Chapter Text
Manuscript Two: Doppo Gin
Strange things were said to happen on nights where the full moon graced the heavens above. In both the East and the West, the beckoning intersection between the spiritual and the concrete, the invitations of the mystical could never be refused. It was a compelling force, so sweet and tempting that, perhaps, it was what stilled Dazai’s heart from such a frightful sight. Under the dim light of the gas lamp stood the disqualified woman, clad in skin of pale ashen wood, dressed in a black gown of European make, and chestnut hair swaying in the quiet breeze. Staring at him as he was at her, the wooden woman’s vacant gaze appeared to not take real notice of him. A simple marionette with tangled strings, playing a part as cursed figure in a fairytale.
Time halted in that moment; the doll silently beckoned him forth. An insatiable curiosity took over Dazai’s body, drawing him closer to her despite his muted horror. Piercing glass eyes bore down upon his very being, deciphering that he indeed could have no humanity to call his own. Inside of her laid a secret that called him closer with each approaching step. The hole that had moments ago appeared in her chest had become sealed behind a silver heart locket with no key. Swirls of letters, words, and stories that he had seen for a mere moment, a treasure so mystical and grand, called to his empty being. As he took furtive steps towards the mannikin, she remained motionless. Dazai’s heartbeat quickened with the closing distance, a maddening and deafening palpitation in tandem with each step.
The steps took an eternity; a punishing wait of anticipation of what she might do. Yet despite all the brewing anxiety within, nothing came to pass. As true to her form, she remained immobile as a doll should be. He towered over her diminutive form. Placing his hands over her shoulder, Dazai felt the midnight velvet of her dress. The dip of the dress’ design hinted at the secret nestled between her bosom, a silver crest teasing the shape of a heart. He wished to see the honeypot again, the sweet unfathomable and undecipherable knowledge sought by all. Slowly, the editor pulled his hands away from her shoulders before working on the neat bow that held her bodice together. Soft satin lace fell to the floor on the wayside.
Gingerly, Dazai started to slide down the top of the dress. Ashen skin shimmered under the pale light, appearing almost human. Upon her chest was an intricate florid design, gentle carved curves blossoming in the direction of the locket below, calling his brown gaze to focus upon it. His lips became dry as he continued to lower the bodice, as more skin revealed itself under the pale light. Dazai’s very body recoiled in revulsion as her cleavage was in full sight, the silver of the locket inviting him, teasing him.
He stopped.
The editor shuddered in disgust at his own actions quickly pulling the top up to cover the modest mannikin. Though her body was ligneous, her soul was not, and to make herself bare towards him was too cruel of an act. Black fabric rested upon her chest, held up by a bandaged hand as Dazai leaned down to grab the red lace that was the bow. A bemused smile appeared on his face as he considered his actions. He was rather ashamed, wasn’t he? Ashamed to undress what was veritably a wooden doll, it was almost laughable. The disqualified woman’s soul was natural, simply imprisoned in an inappropriately artificial body. Did that not make her more an object rather a woman? Sheepishly, Dazai looked into her glass eyes as he started to tie the bow on her chest. A chuckle escaped his lips.
“You have rather good tastes, Mary.”
His slender fingers finished tying the bow. Gazing down at her, the editor tenderly cupped her cheek with her hand, tilting her head up so his brown eyes could look into the soulless abyss of her green visage. Lost and wandering, Dazai certainly could see a whisper of life lurking behind the glass. It was strange to see his own listless mien reflected back at him. It was despicable, vile, yet it was a genuine reflection that he could not avoid. Perhaps it was as much as a blessing to see it as much as it was a curse. Under his touch, he felt how soft the wood was. “But perhaps next time you eat one of my friend’s manuscripts, you could at least tell me one of your secrets.”
There was no answer. It was silly for him to expect a reply from her. Closing his eyes for a moment, he inwardly tittered. Yes, she may walk beneath the moonlight, but she could not speak, nor see, nor hear.
“Aa…”
It was like a wisp. A soft voice, crackling under the weight of its own existence.
“Aa…D…aaa…”
Dazai opened his eyes looking down at the doll. Brown eyes widened in surprise. Red painted lips moved. The whispered voice struggled to maintain a single tone as it varied wildly; unpracticed, and unwieldy, a cacophony trying to make sense of itself. Dumbstruck, the editor stared as the mannikin attempted to form words. Every try between breaths was more pitiful than the last, a vowel, or a even syllable, at most, came out before dying in air; crushed by its own sound. “Daa… za…aaa…”
A finger swiped over her lips. Flesh. He was certain it was not like this before. Trailing his thumb down from her lips to her chin, he felt not wood but skin instead. Quite soft, it was almost indistinguishable in color from the rest of the wooden body, but the feel was distinctly different. A shiver ran up his spine. She was not like this before. He was certain that she was fully made of wood; now his truth had been proven wrong in this strange moment. Ignoring her cracked voice, he traced her jawline, feeling the border between humanity and dolldom. It almost did not exist.
“Da…zai…”
Her call snapped him back to reality. The manuscript had given her back a measure of humanity, just as the fairytale in the book had predicted. Now she could speak, but could she hear? Dazai assumed not, for if she had been fully a doll before, there was no possibility that to which she should hear him. However, how did she know his name? The editor knit his brows in deep thought, perhaps she could hear, but an inability to speak forced her to keep her peace all the while. Focusing back on his hand, Dazai let his fingers wander to where her ears should be, only to be met by the distinct hard material to which confirmed her existence as a mere object.
“Can you hear me?”
“D…a… Dazai… Ma....”
Not even an internal ear. She might as well be speaking to darkness. How frightful the thought, to simply speak and speak, never to be certain that you were heard. It was a hellish condemnation that he only wished upon those truly vile. Dazai’s chest constricted itself. The unfinished fairytale came to mind, a simple theft had been the root cause of such a retribution, yet it did not seem at all fair. There certainly had to be more to the story for such a punishment to be dealt, perhaps it was the book that she had pilfered, or even being unrepentant of the act; or another theory was that the book itself had been akin to an unseen record of vast knowledge not meant for the human mind. While these thoughts entertained Dazai’s unquiet mind, the mannikin moved on its own, creaking and crackling listlessly as she made her way to the sliding door of the bedroom. Her petite figure shuffled along until her balance faltered and she fell on top the floor ungracefully. Creaking again, she placed her hands on the floor, struggling to get up. It was a pathetic sight that Dazai witnessed, the doll was trying to imitate a human. The editor took pity upon the disqualified woman. Dazai made his way towards her, leaning down and looping an arm around her waist to pick her up.
She was heavy, but Dazai did not mind. Even if she was not an ideal companion, he did appreciate her presence; despite her soulless, unblinking gaze or dollish mannerisms, though unsettling for the normal person, was comforting for Dazai. A soothing reminder that perhaps he was not truly alone. He placed her upon the edge of his futon, legs angularly curved for her comfort. She appeared regal in the manner she sat, like a true European woman raised from a golden cradle, dressed in finery, and modelled into a refined angelic painting framed in silver praises of beaut. Taking a seat beside the doll, he listened to her as she spoke. Her voice had gained a measure of strength, stringing together syllables into words so familiarly alien that he could not fully understand.
“Master Da…zai… thank… you for… the manu…script.”
Though Dazai knew more than Japanese, he could not make sense of her words, other than his name. Familiar in their tone, the words were, however, paradoxically so extrinsic in their dialect that he could not make sense of them at all. Yet, the corners of his lips tugged into a tender smile. He did want to regard her as pitiful as her very situation was lamentable. A sight bathed in darkness and ears drowned in silence, how unfortunate her circumstances. Even so, all she did was try to speak in joyous celebration of a piece regained. Closing his eyes, the editor gently placed a finger under her chin, closing her mouth. Slowly, he leaned in.
“You really shouldn’t talk so much. Your lips will dry out.” Such shameless teasing. That proximity coupled with the velutinous lilt of his voice would oft elicit rosy cheeks from women around him, yet no such reaction was placed upon the doll. It was a welcomed change, to be able to say such inanity and not be met by a docile acceptance or refusal of a coquettish behavior. Her green eyes stared at him impassively, lips sealed. Dazai wondered if she could feel his breath near her lips. She made no indication. It would be quite easy to close the gap between them, but though her soul was living, her body was not. Indeed, it would be very strange to kiss a doll, even if her lips had become flesh.
Peeling himself away from the mannikin, Dazai observed her form for a moment, curious to the fated meeting that had befallen upon to the two. Her presence felt familiar, now registering in his mind as a silhouette from times passed. Heavy, Dazai’s body felt fatigued from the long day; the sake from the early evening, coupled with the waning night bore upon his body like a weight of rocks, causing his vision to waver. He did not wish to rest, as it meant that a new morning would arise, and again, he would need to awaken to the dread of the next day, wandering through formless and shapeless dreams painted in black and dotted in melancholy. The allures of sleep never truly tempted him or called to him, lest it was to ignore the sun disk in the sky and the deceitfully merry existence of others. Dazai fought against the embrace of slumber when a tender touch called his attention. Before he could even comprehend what occurred he felt his cheek against the doll’s lap. Tenderly, her ashen fingers ran through his hair, and her voice, barely a whisper, sang to him a lullaby; despite her deaf tone and failing voice, it carried the words carried a soul upon them, lulling him into a restful slumber.
Dazai fell into the darkness of his own mind and ego. Feverish, lethargic, all images in this head were inchoate as he dreamt away. His body felt heavy as naught a single pleasantry wandered through his mind. It was blessing and a curse as he wished naught to ever see what was in his very being, or perhaps, he did already see it, a simple amorphous mirror of himself. There was nothing inside of him, a husk of a man, unfulfilled and afraid. The voice of the doll filled his ears, and through the darkness, it led him to a place of ease, far in a distant land. Perhaps, he could call this his first dream. In a distant village tucked between hills of verdure, sloping gently to a green azurite sea rolling and crashing small waves on a white beach, he watched a silhouette in a distance. The saline air had a Mediterranean flair as did the buildings of the village, long away from his country he truly was. Yet, the serene poise that the figure exuded reminded him of certain scarlet trees, dotted with brushes of orange tinges and transient rusty death falling to the grass. A saturated contrast to the perfect blue that extended unto the endless horizon where the harmonic picturesque scenery hid the plain gathering of a grey squall swirling in heavenly discordance. The figure that stood on the distance watched a white sailboat, and though features seemed indistinct, Dazai recognized her as his equal, boyish in poise, silent in words, pensive and tired of the landscape before the two. A kimono fluttered in the wind, rough, uneven in stripes, a rather precarious fit for a woman such as herself. Turning around, she gave a pure smile simply saying tender cutting words.
“Dazai-dono. It’s time to wake up.”
Sunshine blinded the editor as he was roused by the sturdy voice of his servant. As he sat up, Dazai noted how stiff his neck was; muscles contracted and packed so tightly that even a turn made him whine in pain. Despite the pain, however, his body felt light. Rising from dreamy waters and into the cool breeze of an autumn’s relaxing morn, the dread of the everyday life, the daily dramaturgy, had not constricted his chest. He felt as though he was naked. Quickly, Dazai’s countenance morphed into a sculpted mask, grinning like kitsune ready for mischief, yet it did not keep from Miyo from grinning impudently. A derisive giggle escaped her lips, turning into a sneering cackle. “Has Dazai-dono taken a special liking to the doll?”
He did not answer immediately. The young editor was instead taken back by the words. Ears became scarlet as Miyo continued with her laugh, slowly sliding the door closed. The taunting laughter still echoed between Dazai’s ears as he could only inwardly writhe in shame for him to be discovered with the doll like this. He wished to call for Miyo and berate her insolent actions, yet not a single word came out. Instead, Dazai resigned himself into wallowing in his embarrassed grief as he fully awoke himself to the new day, donning an invisible mask. Indeed, he had fallen asleep on the doll’s lap, her inviting embrace wonderfully laying him to rest through a long night. The serene image of the now immovable doll, still in her place like a watchful guardian over her charge - a mere young man, one with no true noble act to his name, seemingly with only satirical words to needle the world throughout, felt out of place in this reality. It was absurd, even. Dazai stared at the doll. Her pallid face was impassive as she slumbered in silence despite open eyes.
Even with this embarrassing awakening, however, something strange felt at work inside his chest. A familiar glow alit inside his caged chest. Not love, as a fellow reader might expect, but rather, a kinship betraying a minim of amicable affection towards her very being. The young editor was thankful to the doll, for giving him a dream that not only brought rest to his wary heart but elicited an uneasy sentiment from within his being. A smile appeared on his face. It was truly curious to become indebted to a mannikin, one that he could not tirelessly read expressions and thoughts from, but only trust in the few spare words uttered in the dead of night. Standing up from his place, the editor went to change his kimono for the new day.
“You certainly have a strange way to show thankfulness Mary,” He started as he took off his clothes, changing into a neater kimono for the day. “Offering your lap to a still complete stranger instead of sharing your secrets? Quite the tease that you are.”
His words were left unanswered. Sparing no further commentary, the editor ran through his head various ideas of how he should investigate her condition. It was a curse and while the unfinished book contained answers, it was incomplete in their details. The broken compass, while a likely tool for lifting the curse, yielded no clue to its purpose as it did not point true north nor did the vague text provide answers. Such inquiries then could only be answered or hinted at by the previous owner of the doll, the proprietor of the quaint bookshop to which Dazai himself had obtained Mary in exchange for a forgiving a debt. Baba could have the answers, or the very least set Dazai at the start of a long-hidden thread that could take the editor to the answers he sought.
He finished dressing himself and ate a meager breakfast. It was a late morning, late even for him as he left his lonesome estate carrying in his hands the book and compass that had accompanied the doll. The sun’s disk hung up in the clear skies, a gentle breeze passed through the hot bustling crowded streets of Tokyo as Dazai made his way, not to his workplace, but instead to the olden bookstore. Kunikida was going to be quite angry at him again, missing a day’s work to then arrive late the next day.
It was a mystery to all at the Agency to why he was still even employed. In truth, he knew the answer to the question, but Kunikida did not need to know. Watching the red, yellow, and brown scenery slide by, Dazai closed his eyes. The streetcar ride took eternally longer than usual. Eventually, he arrived in the distant neighborhood and made his way down the usual narrow streets until he arrived at the bookstore owned by the old man. Or rather, the remains of it.
The small, neatly conserved building, appeared skeletal; the once proud wooden sign that rested upon the tiled roof was blank and had no hint of inlaid red kanji ever resting on it. Walls were dilapidated, dirty. There were no windows nor was there a door. Inside, the state of the store was even more pitiful. The once familiar shop, filled to the brim with books to the point where there was no sunlight, scented by older texts, had been replaced by an invasive sunlight and the sterile aroma of nothing. There were no bookshelves, no chair, no table nor metallic till to speak of. It did not seem as it had been abandoned in a haste, there was not a single speck of paper clumsily torn or left behind, nothing to indicate what was the profession of its previous occupant. In fact, the smell of mold and rotting wood hinted at something far stranger than Dazai could have ever anticipated. It seemed as if Baba had disappeared from thin air along with his shop, even more curious, it was if as he had never existed at all, as when the editor questioned different shop owners and locals around the site, the consensus was that the bookshop had never existed. A bookstore that once stood for as long as Dazai could remember, where he and his father would trade coin for rare books, had been a mere deceit.
This literary case was becoming more bizarre by the minute, and in his chest, Dazai could feel his heart dance in heavy excited palpitations. Fate was certainly calling, and this call was naught one that he2 could refuse.
With a cursed doll in his hands and Baba gone, there was little that Dazai could do by himself. He could conduct a lengthy search on the origins of the doll in order to find anything that might set a path for him to easily identify the literary masters of this age, as described by the book, and buy the manuscripts as he had done with Chuuya’s. It would be, however, very tedious and Dazai considered himself to be a busy man, spending days away drinking, reading and, on the very rare occasion, writing as would any artist of the word such as he was expected to do. He was not going to do this alone, not when he had those around to do his own research. Thusly, after the failed visit to the now gone bookstore, the editor languidly made his way to the Agency Publishing Company, treading the same streetcar path.
The building of the company itself was not exceptionally large, rather, it was humble in size seemingly ill-fitting to a publishing house known by name to produce some popular literary magazines, as well as being headed by one of the most recognizable figures of this age, Fukuzawa Yukichi. It was small, organized with a few tables set around the main work area with two particular desks standing out from the others in terms of presentation. The first to the east was rather messy in true bibliophilic fashion; papers strewn about with unfinished stories on their pages, along with literary magazines opened haphazardly, and closed pens with tips still wet with ink. In sharp contrast, stood the one to the west, organized to the limit of perfection; papers divided between complete, revised and edited were stacked into tall piles along with pristine pens and closed ink holder. If one were to look at the two desks, one could very well say that they did not belong in the same building, and they would be correct, for as soon as the editor stepped inside the Agency, a strident voice called out in anger.
“And now you finally decide to show up? Right on the day of printing? We had to cut several stories from the magazine because you didn’t finish editing them.” Kunikida sat at his desk, a displeased frown creasing his forehead. Blonde hair rested on his shoulder, tied into a neat tail by a red ribbon. As with Chuuya, the bespectacled man wore Western clothing, vest, tie, and blazer over his shoulders. He was the picture of a professional writer of this modern conforming age.
“I was busy with personal matters.”
“And what could those personal matters be for you to miss the editorial meeting?” Kunikida inquired, crossing his arms, and observing Dazai saunter his way to his desk. The editor offered no answer, instead sitting down and lazily stretching like a cat under the midday sun. Brown eyes gazed quizzically at the taller man as if pondering on the events of the previous day. There had been nothing truly of note that Dazai could elaborate in order to explain his disappearance to his virtuous coworker. After all, it had been a simple morning inside his cloistered haven, in company of a silent unmoving doll, only to leave in the afternoon towards Asagaya to acquire an odic manuscript from Chuuya, so to then return to his estate and find the doll alive and consume the manuscript. It was a good story to write and publish in the magazine.
“I was looking for inspiration, Kunikida-kun!”
The chirped answer did not humor Kunikida, who scowled at the impish grin the editor had given him. It prompted him to discourse over the various qualities of good attendance and work ethics for an ideal writer, who labored day and night for a masterpiece to be produced by ink on a page. Words sailed through Dazai’s ears mummed into nothing as the editor paid no mind to them.
After all, it was his place to play the foil to his coworker, the shameful writer of the strange to the somberly sentimental and sincere man. One that always lost himself in poetic words in the surrounding natural world, almost in wonder of the pride of man, like a steadfast mountain. It would be correct to describe him as romantic if he ever held himself in such manner, but with a perpetually stony serious face, Dazai could never see Kunikida as one to charm the ladies. Indeed, it would be amusing to see such a stoic man let himself be charmed by painted lips and sweet perfumes. If given a flower field, he would simply gaze at its beauty than rather pick a floret.
As Kunikida continued to wax on his ideals, the editor searched through his desk for any story that had piqued his interest from the last month. There had been a few that interested him, though their form needed polishing, and others that were in dire need of a few edits. Yet, they had been like diamonds in the rough for Dazai to even be interested in them, confessions of life and solitude, bordering on the beautifully morbid in how raw they poised themselves to readers. A delicacy of decay brought forth so others could find a modicum of freedom in the self. These stories were missing from the bibliophile’s desk with no note to justify their absence. He gave a curious hum but did not worry about the missing stories. Instead, he reached to his bag and started to pick out the compass and the unfinished fairytale.
“Are you even listening to me, Dazai?” The sharp voice cut through Dazai’s scattered thoughts.
Glancing at Kunikida, the editor grinned. He lilted his voice playfully, answering the man, “Not at all. If I listened to you, I wouldn’t be doing my work now, would I?”
“What work? There’s nothing for you to do here, I already said I just sent the stories to the printing!”
Dazai gazed over at Kunikida, head slightly tilted in ponderous thought. Closing his eyes, a moment, the editor hummed lightly as if digesting the news that the magazine for this month was already being printed. “I see, that would mean that there’s nothing here for me to do and that I can reward my hard work with drinks.”
“The hell you can Dazai,” Kunikida answered, placing his hands on Dazai’s paper-filled desk. Almost like words in a book, irritation and annoyance filled the lineaments of the taller man’s face. Dazai mocked a surprise at Kunikida’s frown. “Can’t you see how messy and filled is your station? I wasted so much time trying to grab sorted stories from your desk, not to mention taking them home for editing. At the very least, organize your damned desk!”
“Ah, but that is so troublesome Kunikida-kun,” the editor answered with an indifferent shrug. “I can ask Atsushi to do it for me.”
“And that’s why Atsushi never gets any of his stories done. It’s been over a year since you’ve written anything, and Atsushi hasn’t even picked up a pen in almost three months, and can either of your two call yourselves writers when you have no respect for the craft?”
Silence hung in the air for a mere moment. No respect for the craft? Perhaps it was something of the sort, after all, writers ought to take the grains of reality placed before them and mold into castles of sand to, in the end, be washed away by the waves of life. The replication of the daily life under inked light was an eloquently constructed lie that entertained those who read it, shame it was, that his were too absurd and irreverent to be admired by the public eye; an indecent man begets contemptible stories. Leaning against his table and cradling a cheek on the palm of his hand, Dazai watched his coworker with half-lidded eyes and a teasing grin. Kunikida frowned, yet he held his peace.
“Perhaps, I do have an idea for a story,” started the farcical man, the white grin gaining a dark edge. “Of a woman trapped in wood, living day after day under moonlight and consuming books.”
“That… would be a strange story to write.”
Dazai whistled in agreement, closing his eyes as if in thought. “Likely. Who knows… maybe if I write nonsense I’ll finally be respecting the craft, though I don’t think anyone would want to read it.”
He felt Kunikida’s eyes on him, a glassy gaze unlike those of his companion back at his estate. Suppressing a shudder, the editor opened his eyes only to see that Kunikida had moved on from his quarrel, his energies focused now on taking gauge of new submissions brought in by nameless coworkers from the office. Strangely enough, the mewls that oft filled the office air had not been heard once since his arrival, though he could deduce the reason to Atsushi’s absence. It was troublesome. There was nothing left for Dazai to do, but to stare at the scene unfolding; Kunikida entrenching himself in the daily affairs of the magazine like a virtuous writer, sowing seeds of prosperity and recognition to years ahead.
A quiet sigh escaped his lips, and Dazai looked down at the unfinished fairytale and the compass on his table. There had been no muse to whisper in the hiss ear for a new composition, and the suggestion that he had even bemused himself with was the very story that he had found himself with. A supernatural tale to unfold itself with him as a centerpiece. Opening the half-finished book, the editor found himself leafing through the pages of the narrative until the first wordless page. That was when a rather curious development revealed itself; an inked image had been added to the book. A print of sublime, delicate framing to which a hatted man stared out into a horizon of white. Red foxes played around his ankles, and snow danced around his figure, falling fell onto the sullied soil below. His hakama swayed in the cold wind of inked lines of the page. Dazai recognized the figure in the art.
How curious it be that Chuuya would appear in black and white, staring in sorrow to a horizon unknown. Yet, it was less curious than the turned page. Painted frames decorated the edge of the page, swirls of black graphic flowers blossomed on background of white. Unlike the previous page, there was no art for the frame to bestow its grace upon, only the barren paper kept it company. Intrigued, Dazai closed his eyes, thinking back on the previous night. The art most certainly appeared after the doll took into her heart Chuuya’s manuscript, however the reason to why the frame appeared was nebulous. Was it perhaps that he had entered in contact with another manuscript, or was it maybe that he had been in the presence of another literary master? The latter seemed more likely than the former with the various manuscripts had the Agency received each day.
Yet, it would be a fool’s errand to examine all the stories that the Agency had received as Kunikida had sent the most favorable manuscripts for printing. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach, pressing his mind to a swirl of uncertainty. Mere curiosity to what the doll’s bookish master would consider a literary masterpiece to take to heart brazed his mind, the excitement of this mystery soon revealed edges of diluted fear eating at the edge of his heart. A pilgrimage to locate heartful stories to touch the soul of humanity had been given to an indulgent bibliophile such as him, one who could scarcely compose a story. One certainly uneducated in the eyes of others. He should have relinquished faith itself and resigned to a life of quiet decadence between pages of a lifelong book that would spell his own demise, yet this refreshing adventure inverted this despair into a line of hope. Humming lightly, Dazai closed the book, eyeing the second item that had come with the doll.
The editor took the object in his hand, observing the intricate carved designs of the compass. It was no bigger than the size of his palm with a red hue to its oak frame. Etched into it, a rose blossomed with its center detailed in gold, surrounded by alabastrine silver petals transfiguring to wooden red. A rich design, certainly worth a lot of yen. Opening the compass, Dazai traced the glass, the cardinal directions inside were painted in pitch black, angular, and straight like a guiding star in a white night. The golden needle didn’t point north, yet, it seemed certain of its direction, trembling, swaying, and adjusting itself like a quick metronome at the slightest movement. It was strange to see the compass behave this way, as the needle had always been erratic and loose before, broken by all means. The editor leveled the compass to his eye, staring at the horizon that the needle pointed to. All around seemed like a blur, faded away from view in distorted colors and shapes except for one figure, Kunikida.
Dazai held his breath. He slowly held the compass away from his eyes. The world become whole again, without any specks of anamorphic light or smeared bubbles in his vision. Looking down at the compass, a realization dawned upon the editor. Never once he had set eyes on Kunikida’s works. His stories were a mystery to Dazai. A dry peculiarity that emanated from the bespectacled man repulsed him from even considering his works to be of equal. Yet, had Kunikida not won a small amount of renown for his stories? Small sung praises followed his steps instead of scrutinizing lens spotlighting every hour of his life. Cloudy bitterness constricted Dazai’s chest as he placed the compass on the table. Of course, someone like Kunikida would be elected as a master of the time. It would be outrageous to think otherwise. Virtues would outshine decadence at every moment.
Leaning against his chair, Dazai recollected his own stories. All of them beneath the piles of books and papers, buried, and hidden as to none to see. Few had seen the light of day, but all had a strange quality to them; all were unbecoming of someone of his aristocratic status. Invisible strokes from his public life had tainted his words so, that not even a prize could be given to him. For someone of his measure, his were only expected to be forgotten in waves of time. Comparatively speaking, Kunikida was the ideal man, a once brave reporter and one who dedicated himself to the art of the letters. It was perhaps the saintly image of the man that caused this swelling bitterness inside of Dazai, like a bowl being filled with hot water for a poor man to drink. For a moment, he considered throwing the compass away.
Dazai got up from his chair, picking up the compass in the process. He could feel Kunikida’s judgmental glare behind his back, but he paid no mind. Opening a window, he let the cool autumn breeze in, red leaves swaying to the ground in serene dances. Between two fingers, the editor held the compass, ready to drop it on the stone floor below, eager to watch the fragile object shatter.
“Master Da…zai… thank… you.”
He paused. That stumbling voice, underlined in foreign syllables and accent, seemed to whisper to his left breast. A freedom that he might have craved from this bitterness inside, would only be temporary, yet it was a permanent decision to the life of another. One piteously cursed to live day after day in darkness, utterly dependent on a kind soul to take upon this quest to bring her back to flesh. Of all people that this call could have been given to, it was him; a wretched man possessor of no righteousness or gentleness to call his own. It had been decided by a hand unknown, that perhaps, he did possess a virtue that not even Kunikida had.
“Dazai, what are you doing?”
The editor glanced over at Kunikida, who looked at him with curious brows. A mask slid down Dazai’s face, greeting the writer with a pleasant grin. “Nothing, just felt like I needed some fresh air.”
Inside his chest, his heart trembled under the gaze of the writer. Glasses pierced the lines of his mask; doubt falling on his words. Even if it were a tender lie, the strike against the trust of a man of Kunikida’s caliber clouded his mind in a haze. Inwardly, Dazai prayed for Kunikida’s gaze to be called elsewhere so that he may have a respite and adjust his mask. Yet, only silence answered his pleas, the tension filled the air thickly as a fog. The editor made his way to his desk, placing the compass on top of the wood.
“I met with Chuuya yesterday at Asagaya,” Dazai started. As he gazed down upon the unfinished book, taking it into his hands and opening it. He noted Kunikida raise a brow in mute interest. “I bought off his Goat Songs manuscript, added it to my collection of books.”
There was no answer from the taller man. Outside, red leaves rustled in the quiet wind, the sound was almost deafening in Dazai’s ear. He opened the book, gazing at the empty framed portrait inked inside. “I was interested in having the original version of his poems. You’ve read them, right?”
“Yes. They’re good, but also a bit strange.”
“Certainly not as weird as the stories I write.” A pleased chuckle escaped Dazai’s lips, glancing over at Kunikida. His face had an unreadable expression, plain and simple, with only the glasses framing the lineaments of his face in cold distance. Dazai hated it. He continued with a pleasantly disarming smile. “Anyways, I came to realize this morning as I made my way here that I never read any of your works, Kunikida-kun.”
The fine lines of the black frame were exquisite, twisting and turning like wreathed vines. Tangled in his mind was the image of the wooden mannikin, entrapped in words as he was in his own mind. He awaited the fury of a wounded writer, whose virtue had been spat on by a shameful editor that never even deigned to ever comprehend what was to respect the craft of letters. To see Kunikida miffed was amusing in its own right. Exposing the imperfections that outlined the silhouette of an archetypical writer filled with pure love for the craft, lent Dazai the pleasure of seeing a human. Yet, when annoyance became rage, the editor listened in silence with a taunting smile as the ideal stormed and clawed at his own mask tearing almost exposing the hollow darkness inside.
“Ah. I suppose you hadn’t.” Was the quiet answer.
Surprised, Dazai looked up at Kunikida. The taller man adjusted his glasses, sunlight obfuscating his eyes from the editor’s sight. Painful heartbeats soothed to a steady beat as he observed Kunikida’s opaque gaze turn from Dazai to the unfinished book before him. “Didn’t think you would enjoy my stuff, so never brought it up to show it to you.”
“You’ve never published in the magazine either did you?” The editor inquired.
Kunikida shook his head. He reached out a hand towards the unfinished book. The writer’s hands were muscular, strong, unlike the delicate bandaged hand that held onto the book. Tips of his fingers brushed the leather cover of the book, and for a moment, Dazai hesitated at Kunikida’s silent request. The two were too different, diametric opposites in every single manner. He wanted to withhold the book from the taller man, yet in blind faith, the editor gave him the book. Kunikida took the unfinished book in his hands, the soft rustle of the page ever ingrained in Dazai’s mind. The writer’s countenance remained undecipherable as he read. “I work here. If I sent in a manuscript, my work wouldn’t be judged with the same rigor as the manuscripts we receive each day. In the end, I wouldn’t have earned my place in the magazine.”
It was strange to hear this from the bespectacled man. The golden needle of the compass pointed to him; he was a literary master by his own merits. It was not man that had judged his words, rather, an unknown entity from beyond the veil and hidden amongst pages of mystery had found his skills enough to be preserved for generations after. Yet here he was, in admission that his worth should be rigorously dictated by critics of their time, seeking harsh punishment for any letter even out of place. To earn a place in the Agency’s magazine was not enough for him, it was an insult, not to his skills, but to the integrity of the issue. Dazai gave a small sigh.
“I want to read your manuscripts,” he said. The writer glanced over at Dazai, the cloudy sheen of the glasses fading to reveal thoughtful grey eyes. He wished that the shine had remained.
“I guess I could bring them tomorrow if you want to read them so much. They aren’t much.”
Dazai pondered a moment. It would be natural to default to an arrangement of this type, they were nothing more than mere colleagues under this establishment, writing away day after day for the various magazines under the Agency name. After all, even with the familiarity of address that they had, the life of the other remained a mystery. He did not know the extent of Kunikida’s works, nor of his life before the Agency, nor his particular likes. The writer was a book, one that Dazai didn’t even bother or want to open. Building up courage, however, he levelled his gaze to Kunikida’s eyes.
“Wouldn’t it be better if you stopped over at my estate tonight?”
The writer raised his brows, gesturing for Dazai to continue. “I have a library back home with various rare books. If I like your manuscripts, it’ll be their new home. I’ll buy them.”
Kunikida stared at the editor in surprise. A sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. As the writer was reluctant to give his answer, Dazai reached out to take the unfinished book back. The seconds wore on, yet it was enough for Kunikida’s usually taciturn countenance to melt in deep thought almost as if struggling within. Opening his eyes, the writer glanced towards his own desk before finally giving his answer. “I’ll stop by around eight.”
Dazai could not help but to smile at the acceptance of the invitation. The course was set for him to attain another manuscript and for the doll to regain another body part. He could scarcely wait for the sun to hide itself. Hours upon hours passed under the waning sunlight as the editor (for once) worked away at organizing his desk; and once the waxing moonlight started to shine upon the city, the editor quickly dismissed himself to make his way to his estate. With the breeze of the autumn night guiding him, Dazai soon arrived, passing through the garden and threshold with light steps.
With the old clock still ticking towards the appointed time, the editor made his way to his bibliotheca, his cloistered haven guarded by the doll. The servants had acted as they always did, placing the mislaid mannikin upon her throne. She guarded the kingdom of books in his estate, silent and observant. Bathed under the gentle moonbeams, her glass eyes glittered, gazing into the abyss that was Dazai’s own self. A countenance that was impressed with the innocence of an inquisitive nature, though her senses were dead; it felt almost as if she knew that her human master was by her side, standing in front of her. Quietly, Dazai reached forth, cradling her soft cheek in muted wonder.
Relief washed over the editor in somnolent waves, easing his mind into a quiet lull. His vision rippled and the mannikin’s form changed to a Japanese woman. A tired smile painted on her lips, sickly red to a deathly pallor, colored the smooth lineaments of her gaze. Demure and composed, the woman reached to his face, cradling his cheek in her grasp as dreamy waters enveloped them. Outside, reddened leaves rustled, falling dead to the floor. A door slid open and closed. Sound was lost to Dazai like bubbles underwater, circling away to the light above and slowly fading away as his amorphous mind took over, tracing black over its corners in a spiral. The smile called him to slumber as his body became heavy. He almost fell to his knees, seeking salvation from this misery.
“Here… here… manuscript is… Dazai… master…”
Her struggling voice called to him. Grasping blindly in the watery depths, wood creaked as the mannikin stood up. Brown eyes, rusted like leaves on the ground, stared into waters unknown as foam circled him, pulling the man into the void. Bubbles floated to the surface, like pearls of light, swirling and disappearing as familiar arms embraced him. The warmth of the hug was lost to the cold water as the woman pulled into the darkness. In his chest, he felt his damnation near, compressed and tight. His words left him, swaying and trembling into the dim light above. To melt away, it was a comforting dream of divine punishment.
“Dazai!”
A voice cut through the water. Striking true to its mark, it awakened the editor from his trance. The world came to view, rippling back and forth, in a fog of emerald letters and words. Gentle sloping mountains and naked birch trees populated this strange phantasm scenery, and in front of him, where the doll originally sat, an unknown woman took her place. Clad in a white kimono, her countenance held a sorrowful affection, a smile framed under willowed hair and green eyes. Exquisitely beautiful, she did not possess a name to her face, only the image of a painted scroll, to which one could admire the air of nobility that she held. At her feet, white lilies blossomed amidst the letters of snow on the ground.
She was not the woman from his dreams; one that held him close to her tired bosom, nor smiled with torpid pleasure.
Retreating his hand from her cheek in disgust, the editor stared at her figure. She was a mere imitation as much as the doll itself, yet while the presence of the doll was a soothing balm. The woman set paroxysms of agony upon Dazai’s mind. It burned within him an anger unbecoming of a shameful man as he, wishing to never see such a near twisted smile upon an angelic countenance. It bordered on the ugly, marring pristine beauty with an enthralling smirk. The lilies on around her feet withered between the emerald letters and the tension of the room became insufferable. Dazai turned away from the woman, wishing to avoid her devilish gaze only to find at the door frame a familiar silhouette, the source of such verdant words.
“Kunikida…” His words came almost as a whisper.
The writer stood in shock, silent at the sight. In the air, Dazai felt an unspoken anguish that hung thickly in the ambience; betrayed by the grey outline circling Kunikida’s irises. Paper snow continued to fall to the ground, chilling the editor to the bone. The stern face that Kunikida always wore fell to the slide like a mask, revealing traces of bitter misery impressed upon his face. A man that once stood proud as a pinnacle of virtuous achievement looked no more than an average man, lost, and confused. Wood creaked, calling Dazai’s attention, as the woman stood. The figure quietly walked towards Kunikida, and it became apparent to Dazai the sorrow that pierced the writer’s chest so. A golden band shone under the moonlight, and her silhouette betrayed the expectancy of a newly formed family.
Amidst the falling letters, the editor watched as the woman met with Kunikida. Her back was streaked with luminous lights, a cracking image of an illusion formed from loving words upon a page struck down by the natural whims of life; a tragic parting that was a burdened upon his chest. But whose sorrow weighed upon Dazai’s mind, whose words were etched upon this dreadful emotion, constricting his chest to painful degrees? Dazai did not know; he could only observe the writer tear, averting his eyes from the woman in guilt and shame. The editor looked away, wishing to give Kunikida a modicum of privacy, when a pained whisper echoed in the library.
“Forgive me… Nobuko.”
Holding his breath, Dazai resisted the urge to gaze upon the sight. Kunikida’s voice was wispy, weak. There was no heaviness of life to it, only the lingering of a phantom regret of an unrealized ideal. The editor gazed back at the writer. He had taken the woman’s hands to his own, caressing them. The lineaments upon his face were smooth, soft from a pensive gaze as he closed his eyes in silent prayer. Raising her wooden hands, Kunikida pressed a kiss to her knuckles, breathing in the scent of a past long gone. The forest of books around them started to fade away, grounding them in the reality of the present. Serenity seemed to radiate from him, despite the turbulence of the emotions felt before. The cracks of light widened into crevices, dissipating the image of the woman into the truth that was the English doll. He slowly opened his eyes, never once flinching nor turning away when he saw that the illusion of Nobuko had been replaced by the living mannikin. A tender smile drew upon Kunikida’s visage.
“I knew that you were never Nobuko. She’s long gone, far away somewhere with someone who can give her and my child a better life. I always thought that my love and companionship would be enough for us both to start our own family and live together in Hokkaido, but in the end… it wasn’t ever enough.” He took a deep breath, slowly letting go of the doll’s hands. There was a quiet resignation to his gaze, the glimmer of slight tears at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t hate her; I don’t think I can ever do that. All I can do is devote myself to writing and hope that one day, I’ll be able to live up to be a good writer.”
The writer looked over to Dazai. Despite his resignation towards the reality of his love, Kunikida looked like a man to not be pitied. His back was strong, there was no denying that; and despite a wounded heart and soul, and pangs of humiliation rushing through his veins, there was a certain vivacity to his mien. A wish to keep on living despite the blow to the idealistic pride that he wore on his breast. The few years that Dazai had known the man proved to be nothing but a farce, an image constructed to which he could callously judge the virtues that he wished he could attain. In the end, however, he was as Dazai, carrying a regret and burden within his own chest, one that, he wondered, could be healed even with time. Dazai knew that his own shame could never be erased by the waves; they could only be spread further onto a pristine ocean and consume it whole.
“So, this what you’ve been hiding all this time, Dazai.” Kunikida’s voice called, snapping Dazai’s thoughts away. Looking to the man, the editor could observe his eyes for the first time, the glasses now clear from the opaque glare. He was simply another person. With timid steps, Dazai walked over to Kunikida before placing his hand on the doll’s shoulder. Instinctively, he averted his eyes, afraid to look into the mirror that the writer reflected of him.
“I guess this explains why you have been missing work for the last few days,” the writer continued, holding out the parcel to his friend. It was rather thick, filled with different manuscripts of varying sizes; stories and poems, all wrapped in string of love for the craft. He stole a glance to the mannikin, perhaps understanding its purpose and reason to exist. “In any case, you seem to have more pressing matters to attend to. I’ll return tomorrow for the yen, so I expect it to be handled by the time I arrive.”
Adjusting his glasses, the writer took a deep breath. Meager pride swelled his chest in purposeful peace. The clock continued to tick in the darkened room, faintly outlined by the light from the full moon outside. Taking the manuscripts in his hands, Dazai looked down at the parcel. It felt heavy in his hands, to carry the fruits of a writer’s pride and hard work. A weight similar to when he first held the manuscripts of Goat Songs the night prior. He still could not understand or fathom to the reason why the doll had taken him as her guide, as her collector for he was not a writer of the same ilk as Kunikida or Chuuya, though be it that the artistic inspiration for these works came from the same place, the burden of anguish inside one’s chest.
“I’ll keep to it,” started Dazai, his gaze turning to Kunikida. The taller man answered with a nod before stealing a last glance at the doll. She had not moved or spoken since the lettered phantasms disappeared. Sparing no words, Kunikida started to make his way out with heavy contemplative steps, echoing inside the library. He paused a moment at the door frame; his large silhouette making him appear a ghost in the estate.
“Ah, right. One more thing too,” Kunikida said, turning back to Dazai. Green eyes observed the editor and doll, as if pensive over what had transpired this night, digesting the past, the present and their overlap. Between the dim moonbeams, Dazai caught the trace of a genuine smile. “Thank you… Dazai.”
Dazai felt at a loss for words, though he felt a tug at the corner of his lips. There was a certain warmth inside to hearing those words. Like sunshine on cold, wet skin, it was as if a measure of life had been added to his chest. An odd sentimentality that captivated him yet baffled him. To help another, to understand another, could he truly do that when all he did was slide on a mask of tomfoolery? He was always a burden to Kunikida, his own workload oft doubling so that Dazai could enjoy a life of bohemian vagrancy at the expense of his time to write. However, here the writer had thanked him for an act of kindness, of setting him free from a guilty past that he suffered. Looking down at the parcel in his hands, Dazai’s bandaged hands trembled, if ever so slightly, as he opened it.
First the doll had found her way into his fated hands as a savior and guide, and now Kunikida had thanked him with an admirable smile. It felt wrong for someone like him to feel this gentle glow of humanity inside. Opening the parcel, Dazai held out the manuscript in his hands. Pages upon pages of poems and stories, written with the upmost sincerity and love, something that he could never ink onto white pages. Two titles caught the eye of the editor, as he quietly read through the various pages; The Self-Made Man and The Honest Man. They were quite different, as night and day, yet carried the familiar voice that was of Kunikida. However, inwardly, Dazai felt his chest constrict as he started to read the second story; a strike true to the heart as if the writer were exposing himself to the world.
“I am not, however, honest. I have spent half a lifetime succeeding in the most terrible transgressions, and simply because others are so certain about my honesty.”
An illicit love and seduction, the protagonist felt like a caricature of himself, though Dazai was certain that Kunikida had written it since Nobuko’s leave. Had he thought of himself truly so lowly and dishonest? The story seemed more approximate to the Dazai’s own life than the Kunikida’s. It was perhaps to be expected when carrying the burden of humiliation, guilt, and shame. Closing his eyes, Dazai let his mind wander around the virtues that Kunikida carried. It was easy for others to perceive one as honest, however, it meant nothing if one didn’t see oneself as such. Wasn’t selfishness a form of honesty in it of itself? To attempt to please all and deny oneself from their goal or have no goal was the most selfless act that one could commit, yet in the end, they were the most dishonest with others. Dazai found himself eager to give the doll the manuscripts.
He felt a wooden hand tug his kimono. It was as if she understood that he wished to be rid of such stories. Her glass eyes gazed upon his reticent countenance; the light in her gaze reflecting at him his blank stare. Wordlessly, the editor held the manuscripts to the doll. Letters and words rose again, in verdant colors, enveloping the two in cold winds of winter. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Dazai observed with darken eyes as the dressed faded to reveal the heart locket underneath. A gasp escaped the doll’s lips as the hole opened, revealing her innermost workings, the honey pot filled with records from the past. Again, he observed the sight with great interest, yet he felt utter shame in not averting his eyes from the display. In his hands, the manuscript papers broke free, swirling around the two and disappearing inside the dark hole. The doll sounded a purr as she held tightly onto his clothing before falling limp.
Dazai faintly registered the sound of two objects falling to the floor.
The editor cradled the doll in his arms a moment, observing her soft features under the moonlight. Her gentle mien was captivating, unearthly, yet intimidating. Laying her down on the floor, he observed her tired body. She was unwilling to move after collecting the manuscripts; instead, finding comfort in curling up beside his warmth as if seeking comfort. Dazai reached forward, running his fingers through her brown locks, gently brushing against her ears.
Reflecting back upon his dream, upon the woman that stood out observing the sea silently; Dazai recalled the taste of salty water on his lips. The sunlight that warmed his skin after a long night, and the back and forth of a boat. Gentle waves lapped at the shore. He could hear the faint voice of a woman wishing to be dragged to the depths with him. The woman that observed the sea died in his place, a nameless and poor barmaid. Years had passed, yet he was the one alive.