cliff itself, which was especially wonderful. After gazing up for so long, Kyūzō’s neck began to ache. Walking to the opposite bank to gather firewood, he could still see the flag when he turned around. It was too white to be red and yet too reddish to be white. In the light, it could appear as either color, and seemed likely to attract notice. The flag was more oblong in shape than most flags, making it seem as if it were looking for something, while its constant fluttering gave off the impression that it was trembling in despair. It was as if the object standing there were no longer a flag but rather Kyūzō himself.

  In the afternoon he arranged their provisions. He tried to divide the food so that it would last for ten days, but the portions were too small. If he were to split the food between them, Kyūzō estimated that they could each have seven pieces of dry bread at a single meal (with each piece no larger than the tip of one’s thumb). They clearly needed fifteen pieces. On that basis, there would be enough only for five days. He calculated that it would take three or four days to travel to and from the nearest town. Subtracting the amount of bread he would need for the trip there as well as the amount he’d leave for Kō while he was gone, Kyūzō realized that he would need to depart the day after tomorrow at the latest. He then divided the other foodstuffs in the same way.

  He suddenly realized, however, that these thoughts were all quite foolish. Couldn’t he be using this time to head south, even a bit? Without walking, it was absolutely impossible to arrive anywhere.

  (“That’s right. I should prepare my things right now.”)

  Of course Kyūzō knew that he shouldn’t abandon Kō. But if he waited for Kō to die, then they would both perish. And even if Kō were to recover, that might take too long and they would both still perish.

  (“But someone might see the flag and come rescue us.”)

  That would be fine if Kō could receive help.

  (“But it might be possible for both of us to receive help here.”)

  But still …

  Regardless of the disturbance in his heart, however, Kyūzō continued doing what he had to. Having assiduously gathered the requisite amount of kindling, he then went off in search of ice. The ice by the bank had become weathered and full of dust, and when melted would turn an inky color while producing a centimeter of sediment made up of sand and debris. Once one’s thirst was quenched, one realized that the water was foul and undrinkable. Preparing some sharp stones, Kyūzō walked all the way to the center of the marsh. The surface ice was also gritty, but in scraping that off he saw that the ice inside was somewhat cleaner. It was difficult to break off. There was no way he could use his knife. He was forced to smash the ice and gather up the broken shards. Upon boiling, however, the same color and odor appeared even if there was less sediment. He shuddered in disgust as he imagined what the marsh was like in summer.

  The wind faded and it became colder. A thin, milky white film began to spread over the ice. Another day had ended. The flag, which had not yet been seen by anyone, was now drooping and wrapped around the pole.

  Kyūzō stared absently at the fire, listening to the sounds of the darkening wasteland. In his mind there appeared a white map, fully spread out, on which emerged a single point. It was so tiny! It’s too small, he thought, bringing his eyes closer. And yet the point escaped the closer he approached, never becoming any larger. Pursuit, escape. Pursuit, escape … Then he himself became the point, disappearing in the boundless white. In order to divert himself, he thought about borrowing the book that Kō had been reading on the train, Journey of Vengeance along the Tōkaidō Road. He began to reach inside Kō’s bag but suddenly stopped, feeling guilty. He then took out the Dania spoon. The woman engraved on it was well developed, with double curves from her waist to her buttocks. Imitating Alexandrov, Kyūzō rubbed the ball of his thumb across her breasts, belly, buttocks, and thighs. Hard and cold, the spoon simply felt like metal. It was much more amusing to just look at it.

  “Oh, ah,” groaned Kō.

  It was unbearable to think about spending another night like this. Tomorrow he must put an end to it somehow. If nobody sees the flag by noon … Kyūzō suddenly realized that Kō had opened his eyes. He gazed around with a disoriented look before staring at the flag. Had he regained consciousness? Kyūzō felt so happy that he wanted to shout out. He was peering at Kō’s face when Kō, with almost no change of expression, whispered to him in a breath.

  “Idiot! A flag?”

  “But it’s been two days already.”

  “Take it down.”

  Feeling betrayed, Kyūzō remained silent. Kō began moving his body, groaning, and then muttered something between clenched teeth. Kyūzō heard the word: water. There was some water that was just cooling, and Kyūzō poured a bit into the corner of his mouth. The stubble on Kō’s face had grown surprisingly long. They say that beards grow quickly on the faces of the dying. He choked, tears rising to his eyes, and appeared to be suffering. His eyes were bloodshot and his temperature still high.

  “How are you feeling? Are you in pain?

  “I’m cold.”

  “Do you want to try to eat something?”

  Moving his Adam’s apple up and down, he consented with his eyes. Kyūzō fed him pieces of cheese with dry bread dipped and softened in hot water. It took some time, but Kō ate eight of them. Did it really seem that he was going to die?

  “It’s been two days already.”

  “Take down the flag!”

  “Why? I don’t want to starve to death.”

  “Idiot!”

  “It really seems like you’re afraid of coming across people.”

  “Then give me back my pistol.”

  “I’ll return it as soon as you’ve recovered.”

  Gingerly raising his right hand, Kō painfully grasped his left arm. “Is it morning or evening now?”

  “Evening.
”

  “It’s shameful. I really owe you. But the flag’s a problem.”

  “So just tell me the reason.”

  “You’re very stubborn. All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you once I get better.”

  Kyūzō kept silent. I bet he’s some kind of criminal who doesn’t want to be seen. Kō chuckled.

  “You have a face like a native. There’s a ring around your mouth.”

  “So do you.”

  Kō smiled again before the blood drained from his face. He cried out, slurring his words, “I can’t bear it. Could you look at my hand?”

  It was extremely difficult to remove his glove. Kō bared his teeth, screaming and kicking the ground with his feet. The tip of his pinky was dark red and swollen to twice its normal size. The nail was ingrown and white like a shell.

  Kō looked at it and said immediately, “Cut it off!”

  Kyūzō said nothing, but Kō urged him on. “Do it quickly before it gets dark. There’s a knife in my left pocket. Hold the finger tightly at the base and sever it from the second knuckle. Please hurry …”

  Closing his eyes and averting his face with a look of utter exhaustion, Kō held his left arm away from his body and turned it over on the ground. For a long time, however, Kyūzō could not decide what to do. Kō remained still and seemed to have again lost consciousness. I can’t cut his finger if he’s unconscious. First of all, how much can I trust what he says right before he loses consciousness? Next, I couldn’t bear it if he were to wake up and, forgetting what had happened, screamed that I had cut off his finger. However, Kō had not lost consciousness. Opening his eyes wide, he shouted in a frightful voice, “Quickly!”

  Kyūzō hurriedly followed Kō’s instructions to wrap his pinky in a piece of the hand towel.

  “Tighter! Wrap it more tightly!”

  Soon the entire finger was cold and black. The knife, which was slightly larger than a pencil sharpener, was quite unsuitable for use on the human body. Gathering his courage, Kyūzō thrust the blade into that part of the finger located slightly above the knot. Dark blood flowed slowly from the broken skin. But he could do nothing more than this. If the finger could not be severed by moving the blade sideways, then the only thing left was to tear it off. With no other option, Kyūzō plunged the knife into another part of the finger. After several thrusts, the veins, nerves, and tendons all stuck out like entrails, and the finger now looked like a piece of sinewy meat that has been vomited out without being fully chewed. Kyūzō’s hands were slippery, making it difficult to grip the knife firmly. Yet there was no way he could stop at this point. Finding a large branch among the kindling, he placed it on the ground, put Kō’s finger on top, and twisted down with the blade. Even that didn’t work. The hard, flexible part of the finger kept disappearing under the bone. Abandoning Kō’s knife in favor of his own Mongolian blade, Kyūzō used the same technique while stepping on the finger with the heel of his shoe. He could hear the bone being crushed. As he forced his foot down once again, the front of the knife severed the finger and then cut in half the branch underneath before plunging into the ground. Kyūzō felt sick.

  Kō, however, remained motionless and silent. He had again lost consciousness at some point. Worried that he was too quiet, Kyūzō placed the glass of his watch under Kō’s nose to check that he was still breathing. 5:02—might as well wind the watch. Kyūzō stirred the fire and boiled water. While waiting, he sacrificed some of the remaining vodka to wash the severed end of Kō’s finger, wrapping it thickly in a new piece of hand towel.

  Kyūzō felt chilled. His body would not stop shaking. He added as much kindling as possible to the fire, increasing its heat. Looking at Kō’s sleeping face, exposed and exaggerated by the quivering flame, Kyūzō felt less pity than disgust. Why must I be so tightly bound to this bastard who refuses to die and who can’t reply? What significance could this man have for me? Something small and white suddenly began wriggling on the back of Kō’s neck. This white thing was slowly moving along his collar toward his ear. It was a louse. The louse had crawled out in search of warmth. (“So shouldn’t he be cold already?”) It was not cold yet. The insect immediately turned around and headed for its original territory. They say that it’s a bad omen for mice to move about. Lice that move about might also be a bad omen. Kō’s pulse was already over one hundred and thirty beats per minute, and was so faint that it seemed about to vanish.

  Washing his hands, Kyūzō wiped the blood from the knife. He then threw the severed finger far off the cliff.

  XIV

  The next morning was also mild, with no wind. Thin clouds appeared in the southern sky.

  Kō was still alive. His fever was high and he had not yet regained consciousness, but he had continually stirred since early morning. He had spoken deliriously, ground his teeth, and struggled to turn over, but Kyūzō wasn’t sure if such changes were signs that his condition was worsening or improving.

  Kyūzō sprinkled some vodka on the wound and changed the hand towel. Kō seemed to be in no pain whatsoever. When Kyūzō fed him some dry bread dipped in the juices from the sausage, Kō seemed to turn into a different creature and tried to greedily swallow the food down. Perhaps it was good that Kyūzō had cut off his finger. Kō was a man who had overcome the challenges posed by his own head, his unshaven face, and the omen of the louse. He might just end up surviving.

  The wind picked up as the sun rose. It was a strange wind, blowing irregularly and constantly shifting direction. Like a caged beast, Kyūzō prowled around the fire.

  In any case, I’ll set out tomorrow afternoon. It should be enough to leave Kō enough food for three days. Once I arrive at some village, I’ll pay someone to come and rescue him. Of course I’ll prepare not only food for him but also kindling and ice for water. It’s absolutely meaningless to wait here with him and starve.

  And yet … another voice whispered. That all depends on Kō’s regaining consciousness. If he can’t eat and make a fire for himself, then my leaving would be the same as letting him die.

  “Mr. Kō!” Kyūzō shouted in his ears. Still no response. It was so disappointing. All his squirming about was nothing more than an internal impulse.

  He spent the entire morning gathering kindling. Separating out the large branches from the small, he piled them in front of the cliff hollow. He then collected some withered grass. The place now looked ridiculously comfortable, and this thought made him extremely irritated.

  Around noon, clouds covered the entire sky and there was some flickering snow. It stopped in an hour. In any case, Kyūzō thought, it’s good that I gathered kindling. The wind faded when the snow stopped, leaving the rust-colored sky a blurry red. He spent the afternoon collecting ice.

  Gathering together the ice shards that he had broken off with a stone, Kyūzō carried them in his coat, wearing it backwards and rolling up the bottom. Impressed by what he considered to be a brilliant idea, it was nevertheless unfortunate that no one was around to see it. His technique for breaking the ice had improved as well. It was hard work, however, for the shards had to be as large as possible in order to be stored.

  Returning from his second trip carrying the ice, Kyūzō was surprised to see that the flag was fluttering slightly to the north despite what he took to be a lack of wind. Come to think of it, the southern sky appeared a bit cloudy.

  On his third trip back, however, there was something even more surprising. In the shadow of the gathered kindling something was moving. At first Kyūzō thought that Kō had been attacked by a wolf or wild dog, or perhaps even a bear (he didn’t know if there actually were bears in the area or not). He dropped the ice and drew his pistol while running toward it. However, he soon realized that it was neither wolf, wild dog, nor bear. Rather it was Kō himself. Had he regained his sanity? What was he doing?

  Having come all the way to this spot, Kō should have heard Kyūzō’s footsteps. But something was strange. Kyūzō called out to him in a loud voice. There was no r
eply. Joy turned to suspicion. And then it turned to rage.

  Tearing open Kyūzō’s shirt that was filled with provisions, Kō lay on top of it, devouring the food. He was holding the sausage in his otherwise painful left hand and stuffing it into his mouth, while with his right hand he was ransacking the dry bread.

  “Stop!” Kyūzō yelled as loudly as he could, instinctively raising the gun.

  But Kō didn’t even turn around. He was desperately stuffing food into his mouth, barely chewing as he swallowed it down. He heaved in convulsions, from his shoulders to the underside of his stomach. Food dribbled out of his mouth as he was unable to swallow it all. It almost looked as though he were taking revenge on something.

  “Idiot!” Kyūzō yelled, rushing over and knocking him down from behind. Even then Kō didn’t stop eating, clinging to the ground as he screamed, “Eh, eh.” Kyūzō screamed right back at him. Grabbing Kō by the nape of his neck, he pulled him up and flipped him over onto his back.

  About seventy percent of the food had been devoured. It was unbelievable! No matter how much one filled one’s belly, there was plenty of food for three meals. What the hell was wrong with him?

  “You can’t do this, you idiot!”

  Kyūzō’s anger turned to despair.

  “You can’t do this!”

  He tasted something bittersweet in the back of his throat. His head felt cold inside.

  Kō remained flipped over on his back, not even trying to move. His tongue protruded from his open mouth as he drooled incessantly, the white of his eye exposed, and only his artificial eye stared straight ahead with a terrifying look.

  “Really, you can’t do this!”