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Chapitre 23

Then bury the hole again, take out the prepared box and stuff Grandma into it.

Of course, it won't fit.

This is nothing more than a minor matter.

If there's not enough room, just break up Grandma's body.

The feet were removed from the pelvis, twisted, and tied with rope, just like the wooden board. The arms were removed from the shoulders in the same way. Because the body was decomposing, decomposition became very simple, as easy as twisting off a cricket's leg.

The arm was also removed neatly.

The arms were also tied with ropes, finally managing to fit into the box. After being disassembled, it could be stuffed in without leaving any gaps. It was filled with force, and the remaining space was filled with the scattered internal organs.

Grandma filled the box tightly.

I can finally relax. There's no longer any room for anything unpleasant to invade. This is how burial should be.

Grandmother opened her eyes with relief.

"Ah," came a sound.

Before I closed the box, it was already dawn.

So that's how it is. It's actually that simple. The girl in that box must have been created in the same way.

This dream must be a divine revelation.

Even if we continue searching, there's no guarantee we'll find the girl. I only have three days of vacation left.

Then let's create it ourselves.

We need to prepare the boxes first.

(To be continued in the next issue)

That day, I woke up after noon.

I have a slight headache, a feeling of fatigue throughout my body, and the hangover from the day before yesterday is still lingering in my body.

The day before yesterday, Terauchi from the Xitanshe Literature Department came to my house. Almost twenty days have passed since the short story collection was decided to be published inexplicably. During this time, I have attended several banquets to discuss the details, but this is the first time Terauchi has visited me in person.

At the time, I had no intention of adding any embellishments or revisions to my work, so I always took an irresponsible attitude of leaving the publication of the short story collection to others.

Because I think articles—no, not just articles, I think all works of art are like excrement.

Like ingesting food, it's like the residue I leave behind after absorbing the nutrients called life—for me, my works are at most just that kind of thing. So I think it's pointless to process or modify the residue that's excreted.

That's why I hate adding details.

During a discussion with Xitanshe, I confided these thoughts, and Terauchi said, "Master, doesn't what you're saying mean you think readers appreciate your excrement, and further, that critics and the like are making grand pronouncements about you, this filthy stuff? It's incredibly satisfying to hear you speak so freely, but... how should I put it..."

The temple's words trailed off, accompanied by a wry smile. I had no choice but to offer a weak explanation: "Oh dear, I'm very grateful to the book critics who wrote about me. Yes, yes, it's like a doctor examining my stool to diagnose my health. After reading my work, the critics warned me about malnutrition, bloody stools, parasites, and so on. Based on these warnings, I immediately took them seriously and corrected my daily habits."

Upon hearing this, Terauchi smiled wryly and said, "So, we readers are just moved by the teacher's unhealthy excrement? That's quite a wonderful way to describe it."

It was only after hearing his words that I finally felt ashamed and truly realized my current position.

I'm not just writing works; I've already published them. If it were just writing, it wouldn't matter whether it's considered excrement or filth. But the problem is that I've already sold these works, and to a general public of complete strangers.

I am no longer just someone who specializes in self-promotion, but a so-called writer who sells his writings. If what I just said is true, then I am spitting my excrement on an unspecified number of others—my readers—and making a living off the meager money I earn from spitting out this excrement.

I blushed and quickly retracted my inappropriate remark, informing Terauchi that I was willing to revise the works scheduled for inclusion. Terauchi, oblivious to my inner turmoil, agreed with a look of surprise.

I've never been very good at conveying these kinds of subtle thoughts to people.

The temple gave me a ten-day deadline, and the day before yesterday was the tenth day.

Although I hadn't originally planned to make any changes, upon reviewing it, I discovered not only typos but also missing words. Changing even a small detail could alter the overall impression, so in the end I carefully corrected several parts.

Rereading my own work, the past ten days of work felt like ruminating on my past, leaving me feeling gloomy.

My writing style is inherently melancholic, and it goes without saying that repeatedly reading my own work will make me feel gloomy. Revising it was originally intended to be a greater responsibility to my work, but rereading it has become almost a form of torture for me.

Therefore, I am determined to approach this with a craftsman's spirit.

Perhaps this determination paid off—thus, my old depression didn't flare up, and I was able to complete my work without incident.

The visiting Terauchi accepted the revised manuscript and asked me, "Is this really alright? This is your work, teacher. Please revise it until you are satisfied. Don't worry about the timeframe. Although the company has its own considerations and cannot wait indefinitely, prioritizing publication speed over the work itself would be putting the cart before the horse, so—"

Mostly because this is my first standalone book, Terauchi put a lot of thought into it.

But for me, if I don't give a deadline, I'm afraid it will drag on and on; on the other hand, I also feel that if this job continues, my depression might really relapse, so I first thanked the temple for its thoughtfulness and said, "That's good."

The magazine and the standalone book have different layouts, and since it will definitely be proofread several times in the future, there's no need to rush. However, when I saw Terauchi put the manuscript into his briefcase, I felt an indescribable unease, a feeling of regret and reluctance that lingered in my heart for a long time.

Then, I unusually hosted a banquet at home.

Ms. Koizumi mentioned that the temple staff had a fondness for alcohol, so his thoughtful wife specially prepared a banquet to entertain them.

At first, Terauchi said things like "no," "that's not good," and "I'll get scolded," and very reluctantly refused. But then, even though we were actively urging him to drink, he said "well, just one cup" and drank it all in one gulp. In the end, he drank almost all of his drinks by himself. It seems he really likes drinking. Perhaps he wanted to dispel his anxiety about the publication of the manga, or perhaps he was just in a really good mood. Even I, who like to drink but can't hold my liquor, unknowingly lost control, which is why I have a severe hangover and am still suffering from a headache on the third day.

But this feeling of weariness can also be quite comforting.

Ah, summer is almost over—I thought to myself as I lay in bed. Although summer has long since ended on the calendar, it still lingers in my heart. Perhaps it is partly due to the lingering heat of these past few days, but the main reason why summer still lingers in my heart is probably because I still cannot shake off the influence of the Zoshiya incident.

For me, this summer is synonymous with that tragic event.

However, I never expected that during the process of repeatedly refining and writing "Dizziness," which was based on this event, I might have also developed a similar feeling of conclusion.

The incident ended with the summer.

I always feel a bit lonely when I think about this.

But whether I like it or not, the seasons continue to turn, and autumn has arrived.

Sigh, I absolutely have to go to Kyogoku-do today—

I think.

Since that incident, I haven't been to Kyogoku-do. I only met him once, during a police interrogation. Although we've spoken on the phone a few times, I just haven't been able to muster the energy to go. It's been almost two months since then, and perhaps this desire to visit Kyogoku-do indicates that I've already made up my mind.

I want to go to Kyogoku-do to discuss something.

I want to ask him about the order.

I'm struggling with how to best arrange the order of the short stories included in the collected volumes.

Currently, we are tentatively planning to include the articles in the order they were published. This was a suggestion from Terauchi and other members of the editorial team. I have basically no objection to this suggestion, but I feel that something is not quite right. However, I can't even figure out what it is.

This is not an excuse, and I am not trying to shirk responsibility. I just want to take into account the opinions of my eccentric friends to decide the category order of my works.

I think Kyogoku-do could at least offer an explanation for what exactly I felt was wrong. Even if it wasn't very clear, he could at least give some reasoning.

Regardless of whether his explanation is the truth—at least give me a reasonable and clear explanation—that's the kind of person he is.

But I couldn't go yesterday. It wasn't that I was feeling really bad, but rather that laziness had seeped into my entire being. After all, I haven't left the house for the past ten days. But I absolutely have to go out today; I'm going to Kyogoku-do—

Although I was determined to go out, I just couldn't get out of bed. I reached for the ashtray, deciding to have a smoke first. Unfortunately, while there was an ashtray, the cigarettes were out of reach, so I easily gave up on smoking and buried my face in the pillow. The soft, warm indentation of the pillow, like the embodiment of sleepiness, once again mercilessly lured me to sleep.

I was dreaming.

I saw a gigantic black box. Inside the box were more boxes, and within those were yet another box, like Russian nesting dolls (a Russian specialty, a type of wooden toy resembling a roly-poly toy, hollow inside, like a multi-layered onion, one large and one small, nested within the other). The number of boxes was endless, the last being the first. Was this a Klein bottle (a mathematical concept, a two-dimensional surface with no edges or inside/outside)? Or a Möbius strip (a mathematical concept, a band with only one face and one boundary, without an inside or outside)? Or perhaps a self-eating serpent (a symbol found in ancient Egyptian and Greek civilizations, depicting a serpent biting its own tail, representing continuous regeneration)?

The whole world is just a box, and within the box is a world, like a world within a pot. No, it should be called a universe within a box.

A man stands in front of a box, with a box over his head; he is the "Box Man".

Women's arms and legs were scattered at the man's feet, and he was covered in blood.

The faceless woman was looking at me from the box behind him.

It's a very unpleasant feeling.

"Teacher, is the teacher home?"

There is sound.

Are you still sleeping?

It seems someone came to visit. It looks like my wife went out while I was sleeping. Come to think of it, she mentioned a few days ago that she was going to see "Gone with the Wind" with Mrs. Kyogoku-do; so it was today.

I glanced at the clock; less than a minute had passed since I gave up smoking. It seemed my wife must have left much earlier. So, the dream I just had was merely a fleeting daydream.

What kind of dream was it?

It was probably a dream about the strange event that happened at the end of last month, the day I was first informed of my short story collection proposal. There were some connections between the dream and that experience. But why did I only have this dream today? I had almost forgotten about it because I've been so busy lately.

"Aren't you home, Mr. Sekiguchi?"

The visitors' calls continued relentlessly.

With a heavy heart, I left the bed and headed towards the entrance.

My sweaty body was enveloped in the cold air as I slept. Without the strong protection of the bed, I felt limp and useless, like a hermit crab on a moving trip.

The entryway appeared to be unlocked, and the guest was already standing on the concrete floor, waiting for the unoccupied homeowner to arrive.

"Oh, you were sleeping just now. Did I wake you up?"

The visitor was Toriguchi. Now I understand why I had that abrupt dream; it must have been triggered by hearing Toriguchi's voice. His visit, which I was traveling with, had stirred my memory, instantly evoking that unpleasant image.

"Bird Mouth, what do you want? I'm not asleep, I'm just lying down."

"Teacher, lying won't help. Look at your red and swollen eyes, it's obvious you've had a hangover. It's clear you just woke up."

He's still the same as ever, always joking and pretending to be confused.

"Whether I was asleep or not is irrelevant. Why are you looking for me?"

Torakuchi grinned boldly and said, "We've found another one, the dismemberment case body."

I felt inexplicably uneasy. Because hearing this made it difficult for me to distinguish whether the dream I just had was a reconstruction of past events or a premonition of future events.

"Don't come to my house every time a body is discovered. I'm not a writer who specializes in writing dismemberment cases."

"What are you talking about? This is only the second time I've been here for this matter. And there's a new body being discovered almost every three days. Don't tell me you didn't know that. Honestly, teachers always try to portray things in a way that benefits them. It's really a headache."

The dismemberment murder case that began on August 29th at Lake Sagami has become increasingly illogical with each passing day. The dismemberment has escalated into a series of dismemberment murders, now known as martial arts.

The series of dismemberment murders by Kurano has become the talk of the town.

That's all I know; I don't know the more detailed parts.

"What's wrong, Brother Niaoguchi? I don't know as much as you do. Have you finally found the body? Or the head? If, as you said, a part of the body is being found every three days, then everything should be complete by now. Have the identities of the deceased been confirmed?"

"The problem is that they only have feet and hands. So far, we have found four right hands, three left hands, three right feet and two left feet. Yesterday, we found both feet. There are no people who look like octopuses, so at least four people have died."

The body and head have not yet been found, making it impossible to identify the victim, and the search has reached a bottleneck—I remember reading about this in the newspaper, which reported that three victims had been found so far. If my memory serves me right, parts of other bodies should have been found as well. In short, this case is a bizarre crime rarely seen in recent years. The Arakawa dismemberment case occurred in May, and the Chihama Village incident happened in early August; this year can be considered a bumper year for dismemberment murders, but all these incidents pale in comparison to the Musashino case.