​A Memoir of The Weeping Bachelors' Club

01. Membership Application:

01. Membership Application: "The Weeping Bachelors' Club"

As a young boy, I recall my father being a member of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club." In a world rife with peculiar societies like "The Anti-Hosiery League" and "The Society of Gowns for Cats of Quality," this caused me no great surprise. "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," as the name implies, was a congregation of confirmed bachelors—and not of the cheerful sort, mind you, but of those who found themselves in a state of single blessedness for a most peculiar reason. In essence, it was a club for those gentlemen who were left to lament the bitter dregs of love, whether they'd forsaken all for a nun, or were jilted each month by a different paramour. A rather large proportion of its members, incidentally, were poets.
​My father, though a married man, had been granted special dispensation to join, having lost his wife—my dear mother—at a young age. 'Twas a most agreeable arrangement until, one day, he found his very membership hanging by a thread. A chap with the truly dreadful moniker of "Romeo-of-the-Whim" put forth the preposterous motion that my father's grief must be sufficiently comforted by the existence of a living keepsake—namely, myself. Romeo's contention was that since I, his son, bore the image of his late wife, my father was, by all accounts, far too consoled to meet the Club's stringent weeping qualifications. My father, with a most righteous air, is said to have replied in a booming voice:
​"My wife was a most beautiful woman. She possessed cheeks like blooming roses and eyes the colour of heaven's own blue. My son, however, is most unhappily pallid, gaunt, and the very spitting image of myself."
​Upon hearing this account later, I must confess, I was left quite crestfallen. But for my father, the real trouble began thereafter. Romeo and his ghastly cronies refused to believe a word of it, going so far as to compose a ridiculous ditty to mock him. In a fit of pique, my father declared he would bring his son as proof. After hiding Romeo's hat behind the Club's curtains, he returned to our drawing-room in a veritable huff.
​"My boy, we are going out. Prepare yourself at once. I am to fetch a copy of your mother's portrait."
​Copies of my mother's portrait were scattered throughout the house, the originals having been safely stowed in a bank vault to protect against fire, theft, and other such bothersome calamities. By the time I was ready, my father had returned with his favourite copy—a charming likeness of my mother as a young woman, beaming sweetly in a pink dress, which usually hung in his study. I was promptly bundled into the jolting motorcar, where my father explained the situation.
​"But Father," I ventured, "am I really so wan?"
​"My boy, you are, I can assure you, every bit as wan as your old man."
​"But Father, I don't want to go to the Club. I'm not a spectacle to be paraded about."
​"Now, don't say that, old chap. I desperately need your help. I beseech you. Surely, you don't wish to see your father cast out of his own club, do you?"
​I certainly did not. Nor did I wish for a revival of those mournful theatrical performances in the garden, nor the visits from a variety of dubious mediums. All those rather dreadful pastimes were confined to the Club so long as my father was a member. I gave a most dramatic sigh and, with a shrug of my shoulders, declared, "Very well, then." I believed, at the time, that this particular gesture made me appear quite worldly and sophisticated.
​I soon began to wonder if a medium might not have been the better option after all. Upon our arrival, a selection of girl's clothing, complete with a fetching hat and shoes, was arranged upon a table in the centre of the room. It was a most divine blue silk, shimmering with a celestial lustre. Against the sombre hues of the gentlemen's suits, it glowed with a positively divine radiance.
​Romeo, presumably still searching for his hat, was perched atop a bookshelf. Seeing our arrival, he crowed, "Aha! They have returned!" with a smug grin.
​"Capital! Place your wife's portrait here. And now, your son shall don these fetching articles of a young lady's attire and stand beside it. The verdict on the family likeness shall be put to a vote amongst the members."
​As Romeo climbed down, I stared at the blue dress and hat. They were indeed a vibrant blue, which would only serve to accentuate my general lack of colour. But I was resolved to refuse the dress at all costs. The neckline and hem were adorned with delicate lace, and the sleeves puffed out. If, by some dreadful twist of fate, my chums ever found out I had worn such a thing, they would surely mock me until my beard grew long enough to reach my knees.
​"I will not, sir. I refuse."
​"Hmph. The young gentleman seems to lack confidence," Romeo sneered.
​My father grunted with vexation and looked at me with a piteous, pleading gaze. Torn between Romeo's triumphant face and my father's pathetic appeal, I hesitated. My refusal would, it appeared, mean my father's defeat. The dress was simply out of the question, however. After a moment of grave deliberation, I proposed a compromise.
​"Would it not suffice if I simply wore the charming little hat?"
​Romeo was, of course, about to refuse, but a few murmurs of admiration for my manly resolve were heard amongst the members. Even the hat was a humiliation of sorts. Hearing these sighs from the Club's elder statesmen, Romeo gave an exaggerated shrug. "Very well, then," he said, "have it your way."
​And so, with a deep sense of mortification, I reluctantly placed the lovely pale blue hat upon my head. Romeo stood beside me, holding the portrait. My face burned with shame and indignation.
​"Well? Do I bear a likeness to my mother?" I demanded, feeling utterly wretched.
​That's when I noticed my father's expression and was thoroughly puzzled. He was staring at me, his mouth agape. And then, Romeo declared, in a voice filled with smug victory, "Look at that! He does bear a certain resemblance!"
​"By Jove, you're right! His usual lack of colour quite obscures it," my father said, his eyes misting over. 'Twas a sign that a most heart-wrenching and eloquent speech was about to be delivered. I sensed it, and the other members fell silent, leaning in to listen.
​That solemn silence, alas, was interrupted by a clamour from the entrance. A beautiful young lady, with a furious air, burst into the room, shaking off the frantic club butler as she did so.
​"Uncle! That was a dress that was only just finished for me today! Give it back!"
​She bravely kicked the butler's shin, rushed to the table, and clutched the outfit in her small hands. As Romeo, in a flustered state, began to placate his niece, I never did hear my father's intended speech.
​But by then, I confess, my father's speech was the least of my concerns. I was utterly captivated by the young lady's beauty. She had glorious golden curls and large, striking emerald eyes. Her round cheeks were flushed with a magnificent scarlet, and every one of her bell-like insults was witty and charming. I was so utterly smitten with this brand-new love that I was near to swooning when her gaze fell upon me. She strode over, stood right in front of me, and after a withering stare, snatched the hat from my head and stormed out. Romeo, in a great fuss, scurried after her. I gathered from his shouted question about the location of the nearest sweetshop that he was taking his niece to soothe her with confections.
​In the end, my father was allowed to remain in the Club, thanks to his own lack of a decisive statement and the quick thinking of his friend, "John-of-the-Goldfish."
​Even after the scandalous intrusion of a lady, the resemblance trial continued as if nothing had happened. The plaintiff, Romeo, had already departed for the sweetshop, but such matters seemed to be of no consequence. It was more a case of everyone having begun to enjoy the spectacle so much that they simply decided to carry on. So, despite the absence of the hat, the resemblance investigation resumed. My cheeks were now flushed not with shame but with a new love, which was evidently enough to make a slight likeness to my mother apparent. It was particularly noticeable, they claimed, from the nose to the upper lip.
​"This is a most distinct resemblance, indeed," declared "Old Orpheus," one of the elders, with a fascinated air.
​My father was at a loss for words. I desperately tried to return my face to its usual pallor, but every time I thought of the girl, my cheeks went crimson, and there was nothing to be done. It was at this moment that my father's great friend, "John-of-the-Goldfish," quietly stepped forward.
​"Gentlemen, have you forgotten? This boy is destined to grow up."
​He smiled kindly as he spoke, and then, with no warning, he produced a tin of shoe polish from who knows where and smeared a black line beneath my nose. A chorus of protests erupted from the members, but John remained perfectly calm.
​"Yes, it is dreadful, is it not? A truly pathetic sight. But this, gentlemen, is the truth. As you can see, a moustache, a dark and formidable moustache, shall one day obscure the very likeness of his late mother. Aye, this boy is indeed his father's son, but he also carries a faint resemblance to his dear mother. Yet in a few short years, he will become a burly and masculine young man, just like us. What a most pitiful fate! His father not only lost his wife, but must now also watch as the faint image of her in his son's face slowly fades, to be eventually buried beneath a thick black moustache."
​John's voice was gentle and soft, and all the more moving for it. My father, his mouth agape once more for a few seconds as he absorbed the meaning of the words, then produced a handkerchief and began to weep in a most un-gentlemanly fashion. Several other members followed suit, and soon the Club was filled with the sounds of manly weeping and the blowing of noses.
​Bored with the spectacle of the adults, I procured a pen and some fine stationery from the butler and wrote my very first love poem. I thought it not half-bad for a first attempt, so I handed it to Romeo, who had just returned looking most despairing. Romeo, thinking it a sound strategy to placate his niece, cheerfully agreed to act as my go-between.
​And so, I became the youngest member of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club." The young lady, it turned out, was Romeo-of-the-Whim's niece, and she was so unforgiving of the incident that for some time, she cut off all contact with the Club. It seemed I was thoroughly disliked, but in addition to sending flowers and chocolates, I continued to send her a new hat every year. My persistence has paid off, and for the last few years, her replies have at least specified exactly how many more hats it will take to win her forgiveness. Calculating by a yearly rate, it appears she will be placated upon reaching her majority. I suspect that after the last hat, I will have to send her a ring.
​As for my father, who so narrowly remained in the Club, he was eventually—and quite rightly—expelled a few years later. The ghost of my mother had begun to appear on a regular basis. It seems that my father's invitation of Romeo's sister to tea, an attempt to do me a kindness, was the cause. A wife's jealousy is a magnificent force. My father exchanged some lighthearted banter with the lady, and my mother, whom no medium had ever been able to rouse, promptly appeared and began throwing plates about. A most peculiar marital quarrel ensued, with my father joyfully dodging the flying crockery. Even after the misunderstanding was cleared up, my mother had no intention of returning to the underworld and has taken up permanent residence. She is embarrassed by her semi-transparent state and rarely goes out, but being of an active disposition, she is kept busy hosting mournful theatrical performances in the garden, summoning dubious mediums to the house, and organising "The Society of Deceased Ladies." My father seems quite happy, but every now and then, I think he misses "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" and comes to secretly check if Romeo's hat is still behind the curtains.

02. "John-of-the-Goldfish"

​It was a few years after I had joined "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," when I was in my mid-teens. Upon returning from a short journey, I found my father seated in the drawing-room, looking utterly forlorn. Though my father was prone to such melancholic moods, what gave me pause was seeing my mother’s ghost taking his hand in hers to offer comfort, a gesture she rarely made unless the matter was grave indeed. I was a bit startled and inquired as to the cause. My father, with a heavy sigh, informed me that "John-of-the-Goldfish" had disappeared, leaving behind a peculiar jest, or was, and most likely, deceased.
​"John-of-the-Goldfish" was my father's dearest friend, a famous poet beloved for his gentle nature and his somewhat eccentric works. He was, naturally, a vital member of our "Weeping Bachelors' Club." After all, his poetry was admired even by Her Majesty the Queen. From his debut collection, "The Pocket Goldfish," to his grand epic, "The Seahorse Wars," his works were all highly praised and yet never difficult to understand, which gained him a large following. One of his representative pieces, "The Krill and the Mermaid Princess" from "Inside the Whale's Stomach," was even set to music and became a popular song. As one might gather from his body of work, he was a poet who remained fascinated by fish throughout his life. His charming expression captured the hearts of many a lady, and his tender chivalry toward fish endeared him to many a "weeping bachelor."
​The news that such a man had vanished, and was perhaps deceased, utterly astonished me.
​"Why do you suppose he is gone for good?"
​"It seems he was quite ill. A growth had appeared in his head. That much is certain; his doctor can attest to it. This was about ten days before he vanished."
​"Then we must find him at once!"
​"Alas, the very next morning, when the butler went to wake him, he found only a skeleton lying in John’s bed. It was clean as a whistle, save for a pool of water in the skull, so much so that there was talk of putting it on display at the Club. Since then, no trace of him has been found. Many of the chaps take this for one of his usual jests, but I cannot bring myself to believe it."
​Indeed, the quality of the joke was unlike him. He was not one for such macabre tastes. His spirit was filled with smiles and a deep affection for small creatures; his world was one of green, light, and transparent water. While it was true that John had a peculiar habit of hanging giant kelp on his hat stand and keeping crabs in his fireplace, he was not the type of man to leave a skeleton in his bed. Could he have truly turned to bone overnight? I thought of him, speaking so cheerfully of Oriental goldfish culture, and for a while, I was brought to tears. I then reached for the carafe on the side table. I took it for an alcoholic beverage and, putting on a worldly air, decided to pour myself a stiff one to lift my spirits. My father stopped me in a most panicked manner.
​"Hold on, son, that's not spirits. That's the growth from John's head!"
​"Good heavens, why would you have such a thing?"
​My father first grumbled a few words about how I was fifty years too young for drink, and then with a great sigh, he continued.
​"It was his last will and testament, you see. I told you there was water in his skull? Well, the greenish-blue growth was floating in it. There was a note on the bedside table saying we were to take the growth, put it in a carafe he had already prepared, and pour it into a special aquarium in his secret safe when it hatched. It was to be poured in along with the mixture he had already prepared in the carafe. Poor chap, the growth must have addled his mind. I'm going to open the safe tomorrow; would you care to come along?"
​"How pitiful. Yes, let us go."
​All the while, I gazed at the contents of the carafe. The growth rested quietly in the water. It was a beautiful shade of blue and green, and it didn't look like a terrible disease. In fact, it sparkled from time to time.
​The next morning, we donned black suits and visited the home of "John-of-the-Goldfish." We were met with a mournful expression by John's cousin, "Cyrano-of-the-Nose." Cyrano was also a member of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" and ran a small publishing house called "The Shrimp Basket" with John. Cyrano’s shoulders were slumped in sadness, and though he was a tall man, he seemed somehow diminished.
​"I believe the safe is in the south tower. It's a large house, but many of the rooms were unused. The south tower held John's study and bedroom—he liked it because it was sunny and warm even in winter. I believe all his works were written there."
​Chatting as he went, "Cyrano-of-the-Nose" led the way.
​John's house was vast, but as befit a man who preferred a quiet life, it was dim and silent. We passed many gigantic taxidermied marlins and sharks, paintings of the sea, and model ships, which had all been given to him by various people. Yet, the house felt strangely empty, likely because so few rooms were in use. Perhaps he intentionally kept the taxidermied fish in unused rooms, as they were not to his liking. Unable to bear the silence, I spoke.
​"It's so vast, one could get lost in here."
​"Indeed, I'm afraid I lost my way for a moment myself. But we are almost there now."
​Cyrano smiled a sorrowful smile.
​As Cyrano had said, the south tower was warm, bright, and silent. Though it might have been an old tower, the windows were large, and soft sunlight streamed in. Next to the window was an empty aquarium where, according to Cyrano, John had kept a small octopus until last month. The room, comfortably furnished in a simple, medieval style with warm tones that reflected his personality, held a few seashells on the mantelpiece. The bookshelves were filled with encyclopedias of fish and marine life, as well as the works of old poets he seemed to favour. A large writing desk stood in the center of the room, and a large magnifying glass and a coral inkpot gleamed in the sunlight. In general, the room was tidy, and on the desk lay a single note.
​"Is that the will the butler found?" my father asked quietly.
​Cyrano, looking perplexed, picked it up.
​"No, the butler never entered the study. He found a note in the bedroom downstairs."
​On the white paper, a short message was scrawled in John's hand.
​I wish for you to open the safe and pour me, water and all, into the aquarium. According to my calculations, my addition will not cause any difficulty, but the water and concoction I have prepared also contain the necessary ingredients. Be sure not to confuse it with the octopus's aquarium by the window.
​When Cyrano finished reading, we all shook our heads, our hearts heavy. Was it truly a jest? The empty aquarium by the window said otherwise. We searched the room in desperation and soon found a built-in safe beneath a tapestry on the south wall. We exchanged glances, remarking on how "he was quite a secretive one," and unlocked the key.
​When we opened the heavy safe door, we were utterly astonished to find, not property deeds or valuables, but a very large aquarium. Or perhaps, a "bottle-aquarium" would be more accurate. It was a vessel the size of a barrel, filled with water, water plants, and fish, and it glowed with a beautiful green in the sunlight.
​But what caught our eyes first was the fact that the back of the safe was made of glass. Instead of a solid iron wall, it was a window that looked out onto the tower's exterior. Through the glass, we could see the verdant forest stretching out below.
​"He must have wanted the sunlight to shine on the aquarium," we sighed, resigned to yet another of John's eccentricities. When did he have the time to build such a contraption?
​"But then, how is Cyrano to receive his inheritance?"
​"Oh, that was sent by post about a week ago."
​"By post? That's quite careless of him."
​"Indeed. The whole package of documents, the key to the bank vault, and a bottle with a tiny octopus. The bottle with the octopus was marked 'Handle with Care,' and he's still quite lively."
​"Why didn't he just put the octopus in here?"
​My father sighed heavily, peering into the large aquarium. For a while, we did nothing but sigh and press our hands to our foreheads. Then, my father, who was still peering into the large aquarium, suddenly let out a cry.
​"Look here, gentlemen! Look! A mermaid! There's a mermaid!"
​Cyrano and I gasped. Inside the bottle, there was indeed a tiny mermaid. We couldn't believe our eyes. We pulled out the magnifying glass from the desk drawer and took turns examining her.
​"So this was John's mermaid princess," Cyrano said, sounding stunned. "I never would have believed it was real."
​We were completely astonished. It was true that John's poetry often featured beautiful mermaids, and he even had a book of love poems dedicated to goldfish. But to think there was a real mermaid in his study!
​"Well, that explains why it was kept in a safe," my father said, and Cyrano and I found ourselves in strange agreement.
​"But I never imagined a mermaid would be so small."
​"She's so beautiful, truly like a goldfish."
​"The fish with her are tiny, too."
​"That also explains why he didn't put the octopus in here with her."
​They took turns looking through the magnifying glass, while I, who didn't yet need glasses, simply gazed at the mermaid.
​From my observation, the mermaid was about the size of a woman's little finger. She had red hair and a golden tail and was uncommonly beautiful. Her golden scales sparkled in the sunlight, and her red hair seemed to catch the light and burn as it moved. The delicate tips of her golden tail fins were tinged with a faint red, which shone like stained glass when the light hit it. Near her graceful, doll-like neck, her pearl-like skin was etched with tiny gills. She didn't seem to notice our gigantic forms, moving leisurely among the water plants. The small fish seemed to be her friends, occasionally alighting on her shoulder like little birds. The mermaid had little expression, yet for a fleeting moment, I thought I glimpsed a most charming smile or a shadow of sorrow crossing her face.
​"Not as beautiful as my wife, but beautiful nonetheless!" my father exclaimed.
​"I'm astounded," Cyrano said, his voice hushed in a way that wouldn't disturb the mermaid. "I'm sure there was a poem about a mermaid with this very appearance."
​"Ah, I remember reading that one," my father said. "It was about how he was growing old while she remained eternally unchanged. I always assumed it was just a personification of passion."
​While my father and Cyrano were admiring her, I drifted back to the desk to compose myself.
​Good heavens. John-of-the-Goldfish's goldfish had been a real, living mermaid. Thinking about this, I could finally comprehend the immense love and the occasional, heart-wrenching sorrow that filled his poetry. I felt my eyes welling up and recited a line from "The Seahorse Wars."
​Oh, look ye now, how the sapphire ceiling is stained red in the twilight.
Even the sun longs for the princess and kisses the ocean like so.
How could I not adore her?
​That piece was written decades ago. Just how long had John been keeping this mermaid hidden away in his study? As I pondered this, I nonchalantly picked up the carafe that had been left on the desk.
​And I gasped again. The greenish-blue growth at the bottom of the carafe had indeed been an egg. The shell was broken, and a small creature, a tiny merman or triton, was swimming within. The beautiful, sparkling creature, the size of a man's little finger, moved back and forth with the rocking of the carafe. It paid no mind to my peering face, flitting about inside. Of course, I was so surprised that I nearly dropped the carafe, but I steadied it and called out to my father and Cyrano in a raspy voice. This time, the magnifying glass was pointed at the carafe's contents.
​"That's definitely John," I said, utterly convinced.
​"He certainly looks like my cousin when he was young," Cyrano said earnestly.
​My father looked through the magnifying glass. "You think so? I remember John being scrawnier."
​"Was he? Well, he didn't just become young again, did he?"
​As we debated, we felt a sense of relief. John was not dead; he had simply changed his form. Knowing this was a good thing; the heavy sadness in our chests was replaced with a gentle melancholy. At the same time, many questions raced through our minds. How did John change his form? Where did he get a mermaid? And how did he create this self-sustaining aquarium? There were no writings to explain any of it. After searching the room for a note and finding nothing, we gave up and sat down, staring at the carafe.
​"We can't very well ask this John, can we? It's dreadful, him changing form without explaining a thing to his best friend or cousin."
​My father sighed, a much lighter sigh this time. Cyrano said, "I believe he studied a bit of marine biology when he was younger. I don't know much about his youth, as we have a large age gap. But critics did notice the influence in his poetry. Even so, I heard he only dabbled in it. After that, as you can see, he seems to have studied quite a lot on his own, but I think it was all for his poetry, an aesthetic pursuit."
​"Were there no hints in his poems?" I asked.
​Cyrano thought for a moment, then shook his head. "There are some poems that allude to such things. In one of his early works, he writes about finding a tiny glass bottle with a mermaid in an ancient ruin on the beach. But I always assumed it was fiction; he rarely traveled then. Now that a real mermaid has appeared, I can no longer tell where his fiction ends and his reality begins."
​That was all Cyrano could offer by way of explanation. My father smiled with a serene sadness.
​"Well, it wouldn't do to keep the groom waiting in the carafe."
​So, we reluctantly opened the bottle-aquarium, saying, "Congratulations, John," in unison as we poured the triton, water and all, into the tank and sealed it tightly once more. We could have watched their reunion, but it felt a bit like a private moment that we shouldn't intrude upon, so we promptly closed the safe door.
​A few days later, at "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," I was having a debate with a few friends.
​"But was it really John you saw?" asked "Romeo-of-the-Whim," who had become my friend after my father left the club.
​"Of course! My father and Cyrano both swore it was just like the young John. I saw him, too; it was like John without the wrinkles and flab."
​"You can't be sure; it might have just been a look-alike triton. Maybe John found it in a tide pool, just like Cyrano's octopus."
​"An octopus is one thing, but a triton doesn't just wander the beaches."
​"But John found a mermaid, didn't he?"
​As I pondered my counter-argument, "Phaeton-of-the-Crutch," who was also my cousin, chimed in. Phaeton was a club member but rarely showed his face; he must have been worried about John.
​"The thing is, we don't not believe that John became a triton. We just don't have any proof that the triton is really John."
​"That's right. You couldn't even tell the difference between me and my brother."
​This was from a young man named "Palamon the Piteous," who had a twin brother, "Arcite the Missing," whose whereabouts were unknown. It was rumoured he had taken a false name and was a butler-in-training at the home of the person he adored.
​In short, my friends didn't believe that the triton was truly John. They wanted to believe it was a joke. They didn't want to lose John, whether he was a triton or not. I was starting to get annoyed at their lack of seriousness and considered waving a white flag and giving up, when I heard a commotion at the entrance.
​"Easy, there. Be careful. The glass case will shatter."
​It was "Old Orpheus," directing some porters as he entered. Behind him, a large, rectangular object, covered in a sheet and mounted on casters, was being pushed along. Judging by Old Orpheus's tone, it was a glass case. As they went over a bump, I heard a clink as something hit the glass.
​"What on earth is that?"
​The attention of the members, who had been trying to make me surrender, shifted to the large, rectangular box. A crowd gathered around it.
​"It's nothing to get so worked up about, lad. It's a small gift from John. Let's call it a retirement present. The rest of you should show a little gratitude when you leave the club."
​"What is it, a taxidermied shark?"
​"That would be quite interesting."
​"I hope it's one with a head shaped like a hammer."
​As their idle chatter went on, the men who had been trying to make me surrender exchanged glances. The word "retirement" had an undeniable ring of truth to it. "Phaeton-of-the-Crutch" asked in a solemn tone.
​"Old Orpheus, did John really retire?"
​"Aye, he bade farewell to his wrinkles and back pain and became a triton. He came to the elders' council and declared he was leaving. He said he no longer had a reason to weep and was no longer a bachelor, so he was retiring. Just when he was old enough to join the elders, he suddenly became young again and vanished. He was quite excited, I tell you. He prattled on and on, boasting about all sorts of things until I grew weary of it."
​Old Orpheus was then bombarded with questions, but he was a wily old man. It seemed he had heard all about the transformation and how it happened, but he simply laughed, saying, "I couldn't understand a lick of it, so I forgot it all." Then he added, "If someone would find a suitable match for my youngest niece, I might recall the details." Unfortunately, his youngest niece had a reputation for being dreadful, so we all exchanged glances but said nothing. Thus, the secret of his transformation remained unknown. Old Orpheus then took out a piece of paper, took his time searching for his reading glasses, and when he found them and put them on, he began to read.
​To the Esteemed Members of the Elder Council,
​I am pleased to inform you that my many years of weeping have finally come to an end. It is with great regret that I am retiring from the club just as I have reached the venerable age required to join your ranks. I am leaving without telling my cousin Cyrano or my other friends, as I know they would be sad, and I might lose my resolve. Besides, I would prefer to avoid a send-off. If, by chance, you hold a funeral for me, so be it; you can simply presume I am dead. In any case, it would be quite difficult for me to return. I was organizing my study when I came across some poems I wrote when I was young. Most of them were unpublished, likely because I thought they weren't very good, but they are all fond memories now, and I entrust them to you. There is one among them that is somewhat suitable for a funeral, so please read it in my stead as a farewell.
​Oh, glorious goldfish, your scarlet dorsal fin, like a church's stained-glass window,
Gleams in the sun and burns like a ruby, purifying my soul.
Oh, majestic goldfish, your frail tail fin, like the twilight sky,
With veins like delicate lines, like shimmering golden stairs piercing through the clouds.
Your majesty and fragility recount the glory and greatness of the Creator.
I am led to eternity by your fins of red and gold.
​Farewell, then. I wish you, the elders of the council, everlasting happiness. May the love of all the members of The Weeping Bachelors' Club come to fruition as mine has.
​Yours, John-of-the-Goldfish
​Old Orpheus took off his glasses and said quietly, "Now, now, don't get all sentimental."
​He then concluded, "He said that what he had been preparing for decades was finally complete. He was so happy, telling me all sorts of incomprehensible scientific nonsense. But you lot, is there really any need to be surprised or sad? I knew him well. When he was young, he was just an ordinary man who could write pretty poetry. Then, a tiny mermaid made him a great poet. And now, he has finally become a tiny triton. Are they not the same thing? It's just a change from the inside to the outside. John simply completed his final work. And as a result, he is no longer with us. But, you see, he had been leaving us all along."
​We nodded in admiration at his words.
​Old Orpheus then smiled as he began to tip the porters, who had by now moved the glass case to a corner of the club. "Romeo-of-the-Whim," who was pressing his eyes with a handkerchief, asked him,
​"By the way, what's inside it?"
​"Why, what do you think? It's the skeleton he left in his bed."
​With that, Old Orpheus, wearing a perfectly straight face, smiled and waited as the young men protested loudly and ripped the cloth off the case.
​And so, John's complete skeleton was put on display in a corner of the club. John, posed as if reciting poetry, was crowned with a laurel wreath and looked, if anything, quite pleased. The glass case was removed soon after, for the simple reason that "it's unfair for only John to sit enshrined in a case." Before long, someone placed a copy of his masterpiece, "Inside the Whale's Stomach," in his bony hand. Since then, "John-of-the-Goldfish-all-disassembled" has remained standing in "The Weeping Bachelors' Club." It is rumoured that Her Majesty the Queen, a great admirer of his work, offered an astronomical sum to purchase him, but since he still stands here, "Old Orpheus" must have turned her down. After all, the best part of John is already with a lady—the mermaid. We gentlemen must at least be allowed to keep his bones.

03. "Paris-of-the-Orangery"

​It was a rare sight to see my cousin at "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" the other day. He was a sportsman, unsuited to weeping, and had been absent for so long that he had no new nickname to suit his adult self. So he was still called by the old moniker I'd given him as a boy, "Phaeton-of-the-Crutch." Phaeton, you see, was the name of a pitiable boy-god in Greek mythology who, they say, died from recklessly driving the sun god Apollo’s chariot. This nickname had been bestowed upon him so long ago that he no longer needed a crutch. He did, however, have with him a long-haired, beautiful dog, thin and pale, and rather like a horse. As I entered the Club that day, the regulars were lounging on leather sofas, discussing the dog's coat.
​"Ah, yes, it truly is like silk."
​"Nonsense, it's like an old woman’s white hair."
​"A grandmother with remarkably fine hair and a face like a horse. But is this truly a dog?"
​"What else would it be?"
​"It has the face of a deer."
​"There is no deer with teeth like that."
​"What about a carnivorous deer?"
​Phaeton, who seemed bored with the conversation, yawned and looked around. He spotted me at once and, with the bright eyes he'd had since he was a boy, called out cheerfully.
​"Hamleti! How many years has it been? You've grown so much, old boy. How have you been?"
​I was a bit past the age of "growing," but to him, being four years my senior, I was always his younger cousin. Phaeton, with a smile as brilliant as Apollo's, pulled the dog's leash and wove through the sofas. The poorly-behaved white dog walked across the laps of the gentlemen on the low sofas, and a few cries of protest went up.
​"Oi, what are you doing?"
​"The butler will have a fit if this jacket gets dirty!"
​"Ah, my apologies, everyone. He's not very well-behaved," Phaeton said with a hearty laugh. "But isn't he a dear? His name is Silk Glove."
​Phaeton said this to "Cyrano-of-the-Nose," who was nearest to him, and received an ambiguous smile in return. Without a moment's hesitation, he turned to me, leaving the dog on Cyrano’s lap. The slender dog, with a rather vacant expression, its mouth open and tongue lolling, looked up at me from Cyrano's lap, its large eyes set against its pure white coat. My cousin clapped me on the shoulder, still smiling brightly.
​"My goodness, it's been ages, Hamleti. When was the last time we saw each other?"
​"The last time you made the club butler weep."
​"Ah, that was an unfortunate misunderstanding. That was meant to be an indoor sport, you see. I never could have predicted the chandelier would come crashing down. I was as surprised as anyone. Weren't you surprised, Cyrano?"
​"Indeed."
​Cyrano continued to smile ambiguously, and as Phaeton showed no sign of taking back the dog on his lap, he began to pet it. Seeing this, a younger member named "Cherubino-of-the-Rejections" seemed to find it amusing and called out.
​"What's that? He looks like a carousel horse. He's so pretty. Can I ride him?"
​"I don't think that's a very good idea, you'll likely crush him," Cyrano replied, ever the voice of reason.
​After confirming that Cyrano had it under control, we left the dog there and moved to the bar counter. "Cyrano-of-the-Nose" was now having his spectacles licked but made no protest.
​"Isn't he a magnificent dog?" Phaeton said, leaning on the counter and taking a sip from a small glass.
​"He is. Unusually thin. Is he a hunting dog?"
​"Yes, he is by breed. But she doesn't much care for hunting. I thought she was too beautiful for that, so I'm keeping her as a pet."
​"She? I say, old chap, we have a rule here that men whose sweethearts speak to them are not to be admitted."
​Phaeton’s brow, completely free of any shadow, simply quirked.
​"Oh, is that so? Well, then, there are a few fellows who ought to be chucked out. But don't you worry about me; she won't even see me. And that's the real problem."
​He began his tale. His maternal grandfather, a man with whom I shared no blood, decided to divide his inheritance, though he had no intention of dying. The grandfather’s true motive, it seemed, was to set impossible conditions for the inheritance and watch his family run about in a panic. It was a new game that had recently become a fad among old gentlemen.
​"The three Gorgon sisters were told to find a catfish, and they've been racking their brains over it. My grandfather is quite fond of me, so mine was supposed to be simple."
​"You mean a catfish? Why isn't it simple?"
​"He told me I had to get married. But as you know, the only person I've ever wanted to marry, then and now, is Paris-of-the-Orangery. But Paris refuses to see me, on account of that business with the orange, and she won't accept any of my gifts. So I've come up with a Trojan War strategy: I'm going to try to infiltrate that dog, you see. The Trojans were so well defended that the Greeks couldn't breach their walls for ten years. But then they offered them a giant wooden horse as a peace offering. As soon as the Trojans brought it inside their walls, the soldiers hiding in the horse sprang out and opened the gates, and Troy finally fell."
​"Ah, that Paris. What was that about the orange again?"
​In truth, I had not forgotten that summer. I simply wanted to hear the story again from the perspective of the man who had lived it. "Phaeton-of-the-Crutch" took a sip from his glass and recounted his version of events.
​"You remember, don't you, that brilliant green summer when we were children? Our parents went off to the continent for a holiday, and we were all left at my grandfather's estate. I was in a terrible mood, of course, as I was supposed to have gone with them. But about a week before we were to leave, I broke my leg. It was painful and dreadfully boring. I was in a terrible state. I'd been riding my father's bicycle, which I'd secretly snuck out, when I was hit by a car. The bicycle was utterly destroyed, so I suppose I was lucky to have only broken my leg. And that's how you came to give me the nickname Phaeton-of-the-Crutch. For one summer, this pitiful Phaeton had to endure the company of his melancholic cousin Hamleti, the narcissistic Gorgon sisters, and tiny Paris.
​I, for one, could not stand my mother's cousins—Flora, Aurora, and their friend Thaleia, whom we called the three Gorgons. They were, if you remember, truly awful narcissists. Flora and Thaleia were beautiful girls, to be sure, Flora with her golden hair and Thaleia with her fiery red locks. And Aurora was, well, a handsome enough boy. But you remember how they were always playing at love, laughing and discarding their victims. It was dreadful. Did you know, before you arrived, they made the gardener's son cry? I think he wrote a letter to Thaleia, which they read aloud in the library. They were always looking for new prey. Thankfully, they initially found my crutch to be an unattractive quality, and they ignored me. Instead, they placed their hopes on you, an unknown cousin arriving a week later. But then this melancholic Hamleti arrived and immediately began writing sonnets to a girl who wasn't even there. The three self-proclaimed goddesses considered this an outrageous delusion. So they began a wager over who would win me. It was a ghastly business, with even the handsome Aurora taking part. That's why I always hid in the orangery. The doctor told me I needed sunlight, but the Gorgons were usually in the garden, and the orangery was the only sunny place left.
​This orangery, you see, was home to a lovely little fairy. She wore a boy's playsuit and was always climbing the orange trees. This was Paris, a little girl with eyes the color of the Mediterranean, and she was quite clever. She was a suffragist's daughter, a friend of your parents, if I remember correctly. She had been given permission to play boys' games while she was at the estate. Unfortunately, a gloomy fellow like Hamleti, who only wrote sonnets, didn't know many games, and Aurora was, well, Aurora. No one taught her how to play. So she came to me, the manliest of them all despite my broken leg, to learn. But since I was broken and we were confined to the orangery, the games I could teach were limited. I mostly taught her how to climb trees. And how to spit, of course.
​So, every day, the little one and I played together, or the three of us when you joined us. In that time, I grew quite fond of this little fairy. But, much like her mother, she was quite a delicate creature for her age, and she looked younger than she was, didn't she? So I didn't realize how completely smitten I was with her. I was still just a boy then, and I thought romance was a silly thing. But I can still clearly remember her clear, Mediterranean-colored eyes and her hair, which was a slightly faded color. She was strong-willed and always climbed one branch higher than I told her to. She was so adorable; she always had leaves caught in her hair. Well, that's where I made a terrible mistake.
​I believe you were in the orangery with us that day. The fairy was up in a tree, and we were talking about the Gorgon sisters. Then you told us the myth of the apple of Paris, the one with 'To the fairest' written on it, which three goddesses fought over. And so I, with an idea, had the little one go and pluck an orange. I wanted to see what those arrogant sisters would do. So I assigned her the role of Paris and sent her to them. But it was a disaster. It turned out she wanted it for herself. Of course, she did; every girl wants to be called the fairest. That's why the myth exists in the first place. So when I assigned her the role of Paris, she thought I was insensitively excluding her from the list of beauties. It was as if I'd called her uglier than the three sisters right to her face. She was furious with me. It was an entirely different matter to me, but that's what happened. Now, even though she's grown into an eye-watering beauty, Paris won't accept any of my gifts. She seems to want nothing to do with me. But I liked that clever fairy, the one who was good at climbing trees and could even spit, though poorly. I was wrong; I had half-forgotten that she was a girl. The poor thing must have been terribly hurt. She won't even see me."
​Phaeton finished his story with a great sigh. I saw that he was a little disheartened and quiet, so I collected my thoughts and asked.
​"So, if I understand you correctly, Phaeton, you didn't give Paris the orange, so she was deeply hurt and won't see you. And she won't accept your gifts, either."
​Phaeton shrugged and nodded, but I was a bit skeptical. Paris was my mother's friend's daughter, and we still saw each other from time to time. She didn't seem like the type to care about such a thing. Phaeton quickly recovered his spirits and continued to speak with great enthusiasm.
​"So, I need you to deliver that dog to her. She'll definitely accept that one. Then I can visit her on the pretense of checking up on the dog."
​"I don't mind, but why would she accept that dog?"
​"It's simple. She's been pestering a hunting friend of mine for over a year to sell him to her. I bought him in secret from him."
​I was a bit taken aback by his cunning ploy, but Phaeton laughed with a smile as brilliant as Apollo's.
​So, the next day, bracing myself for a storm of curses, I took the white dog and went to Paris's house. Her house was not far from mine, so I decided to walk there for a bit of exercise. This was a mistake. Dragging that large white dog to the house was a great struggle. Though thin and fragile-looking, it was surprisingly strong and terribly curious. It seemed it wouldn't be satisfied until it had chased almost every person on the street for ten paces. And since it was such a pretty dog, everyone it chased stopped to pet it, which delayed us even more. In the end, it took three times longer than I had expected to get to Paris's house, and by the time I arrived, I was utterly exhausted.
​When we finally got to the house, the dog immediately jumped on the butler, but was placated with a biscuit and led away. Paris, her slim body clad in fashionable clothes, greeted me with a smile.
​"My, what a lovely dog you have. I was planning on buying one just like it, but someone beat me to it. What a shame. But that's alright; I'll give them a good scolding if I ever find them. Please, come in. You still look so pale, are you alright?"
​She spoke in her unique, clear voice, playing with her short, curled hair as she led me into the drawing-room. She instructed a clever-looking girl to prepare tea and then turned her glittering, Mediterranean-colored eyes on me.
​"So, what brings you here today? If you need a good secretary, I can recommend an excellent one. I usually only recommend them to women, but someone from "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" is trustworthy."
​She shared her suffragist mother's ideals. She supported working women and ran her own business, though I have forgotten what it was. In any case, it was because Paris was such a woman that I found a flaw in Phaeton's theory.
​"Oh, I don't need a secretary; I don't work. By the way, do you remember that summer when six of us children were staying at my grandfather's house?"
​Paris's clear, large eyes lit up.
​"Of course! It was a precious summer. I finally understood my mother's ideals."
​I had never heard her say that, so I was intrigued and decided to put off the dog and Phaeton's story. If she had wanted that dog for a year and then had it taken away from her, receiving it as a gift might only make her angry. I might find myself on the receiving end of a very serious scolding, though I had done nothing wrong. If I was going to be scolded, I might as well postpone it for as long as possible.
​"Oh? Your mother's ideals. Was it because of the tree climbing?"
​Paris smiled and fell silent for a moment as if in thought, then her clear voice began again.
​"Well, yes, but not in the way you might think. Can I explain it to you?
​You remember that summer, in the orangery, when Phaeton came up with that plan to mock the Gorgon sisters? You gave him the idea with the myth, didn't you? And you gave me the job of messenger. It was so much fun to be a part of a plot. And oh, the looks on the Gorgon sisters' faces when I brought the orange! I wish you could have seen it. They all looked as if it were theirs by rights. At first, they were polite about it, but then they started arguing like the goddesses in the myth. I couldn't help but laugh.
​Then Aurora, I think it was, said, 'If you're Paris, who does this orange belong to? Choose the fairest.' Phaeton misunderstood the myth, thinking Paris was just a messenger. But he was supposed to choose the fairest. In the myth, he chose Venus and was rewarded with Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world, but she was another man's wife, and that's how the Trojan War started. But that's beside the point. Flora and Thaleia then began offering me bribes, just like the goddesses in the myth, to win me over. They offered me ribbons and promised to teach me how to style my hair and how to walk gracefully. Then Aurora, not wanting to be left behind, said, 'I'll marry you.' Of course, it was a joke, but I politely declined. He then said, 'You're just a tomboyish midget, you'll never get married, you'll die alone in a ditch.' It was a hateful thing to say. I had never given a thought to marriage before. My mother was married, but she had her own business, so even without my father, she would have been financially secure. But I realized that was not the case for most women. And that changed how I saw Flora and Thaleia. I didn't like them; they made a lot of boys cry. But then I thought, 'What if they're just desperately practicing their wiles to capture a man's heart so they won't die alone?' When I thought that, it made me sad. Because they seemed so empty otherwise. Don't you think it's pitiful to have to make someone fall in love with you just to survive?
​When I still wouldn't choose one of the three, they asked me, 'Then who would you give the orange to?' I said, 'Phaeton.' To me, he was the most beautiful. I loved his cheerful spirit. But then the Gorgon sisters laughed at me, saying it was weird for a girl to call a man beautiful. Is it? I think men have their own kind of beauty, not like a beautiful-boy-wannabe like Aurora. But they couldn't understand. They all made fun of me, so I got angry and ate the orange right there. It was delicious. But after that, I finally started to think about my place as a woman. It was a good experience."
​Paris concluded her story with an intelligent smile. I was impressed, staring at her. To think she was pondering social issues at such a young age! But she probably just seemed small; perhaps she was closer to our age than we thought. As Phaeton had said, her slender frame made her look younger. Even as an adult, she was still so delicate, looking like a fairy and appearing much younger than she was.
​"I see. So, you liked Phaeton. Then why won't you accept his gifts? He's so distraught, lamenting that you won't even see him."
​Paris was silent and, with a pen-stained finger, pulled her teacup closer, her Mediterranean-colored eyes gazing thoughtfully into it.
​"He liked Thaleia or Flora, didn't he? He went to all that trouble to bring an orange. I knew it wasn't for Aurora, but it had to be one of those two. At first, I didn't mind, but when I thought about it, I realized I disliked men who liked that sort of girl. To put it simply, I was disillusioned. That's why I still avoid him. I would hate for him to expect me to be a woman like them."
​With that, Paris smiled and sipped her tea. I, on the other hand, felt a sense of relief and laughed a little louder.
​"Oh, I see. Well, then, you have nothing to worry about. Phaeton liked you from the very beginning."
​Paris blinked her Mediterranean-colored eyes in surprise.
​"Really? But Phaeton didn't see me as a girl, did he? And he called me Paris, which is the name of that foolish prince from Troy. The mythical Paris was so pathetic, always relying on his brother Hector. I thought Phaeton saw me as a younger brother. After all, he sometimes called me 'he'."
​"Did he? I think he did that on purpose. He thought romance was unmanly back then. Don't you remember how he scoffed at me for writing sonnets? He was dying to talk to you, but he was too embarrassed to be seen fussing over a girl. But listen, if you were distinguished from Flora and Thaleia and were still the one he was in love with, isn't that a good thing?"
​Paris thought about it for a while, her bright blue eyes gazing into the distance. Finally, she said, "I suppose so," with a little sigh.
​"But I don't like being treated like a younger brother. It's pathetic."
​"But this Paris is the one who took down the hero Achilles by shooting his heel. And this Paris took down the sportsman Phaeton by shooting his heart."
​When I said that, Paris seemed to like it and laughed with a sound like jingling bells.
​"Oh, that's good. You really are a poet. By the way, how is the subject of your sonnets?"
​"He's fine, but still as distant as ever. More importantly, will you please accept that dog? I don't want to drag him all the way back. He's a good dog, but he's not well-behaved. He's the very same dog you tried to buy a year ago, Silk Glove. Phaeton bought him first and sent him to you. He wanted an excuse to see you."
​Paris blinked her Mediterranean-colored eyes again and said in a clear voice.
​"Oh, so that's Silk Glove. How underhanded, to buy him first and send him to me through you."
​"He says he's desperate to get married. It's his Trojan Horse strategy."
​Paris laughed again for a while, and then she sent a servant to fetch the dog.
​"This is indeed the dog. I like his unruly nature. And yet, he's not aggressive; he's friendly and curious. He's like a beautiful horse, isn't he?"
​​Silk Glove was eyeing the pastries on the table with an innocent expression, his tongue lolling. Paris stroked his long fur but held firmly to his collar so he couldn't reach the treats. Then Paris chuckled and added,
​"If this boy is the Trojan Horse, then you must be the secret soldier. After all, you tore down the gate of my prejudice against Phaeton."
​"Then I suppose you are the beautiful Helen."
​Paris scowled at me.
​"Oh, I hate women who are just beautiful. No, I am Paris. But, yes, I suppose you are right."
​Paris placed a beautifully-decorated pastry on the ironed newspaper on the floor as a treat for Silk Glove. As I watched this, I felt a sense of relief that I wouldn't have to take the dog home. So I was quite disappointed when Paris said,
​"Go tell Phaeton this: my marriage to him will be a duel. The mythical Paris was a coward who tried to run away from a duel, but I am no coward. So if Phaeton wants to throw down the gauntlet, tell him to come and throw his own Silk Glove."
​The unfortunate coincidence was that the dog's name was "Silk Glove." Paris had combined the myth of the Trojan War with the custom of throwing a glove to issue a challenge. And so I had to struggle and pull Silk Glove all the way back, just as I had on the way over. But the next day, a beaming Phaeton came to pick him up, so perhaps it was all for the best. Phaeton was, to his delight, stripped of his membership in "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," and, with a priest as his witness, he went to face the duel of marriage.

04. "The Dead Adonis" and "The Bumblebee Venus"

04. "The Dead Adonis" and "The Bumblebee Venus"

​I well remember the ousting ceremony for "Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish." The Club has its own rules and traditions, and at "The Lachrymose Bachelors' Club," one of them is that members who get engaged are barred from entry. Once a man is set to be married, we hold an "ousting ceremony" to banish him from the Club. This is how it works: the man getting married stands on the middle table and makes his declaration of leaving. He can do it in any tone he likes; a quiet fellow might simply smile happily and say his farewells. Adonis, being a spirited man, said it like this:
​"Ha! So these are the men of the losers' club I’ve been a part of. What a pitiful sight, eh? Time is short, so love, lads, love! Though you seem to be withering away in the midst of it. I'm taking my leave a step ahead of you all."
​After that, the man being ousted has a sign hung around his neck that reads "TRAITOR," and the entire Club pelts him with everything they can get their hands on—confetti, flowers, socks, chocolate bonbons, and even eggs, all in a glorious rice shower. Most men who are ousted try to shyly run from it, but every now and then, some fight back fiercely.
​"You're jumping the queue!"
​"You lucky dog!"
​"Don't you ever show your face again!"
​And the man being ousted would shout back, "Suck on that! Aren't you jealous?" The ousters, feeling a mix of loneliness, envy, happiness, and jealousy, would lose all sense of reason and hurl whatever they could find. And the one being ousted would throw some of it back. I believe Adonis threw back a chair, an ashtray, and the large oriental vase that decorated the mantelpiece.
​In any case, that's how "The Lachrymose Bachelors' Club" banishes married men. And of all the men who were ousted, "Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish" fought back the most savagely, getting into fistfights with several members and even having a duel with his cane against "Romeo-of-the-Moment." And when he won that fight, too, he strode out of the Club, a magnificent sight with crushed eggshells and petals on his shoulders, a bloody nose, and a triumphant laugh. "I'll never come back!" must have been the last of his youthful voice the Club members ever heard.
​But I later secretly broke Club rules and attended Adonis's wedding, so I well remember the moment he said, "I do." The young Adonis stood beside his bride, a woman with a beautiful, bronzed profile, his cheeks flushed and his expression nervous. His love had lasted for as many years as he’d been a member of the Club, so his joy must have been immense. The reason I broke the rules to attend was simple: we were close in age and good friends, and he was about to leave the country forever for some distant land in the south.
​"Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish" was an unusual and unlucky nickname, but it was originally "Adonis-of-the-Daredevil," meaning he was a very energetic young man. He came to be called "Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish" because the woman he loved was a foreign botanist. When he was still very young and just entering society, he met a charming woman at a party who was a bit older and quite learned. She was using a potted plant in the room as a teaching tool, lecturing the ladies around her on how ferns reproduce. Adonis said he was completely enchanted by her peculiar accent, her mysteriously low and sweet voice that spoke in long, drawn-out sentences, and her deep green eyes that gleamed beneath her wild eyebrows. He called her "The Bumblebee Venus," likening her humming voice to the buzz of a bee, her freckles to the dark specks on her tanned skin, and her voluptuous arms and generous waist to a queen bee's fullness.
​However, despite being called Venus, she seemed a bit dense when it came to romance. The day after they met, he sent her a letter, but the reply was a detailed description of the life cycle of a carnivorous plant, along with the note that "samples are always welcome." She had apparently mistaken his name for that of a carnivorous plant specialist she had met at the same party. And because she was the daughter of a governor in a southern country, she rarely returned home. When she did, she was always at the botanical gardens, and no matter how many times he invited her to the theater or a ball, she wouldn't give him the time of day. It probably had nothing to do with Adonis's appeal, and everything to do with the fact that she was simply more interested in a small potted camellia from the East than the Opera House. But it was all the same to him. And so, Adonis, having no choice, gave up on the Opera House and came to "The Lachrymose Bachelors' Club" instead.
​"Ah, if only I were a real Adonis and died to become a flower, she might take an interest in me."
​It was because "Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish" always lamented in this way that he earned his name.
​But even a woman who is dense in matters of the heart will eventually get the idea if a young man, year after year, continues to haunt her greenhouse, never learning the difference between a cypress and a palm tree, and sends her a mountain of letters, expensive magnifying glasses, and rare potted plants. "The Bumblebee Venus" finally agreed to marry him, on the condition that she could continue her research in the southern country where her father was the governor. And so, as soon as the wedding was over, Adonis was to leave the country. When a dear friend is about to leave, my friendship takes precedence over a rule that barely exists, and that is why I secretly attended the wedding. As a man, I secretly hoped I might catch the bouquet, but it wasn't to be. So, with no other choice, I threw rice at the groom's back with all my might and watched the happy couple depart on their journey.
​For a while after Adonis's marriage, happy letters arrived at the Club addressed to us. The members, a mix of joy and resentment, would pin the letters to the wall and use them as dartboards, but someone always made sure to write back. "The Lachrymose Bachelors' Club" is kind even to its married graduates.
​But a few winters later, a tragedy occurred—the first in the Club's history. "Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish" truly died.
One dark winter morning, "Romeo-of-the-Moment" pointed at the newspaper with a pale face. "Look, look at this." He then began to tremble. When I read that newspaper article, I felt a disgust I had never experienced before. It said that riots had broken out in Adonis's country, plunging it into civil war. According to the article, the governor's family lost their young son-in-law while trying to escape. He and his wife had heroically held off attackers in a single room where dozens of people, including servants, were hiding, until rescue soldiers arrived. But when the soldiers finally came and it was time to escape, he was shot down defending his father-in-law, the governor. The details are too painful to write here, but Adonis, who had died a heroic death, was given a state funeral. Every member of the Club who had not attended his wedding turned up to this funeral. We lost our usual boisterous cheer and consoled each other in hushed tones, saying that Adonis had been promoted to the war god Mars and had returned to Olympus. I can still clearly see the image of the white-haired governor, who had aged dramatically, and "The Bumblebee Venus" wiping her eyes with a handkerchief beneath a black veil, her figure slumped under the heavy winter sky.
​Then, a few days later, I was making my way to the Club with a heavy heart. The oppressive winter sky was a reflection of my own state. Suddenly, a man with a mysterious voice, his collar turned up and his hat pulled down low over his eyes, stopped me in front of the Club.
​"Hamleti! Quiet now, come here a moment."
​He spoke in a hurried whisper, grabbing my arm and pulling me into a narrow alley. I must confess, he gave me the creeps, but I felt as though I recognized him. Once in the alley, he lifted the brim of his hat. Deep green eyes were surrounded by thick, wild lashes.
​"Hamleti, do you remember? Eh… The dead Adonis… No, his wife. Ah’m The Bumblebee Venus."
​Her voice buzzed like the wings of a bee, a low sound that was strange yet pleasant to my ear. I was so shocked that I stared at her face. Below her bronzed skin and even darker freckles was a beard the color of her eyebrows. She was wearing a man's coat that seemed to swallow her ample upper body, and despite the fake beard, there was no mistaking her for Adonis's wife. But was "Venus" her real name?
​"Venus! What in the world happened to you? Dressed like that, could the civil war have followed you all the way here? Is there someone who holds a grudge against your family?"
​"Nay, that's not it at all. This is... well. Just get me into the Club, alright? It's so cold out here. A lady'll catch a chill, and she's from a southern country, ye know. Please, let's just get inside. I'll explain everything then."
​Mrs. Venus's voice was pleasant to my ear, but she seemed unfamiliar with our country's language, and her way of speaking was a bit rough. And she spoke so fast. Was this what Adonis meant by her honeyed tones?
​"Well, Mrs. Venus. As you know, the Club doesn't generally permit ladies... especially not a place full of men who are ignored by them... it might be a bit too stimulating, you see. But given the recent tragedy, an exception might be made out of consideration for your grief..."
​"I know all that. Just get me in. I'll just leave my beard on, shall I?"
​For some reason, Mrs. Venus was desperate to get into the Club. That's why she'd even worn a fake beard. Perhaps her grief had driven her a little mad. That would explain her rough speech. Surely her voice was meant to be more like honey, a fountain of knowledge that sounded like a sweet poem. Her large, green eyes, surrounded by thick lashes, were so earnest it was frightening. I felt sorry for her and spoke as gently as I could.
​"I'm afraid it won't be that simple. The Club butler is not a very flexible man. How about this? I'll try to get permission, and you can wait at my place in the meantime?"
​But the mustachioed Mrs. Venus's tone grew stronger, and she said indignantly, "You don't understand, Hamleti. You're a disappointment. I'm Adonis. This is my wife's body, but Ah'm Adonis! What's wrong with you? I thought you were used to ghosts and all that, so I waited for you out here in the cold!"
​"What?"
​"I even know where your father hid Romeo's socks."
​This time, I was truly astonished and lost for words. Good heavens. Now that she said it, though her voice was pleasant, it was unmistakably Adonis's way of speaking.
​"Now that you understand, get me into the Club at once. My dear wife's body is getting cold. If I let her catch a cold, well, that would be the death of me all over again."
​With that, "The Bumblebee Venus," her rich voice trembling and humming like the wings of a bumblebee, pulled me toward the Club.
​A small argument broke out at the Club's entrance. The butler adamantly refused to let the man who looked like Mrs. Venus inside.
​"Come on, women have been here before, haven't they?"
​"And that's precisely the reason, sir! Everyone has been getting far too lax with the rules lately."
​"But I'm Adonis, not my wife."
​"It appears to be a combination of your wife's body and your spirit, sir. And even if you were just you, this Club strictly prohibits married men from entering."
​"But I'm dead, so she's a widow."
​As we argued, a crowd of Club members gathered around. They were always eager for a spectacle, and soon everyone was there, exchanging information.
​"He's a well-built young man."
​"I hear she's a lady."
​"The beard is rather stylish."
​"A fine beard. But it's a fake one. I hear it's Adonis's wife."
​"But she says she's Adonis."
​"Isn't that marvelous? Let her in."
​This was spoken by a man in his forties known as "The Knight-of-the-Black-Lady," who was particularly popular with the younger members, so the consensus was quickly reached. Adonis's wife was swept up by the crowd and carried inside the Club. The Club's butler, with an expression that said, "I told you so," repeatedly muttered to the elders who were enjoying the sight, "This time, I simply cannot overlook this. I must tender my resignation," but his resignation was apparently not accepted.
​Now, the "dead" Adonis, in the guise of "The Bumblebee Venus" with her fake beard, drove "Old Alfonso" and "Old Orpheus" from their seats in front of the warm fireplace. She carefully held her lovely hands over the fire to warm them. After all, she was a southerner, and a chill was the last thing she needed.
​"Nay, I'll have no ale or coffee. Everyone put out your cigars. Bring me warm milk. Five sugars. Mind you, this is my precious wife's body."
​And so, Adonis settled into the warmest seat in the Club and looked around at the familiar faces gathered around him. He rubbed his hands together, and when the milk arrived, he carefully blew on it to cool it down, took a hesitant sip, and then looked around at their faces again.
​"Right then. Never mind your condolences, just tell me something interesting that's happened lately. Anything going on?"
​But there was not a single person in the Club composed enough to give a report on current events after such a bizarre occurrence. Of course, a chorus of protests rose up. So, with no other choice, Adonis, drinking his warm milk, began to speak in a voice that was low and deep for a woman, but not as low as a man's, trembling in a strange way as he spoke.
​"Ah, the fighting was somethin' else! I wish you'd been there! I'd have shown you what a hero I was. My dear Mrs. Venus here was a star too, throwing chairs and shooting arrows. Do you know what poison dart frogs are? (In the corner of the room, "The Black Knight" nodded.) Aye, I wish I'd kept the newspaper clippings. I'd love to see 'em. I'm sure it was written in the most heroic way, but my wife burned all the papers in her grief. So Ah've never seen it. They had a state funeral for me, didn't they? What an honor! Pity Ah wasn't there to see it. But I'll get a medal, won't I? How about that?"
​For a while, his youthful boasting continued, but I couldn't tell if it was his genuine pride or a kind of consideration for the members who were grieving his death. The conversation didn't seem to be ending, so "Old Orpheus," who had been driven from his seat by the fire, interrupted.
​"Ah, our Adonis has been promoted to the valorous Mars. We ought to formally change your nickname. But it seems we must continue to call you Adonis, as you've returned to us, changed, just like the Adonis in the myth. But tell me, why were you kicked out of Olympus?"
​"Were you cast out of heaven?"
​"He's not that much of a sinner."
​"Did you punch an angel?"
​"There are no angels on Olympus."
​"Nay, Ah wasn't in Olympus. It was a meadow, full of lovely flowers. And a great river flowed right through it, and there was a great tree, making a pleasant shade, and a cottage beneath it. A good-natured monk lived there, ye ken? The sky was blue, and the wind was lovely. I reckon that meadow is the boundary between this world and the next. The monk said if you climbed the great tree, you'd reach heaven. He was a good fellow, and though I only meant to ask for directions, we became fast friends, and I stayed with him for a while. When I told him I missed my wife, he told me I could just cross the river to get back. But the trouble was, the boat was gone. The one I came in had sunk."
​Adonis stopped his rapid-fire story, and a collective, indecipherable sigh passed through the Club. They were probably all thinking of the mysterious afterlife with a sense of awe, but at the same time, they were questioning if it was appropriate to hear about it in such a rough manner, even in such a pleasant voice.
​"And so, what did you do?"
​"Well, that's what Ah don't rightly know, but my wife came for me. Ah held out my arms to greet her, but she didn't seem to see me. She seemed to see everything else around her, but not me. No matter how much I spoke to her or held her hand, she never noticed. It made me so sad to finally see her and have her not see me back. So, since the boat was only meant for one, I got in it and came back to see what was going on."
​"To finally see her..."
​"That's so sad."
​"That boat is a mystery."
​"Say, that boat... maybe it's not a boat. Maybe it's a body to return to this world."
​When I spoke this thought aloud, the Club fell silent.
​"But you've already been buried... so you have no body to return to, have you...?"
​"Did you... did you take your wife's body as a replacement?"
​"Romeo-of-the-Moment" shouted, his voice burning with anger. A storm of accusations followed. The very purpose of "The Lachrymose Bachelors' Club" meant that a man's wife, once he finally had her, was more important than his own life. Most of the Club members were probably overcome with the urge to punch Adonis, but the body they were looking at was "The Bumblebee Venus's," and so they could do nothing but pace around in frustration, kicking a trashcan or two.
​But it seemed the person most shocked was Adonis himself. He managed to make his wife's beautiful bronze face go pale. Only her freckles stood out more than usual. Her well-formed, full lips began to tremble.
​"What... what did you say? Is that what happened? Oh, my Bumblebee Venus, my Queen of the Spheres! I can't stay here! Ah'm going back!"
​With that cry, he suddenly fainted and toppled back in the chair. The uproar in the Club fell silent.
​After a while, the Club members regained their composure, but they were at a loss as to what to do. There was now an unconscious, mustachioed woman in the Club. The butler, with an expression that said, "I told you so," declared firmly, "We have no smelling salts for ladies." Someone reluctantly put a cushion under her head, and others fanned her face with a newspaper.
​"But how did Adonis's wife get to the edge of the other world?"
​"Maybe she tried to follow him, the poor dear."
​Such conversations were whispered among the members, but the way Adonis had been acting earlier was far too spirited for someone who had just come from a near-death experience. Her body must have been healthy to be able to wander between life and death.
​Soon, a faint blush returned to Mrs. Venus's cheeks, her thick-lashed eyelids fluttered, and the mustachioed lady slowly sat up and let out a tiny yawn.
​"Oh, Adonis, are you alright?"
​"Heh... I appreciate your kindness. Thank you. However... ah... it is I who speaks now, she whom me husband called the Bumblebee Venus, Queen of the Spheres... Ah, verily... Yes. Well, I see you understand. That is so."
​She removed the fake beard, let out a beautiful sigh, and stood up, and we all instinctively took a step back.
​"Ah'm ready now. Greetings, my lords."
​The vigorous, fast-paced voice from before was gone, replaced by a strangely pleasing, low and dignified wave of sound that seemed to hum from the depths of her chest, yet was as sweet as a whisper. A few of the younger men instinctively knelt. Now, the bronze bee-goddess, her eyes lit with a green fire, began to study the face of each Club member.
​"I reckon you are the friends me husband spoke of. Mm, is that so? And you are... Cherubino?"
​"Y-yes."
​"Cherubino," who had been sitting on the floor, nodded with his mouth half-open. Venus lowered her gaze to him, staring intently, and let out a chuckle deep in her throat. "How lovely," she murmured.
​"Me husband spoke of your stories to me... with much merriment... and liveliness, imitating your gestures and your words... It was as if he brought the words of those he had not yet seen right to me... Oh... my apologies, I have been remiss in me greetings. It is a pleasure to meet you all."
​As she looked around the room, she spoke in a slow, irregular, honeyed tone, her eyes flitting from person to person like a bumblebee moving from flower to flower. Her pronunciation was lovely and lyrical, a low, lilting whisper. "The Bumblebee Venus" smiled. It was the same voice, yet it was a completely different impression from Adonis's hurried chatter. The Club members were so captivated they understood barely half of what she said. Her voice was simply that enchanting as a pure sound.
​"I imagine you all are quite... surprised. Mm, Ah daresay that you are. Yes, I... um, me? Author? Nay, I? I? Ich? Io? I?"
​Mrs. Venus, creating a pleasant vibration in the room, read aloud from a mental thesaurus of pronouns, her list spanning different languages. When it began to drift into Latin, the nightmare of everyone's student days, someone broke the spell and murmured, "I think 'I' will do just fine."
​The Bumblebee Venus slowly located the voice and smiled. "Mm, that is mighty kind of ye. I. Yes, I. You see, Ah'm a bit... beside meself. Ah've experienced an abrupt transmutation from me husband... and I gather it has given you a rather frightful experience."
​She held out both hands, bowed her head slightly, and performed some kind of formal, polite gesture. It was so solemn, like a queen greeting a foreign royal, that everyone was awestruck. And while we were all looking at each other, feeling self-conscious, "The Bumblebee Venus" quickly unbuttoned two of the buttons on the white shirt that belonged to her late husband and now enveloped her. Her movements were so quick and natural that a few gentlemen who happened to be looking fainted on the spot. Venus, noticing the fallen gentlemen, chuckled deep in her throat, and took out a small, crumpled object that looked like a lady's handkerchief from her generous chest. She re-buttoned her shirt and held the bundle in her hand. A collective sigh of relief passed through the room, and all eyes turned to her hands. The bundle was about the size of a thumb, wrapped in a thin, light-blue cloth with a strange mesh pattern. She waited until we were all silent and staring before she began to unwrap it. From within the layers of thin fabric, a lovely little crescent-moon-shaped perfume bottle appeared. Even with the lid on, it gave off a strange and powerful smell. Was it poison she had taken to follow him? If she were to drink it again, that would be a true disaster. I wasn't the only one who thought this, and a few members tensed up. But "The Bumblebee" held the vial out to us as if she were about to perform some holy rite, letting us examine it while she watched our reactions with her mysterious, smiling, deep green eyes.

When everyone had peered at the vial and calmed down enough that some could even press a clean handkerchief to their noses, Mrs. Venus sat down and placed the small vial next to her cup of milk.
​"My esteemed audience, I wonder if you would be so kind as to hear the history of this vial?"
​Everyone nodded, and a few mumbled their assent as politely as they could.
​"Please tell us!" cried the youthful "Cherubino." And the "Queen of the Bumblebees" smiled, and in a slow, low, and sweet voice, like honey dripping, she began to sing.
​"Ah'm sure you are all aware of the ancient forests of me homeland. A land of diverse conditions and diverse life. Me work was primarily to do with the medicinal properties of plants, and so Ah collected the lore related to them as well. There are many legends, tales, and stories passed down through the generations, and Ah'm sure you can imagine that many of them have not yet been verified... With a scientific mind, one must examine, test, and use these spoken cures in a variety of conditions, with great detail... This particular vine is known to cause hallucinations, but also has fever-reducing and analgesic properties depending on the dosage..."
​From there, a lecture on the classification of various plants, their medicinal properties, and the rituals of the local tribes was delivered in a musical form, and most of the audience gave up trying to understand the details. They simply listened to the lecture as if it were a performance, musically appreciating for almost an hour the fact that she had managed to get her hands on several of the herbs used in the soul-summoning rituals of the deep jungle.
​When a few members noticed the familiar phrase "The water of life of Scotland" appear in her magical lecture, "The Black Knight," who had been listening intently and taking notes in the front row, interrupted her.
​"I apologize. Please forgive me. Could you please explain why one must add Scotch whiskey?"
​Dr. Bumblebee turned her gaze to the Black Knight and smiled. "Mm," she said. It must have been the word for "yes" in her native tongue.
​"Most of the gentlemen here aren't very familiar with chemistry, so if you could give us a general overview?"
​"Ah. Mm. Usquebaugh...? It sounds familiar, does it not? Aqua Vitae? Ah, you know it. Most excellent. Ye ask how the peat component might affect it..."
​"Peat! Of course... So it wouldn't work with any other alcohol?"
​"Old Alfonso," who had moved his chair to be closer to Dr. Venus for her warmth, asked with great interest. It seemed there were a few stout-hearted members who were able to follow the lecture despite the enchanting sound of her voice.
​"Mm, you are quite right. But peat alone has no effect, so further research is needed."
​"I see... so with alcohol..."
​"Oh, speaking of which, Your Highness, why did a splendid lady like you come to a dreary Club like this? And with a fake beard, no less?"
​Cherubino, sensing that Old Alfonso's question was getting long, quickly interrupted, hoping to restart the magical sound-play. The Bumblebee Venus looked at Cherubino, a little surprised. But Old Alfonso seemed to agree that Cherubino's question was more valid, so he nodded in agreement at her gaze. She then leaned down and gently stroked Cherubino's curly hair, smiling as she said,
​"Ah, mm, my lords, was me husband well? Ah was concerned he might have been grieving after his tragic death, so I came to get a taste of your cheerful friendship. Yes, to bring him some cheer."
​"Give him cheer! I think he was cheerful enough! That's his nature, after all."
​"He was a bit too boisterous."
​"But he seemed lonely."
​"Is that so..."
​It suddenly dawned on us. Mrs. Venus had not seen her husband, Adonis, since he had died. I, too, spoke out of turn.
​"He said he was living a quiet life by a lovely river. He said he'd become friends with a nice monk."
​"Mm. 'Twas me first time meeting the man called Charon, was it not?"
​"So you met the monk?"
​"Mm. Mr. Charon said that the young man was a trouble to him, always trying to catch the fish in the river. I asked if they were not fit for eating, and he said that they were too large and that they could not be finished unless more folk came to the river. He apologized repeatedly for not having any tea for the living."
​"So you two became friends?"
​"Mm. He is a gentle old man."
​With that, Mrs. Venus's words stopped, and her deep green eyes stared into the distance in silence. As we exchanged anxious glances, "Old Orpheus" said in a gentle voice,
​"It must be hard, hearing news of a person you cannot see, whether here or there."
​Brought back from her thoughts, the Bumblebee Venus looked at "Old Orpheus" and nodded with a slight smile.
​"I cannot say I am not lonely, I suppose. However, hearing your stories has brightened me spirits. Mm. May I trust me wishes to you kind folk?"
​"Of course! Anything you wish."
​"Old Orpheus," who seemed to have great sympathy for "The Bumblebee," replied with a kind smile. Rumor had it that this Old Orpheus knew a thing or two about the underworld as well.
​"Me husband held this Club, and you all, in great affection. So I would be remiss if I did not visit occasionally in me own body, would I not? He requires your friendship. It is a terrible burden to ask, but if it is not too unpleasant, could you all speak to me of me husband's news?"
​The butler, who was now for some reason standing directly behind us, muttered, "Only if she reads aloud to us," and several members who saw his captivated expression quickly straightened their backs and turned away. She looked at him kindly, then sought the opinions of the elders, "Old Orpheus" and "Old Alfonso." Old Alfonso asked carefully,
​"You're saying you cannot see your husband, even there?"
​"Mm, the monk of that land says that the soul of the living cannot meet the soul that is meant to journey on."
​With that, the two elders exchanged a knowing nod, and after confirming that the butler, who should have been the only one to object, had vanished into the shadows, Old Orpheus spoke up.
​"We will fulfill your wish. However, we must do so in a manner that allows Adonis to regain his membership. Since he cannot speak with you, he is, once again, a pitiful bachelor. So, you must," Old Orpheus lowered his voice a little, "pretend to be Adonis as much as possible while you are here. Otherwise, the butler will have no footing."
​"The Bumblebee Venus" smiled with satisfaction. "I understand," she said.
​And so, to this day, "The Dead Adonis" is a regular at "The Lachrymose Bachelors' Club." But "The Dead Adonis's" laments, as befitting a married man, are a little out of place in "The Lachrymose Bachelors' Club."
​"Ah, the fish... they're huge, about the size of two of you combined. It's tough to reel 'em in. But I'm a bit worried. Me wife seems to have fallen in love with the plants in that meadow. The monk says she's researching the ecology of the reeds by the river now. I know I can stay here for a while, but Ah think it's a problem to spend too much time on the border between this world and the next. And Ah'm also worried that the monk might fall in love with her. After all, she is so beautiful."
​This kind of "lament," delivered while she looks into a hand mirror, is perhaps a bit enviable to men who can't even get their sweethearts to look at them. Still, the fact that Adonis is here is a marvelous thing, so those who listen feel a mix of joy and resentment, which means they lose all sense of reason and do nothing but kick a trashcan or two.
​The butler, for his part, seems to enjoy hearing Mrs. Venus impersonate Adonis. He has prepared a special chair for her and set up a screen behind it to improve the acoustics, and he eagerly awaits her visits.

05. "The Pygmalion Flour Mill"

​It happened one day when "Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish" and I went to see a mummy at the museum, egged on by "The Dark Lady's Knight" at "The Weeping Bachelors' Club." I wasn't really in the mood for it, but Adonis, who was still in his "death-wish" phase, was completely enchanted by the exhibits and the dangerous atmosphere they gave off. He had been so fired up by the adventure stories of deserts, snakes, and thieves that he'd heard from the knight before we came to the museum. He lingered forever in the dimly lit section where the ancient mummies were displayed. He was probably hoping that one would spring to life and leap at him.
​"Adonis, this is the mummy of a royal. While he was alive, he probably lived a life of leisure, but also worked hard at politics and the lives of his people. Do you really think such a noble person would want to fight you, even after he's dead?"
​"You never know. There must have been at least one wicked tyrant, right? Maybe if I cast a spell, he'll come to life. Won't he?"
​Adonis's tone was more of a desperate plea than a hope. I left him to his circling of the enclosure, staring at the mummy, and went downstairs to the area where the marble statues stood. I love listening to adventure stories, but I'd rather not be the protagonist myself, thank you very much. And if I was going to look at something, I preferred the beautiful, sculpted bodies of stone over a desiccated corpse.
​The museum was quiet and sparsely populated, perhaps because of the day, the time of day, or the weather. The section with the white statues was empty, with only the graceful, or sometimes dynamic, forms of marble showing the human figure. The air was calm, muffling my footsteps, and it felt as though the continuation of an ancient dream was quietly breathing here. It was like hearing the footsteps of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, and I soon found my mood shifting from sweaty, dusty adventure tales to graceful, ancient love stories. I wandered idly and dreamily among the beautiful stone figures. I imagined them gleaming under a bright Mediterranean sun against a backdrop of a deep blue sea, and I wondered if I could write a romantic and lovely poem about it.
​That's why when I saw him, I stopped and gasped in surprise.
​The young man looked as though one of the sculptures had been painted and dressed in modern clothes. His beautiful curls, which fell to his shoulders, shone lustrously, and his slightly melancholy downcast eyes, his well-formed nose, and his lips were full of elegant grace. He moved slowly among the statues, occasionally stopping and bending or looking up with an elegant gesture to inspect them in detail. When I saw him kneeling before one of the female figures, looking up at her, I was filled with admiration.
​What a beautiful young man! He's a living sculpture. And his demeanor... he's a perfect Pygmalion. He is the ideal self-image for a lachrymose bachelor.
​I didn't know who he was, but I was deeply moved. Perhaps it was because I'd been thinking lately that "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" was lacking in artistic flair. The atmosphere for poetry and deep thought had disappeared, and most of the time, the members were just being loud, singing off-key songs, or playing at dueling. But in retrospect, I wonder if there ever was a time when the Club was more artistically inclined. I think I was just feeling nostalgic for the time when "John-of-the-Goldfish-Catching" was still a member.
​The young man looked up at the marble woman with a somewhat sad expression, sighed, and shook his head. Then, with a delicate hand that looked accustomed to creating, he pressed his beautiful forehead and sighed again. I watched him, impressed. "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" had its share of handsome young men, but their behavior was always so unrefined. This young man, however, was ideal in every way, from his looks to his gestures and even his sighs—he was elegant and melancholy. I wished our Club had a young man like him, and I felt as though I was watching a wonderful play.
​It took me a moment to notice Adonis entering the room from the opposite end, bored with the unmoving mummy. Adonis, humming one of the silly love songs that was popular at the Club, bounded into the room and spotted the young man.
​"Hey, you old Flour-Grinding Donkey!" Adonis said cheerfully.
​The beautiful young man looked up in surprise. It seemed they knew each other. I was a little annoyed at having my mood ruined, and I thought, What a terrible thing to call such a beautiful young man.
​"Are you looking for a goddess again? It's about time you paid some attention to real people."
​Adonis laughed and approached him, and the young man slowly stood up. He smiled a beautiful smile, like a rose blooming, and replied in a leisurely manner.
​"But I haven't been able to make her yet. Once she's finished, I'll look for someone who looks just like her."
​I was still standing a little ways off, watching them, but Adonis, with his keen eyes, quickly spotted me and called out.
​"Hey, isn't that Hamleti hiding behind the pillar? Come on out, Hamleti. You really look like a ghost standing there. What are you doing, skulking around? Hey, Mr. Miller, the gloomy-looking ghost over there is Hamleti."
​And so, with that rather ungracious introduction, I drifted out from behind the fluted column like a ghost and approached the two of them. I was a little timid as I introduced myself, but the young man gave a graceful, gentle smile and shook my hand. His hand was drier than I expected, and his handshake was strong.
​"You don't know him? He's pretty famous."
​Adonis said, and he introduced him. The young man was, as I had whimsically imagined, a sculptor. And to my surprise, when I heard his name, I realized he was quite famous. I had even heard his name before. But for now, let's call him Pygmalion. He was known for his marble sculptures, especially his beautiful male figures, and his works fetched an incredible price. To gain such a reputation as a realistic sculptor at his age, he had to be a genius. When I expressed my sincere admiration with a sigh, Adonis, who seemed to have a rather dull artistic sense, said cheerfully:
​"Well, of course he is. When you look at a face like this in the mirror every day and touch it every time you wash your face, it's easy to reproduce, isn't it?"
​"I'm sure that's not the case. It must be difficult, isn't it? Carving from stone and all."
​"That's true. But male figures are relatively easy. I don't have to overthink it. To be honest, I don't really know if my work is beautiful or not."
​The young Pygmalion said with a humble smile. But Adonis was happy to tease him.
​"Still, every old lady's private room has at least one replica of your work. My own mother has one, and my old man is furious about it."
​I wondered why this young Pygmalion would be friends with Adonis, but I decided to keep that to myself.
​"But if you can create such beautiful male figures, your female figures must be equally beautiful."
​But the young Pygmalion smiled a melancholic smile again, just as he had when he was looking at the statue.
​"That is not necessarily the case. But it's faster to show you than to explain. My workshop is nearby; why don't you come and visit? Then I can show you my female figures. But don't be too surprised."
​What is there to be surprised about? I thought, and I happily agreed, practically jumping for joy. I was going to see the workshop of a genius sculptor; what could be more exciting than that? But Adonis declined, saying he wanted to see the mummy some more.
​"I've been there so many times, there's nothing interesting about it anymore. Besides, I think the mummy moved just a little bit. I actually came to get you to show you, but never mind. Just come and get me after you've finished having tea at the flour mill."
​Adonis said that and ran back up the stairs to the mummy exhibit.
​So we walked slowly, talking in the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun, toward his studio. The young Pygmalion told me that as he frequented the museum for inspiration, he rented a nearby room to work in. I was once again impressed by his dedication.
​"I actually came from there today. I changed out of my work clothes, but my shoes are still dirty, aren't they? I forgot to change them. You should be careful, too; your clothes and shoes will get pure white in an instant."
​When I looked, I saw that the young Pygmalion's shoes were covered in white powder. Was that why he was called the "Flour-Grinding Donkey"? It was an unbecoming nickname for such a beautiful young man.
​"Forgive my asking, but why would an artist like you be friends with that rascally fellow?"
​"His father is my cousin. There's a big age difference between my cousin and me, so Adonis is almost like my younger brother. He's a spirited young man. And what kind of friend are you?"
​So I began to talk about "The Weeping Bachelors' Club." The beautiful young man knew about Adonis's love, but he had only bits and pieces of information about the Club itself. His eyes lit up, and he began to ask me all about it. It seemed that Adonis was always so preoccupied with talking about his beloved and the adventure stories he heard from "The Dark Lady's Knight" that he completely forgot to mention the Club. The young Pygmalion's cheeks were slightly flushed as he said happily:
​"That sounds wonderful; I'd love to be a member."
​"Really? If you meet the requirements, I'll recommend you right away. That would be fantastic. Lately, the Club has had very few artists. The Poet Laureate used to be a member, but he graduated. We're more of a daily festival than a lachrymose club."
​In reality, the daily festival had been going on ever since "John-of-the-Goldfish-Catching" had left, but there was no need to mention that. The young Pygmalion put his artist's hand to his well-formed chin, looking thoughtful, and then said:
​"The requirements, you say. An unrequited love."
​"Yes. But in reality, many get their wishes granted and are kicked out of the Club. Well, it's called 'The Weeping Bachelors' Club,' so that's the main requirement."
​"I see. Is that the requirement? Then perhaps if you know why Adonis calls me the flour mill, they might accept me."
​The young Pygmalion said, looking at my face, and a sad smile appeared on his beautiful face again. His lovely curls fell across his forehead, and I now noticed that there were fine marble shavings tangled in them. He was a real Pygmalion. His smile was mysterious, but I interpreted it as a sign of great hope. I thought proudly that I had found a wonderful potential member for our Club. If he joined, the other members might reflect on themselves a bit, and maybe other artists like him would join as well. I thought about all this, and my heart beat with excitement, imagining that I was about to see the kind of beautiful sculpture from the myth that would never turn into a living, breathing person.
​The young Pygmalion's workshop was in the basement of a small, pleasant flat not far from the museum. The old woman who managed the building greeted us with a kind, wrinkled smile.

​"Oh, a friend of his. Are you alright? You look a bit pale."
​I couldn't bring myself to say I was fine, and we went upstairs to the living room, where we were served some strange-smelling tea. Since the young Pygmalion used the basement as his studio, the second floor was the living room in this unusual flat. After we had tea in the bright, cheerful living room, we went down to the studio, which had as many walls removed as possible.
​"The old woman here is wonderful; she was happy to let me renovate the room. The second floor used to be bigger. But you can't bring a block of marble up here, can you? It's too hard to lift, and besides, the floor would collapse."
​The young Pygmalion said as he showed me around. The room had a simple chair and table, and several objects covered in white cloth, which were probably his works. I sat in the simple chair and looked around the room. Indeed, "flour mill" was a fitting name; a large amount of marble shavings were piled on the cloth that covered the floor. There were also chisels and other sculpting tools lying around. I looked at the sculptures covered in white cloth and longed for him to uncover them.
​"I moved most of the finished pieces out last month, so there's not much left," the young Pygmalion said, and with an elegant gesture, he uncovered a few of the sculptures.
​I gasped in awe and stood up from my chair.
​There was a statue of a child with a cute gesture, its head resting in its hand. It looked so alive that the chubby feel of its belly was endearing, and its innocent smile conveyed a genuine affection for the viewer. Deeper in the room, there was a small, unfinished statue of David holding Goliath's head. It had a wild, yet delicate beauty, like a wildflower. Likewise, the statue of Hercules that was still being carved seemed to have muscles writhing beneath the unfinished stone. The movement of the overall form amplified this feeling, making it seem so raw that it was almost complete without a final touch. There was also a statue of an old man, perhaps an allegory, and the way the skin, which had separated from the muscles with age, and the small amount of remaining subcutaneous fat were rendered was magnificent. It encased a wise gaze and a gentle gesture, embodying profound wisdom.
​But the most incredible of them all was the statue of John the Baptist, which had been commissioned by a large church. At first, it looked like a dirty vagrant, but the moment I saw its terrifying expression, I gasped. It was a face where dignity, a wisdom verging on madness, and a fiercely burning passion were all mixed together. And in this statue, the intense tension and the struggle between bold passion were expressed through a dramatic sense of motion and the various elements that made up the body, culminating in a moment of pure faith. The hand, raised to the heavens, was a gesture of intense emotion, yet it was frozen in an immobile stillness, and the tension of that stillness was expressed in the muscles and veins. It was as if he had stopped his violent gesture the very second after he made it, and that's why the cloth wrapped around his waist was still flaring, revealing his knees and thighs. His lips were half-open as if he were about to speak, but the tension had left them, and instead, his eyes were fixed on the sky, as if he were listening to something. Yet his throat was tense, indicating that he was about to speak. Overall, the statue itself seemed to feel God's presence so strongly that it conveyed that same presence vividly to the viewer.
​I was completely overwhelmed and stood there for a long time. Then, I walked around the statue, repeating "Wonderful" dozens of times, and after my twentieth sigh, I finally came back to myself and sat down in the simple chair.
​"My goodness, it's wonderful."
​I said it again, and then I glanced down at my shoes and noticed that they were pure white with marble dust. They were just like the young Pygmalion's shoes I had seen earlier.
​"Ah, you were right; my shoes are pure white. So this is what you meant by the flour mill. The shavings look just like flour."
​When I said that, the young Pygmalion looked sad and troubled, and he shook his beautiful, curly head.
​"Yes, that's part of it. But there's a deeper reason why Adonis calls me the flour-grinding donkey. Mr. Hamleti, you don't see any female figures here, do you?"
​"But... aren't there some under the cloths?"
​I said, referring to the statues that the young Pygmalion was standing next to, about to uncover. A particularly large pile of powder was gathered under that statue, so I assumed it was nearing completion. But when the cloth was removed, I was so surprised that I lost my words.
​"Isn't it terrible?"
​The young Pygmalion said, smiling consolingly at my shocked expression. Terrible? I didn't know what to say. It was unmentionable. To put it kindly, it was a very early Archaic style. To put it bluntly, it was a complete wooden doll. And it was crudely carved, as if it were a work in progress, but it seemed to be a very rough piece. It was clumsy, worse than an amateur's work. Could this truly be from the same hands that created St. John and David? The unfinished Hercules from earlier, though far from complete, looked much more alive.
​"So... it's an abstract piece, then?"
​"No. As I carve, they just get worse and worse, and they all end up like this. It's awful. I have some from an earlier stage, too."
​The young Pygmalion said, and he uncovered a few other statues. I felt a bit relieved when I saw them. They at least had the form of proper sculptures. I examined one that looked particularly nice. The soft lines of a woman's shoulders and waist, and the plump hand holding a breast.
​"Oh, this is..."
​"Yes, I tried to model it after the famous painting of Psyche. But it ended up so mundane. That one over there, I tried to imitate the face of the Pietà, but it has no spirituality at all. I tried to copy various ancient sculptures, but they just didn't work. Lately, I've even tried to use paintings as models. That wooden doll you saw earlier... it was originally Botticelli's Venus."
​I stared at the statues, unable to believe it. But it was true. Compared to the vibrant, lifelike male figures, all the female statues were dull and uninspired. I looked at the rather empty-headed Psyche and the malicious-looking Pietà and asked,
​"Why do you always copy something when you make female figures? Maybe that's why they don't work."
​"You would think so. But if I start from nothing, I can't do anything at all. You see that Venus that turned into a wooden doll? That's what happens. I don't know what to carve, so I keep carving, and in the end, I turn a whole block of marble into powder. I think... I don't know what my ideal woman looks like. So I try to copy all sorts of things, hoping to find a clue. But even when I copy something, I'm never satisfied, and I just keep carving until it's nothing but powder. That's why Adonis teases me by calling me a flour-grinding donkey or a miller."
​The young man smiled sadly again, and then he began to re-cover his works. I was told not to help, as I would get covered in dust, so I sat in my chair and watched the statue of John. The late afternoon sun streamed into the studio, and the statue of John the Baptist, bathed in golden light, looked so terrifyingly alive and so divinely beautiful that it made me sigh.
​The young Pygmalion walked me back to the museum. I didn't remember the way back. He had changed his clothes again and was completely free of dust, but his shoes were still white.
​"So, will you recommend me? Even though I don't know what my ideal woman looks like?"
​"I think you'll be fine. We have a member who boasts that Death is his sweetheart."
​We talked like that all the way back, and I was overjoyed. Not only did I realize that this young Pygmalion was a genius, but I also found him to be a very pleasant young man. I kept thinking that if such a great artist joined the Club, it would be a good stimulus for the members, whose artistic sensibility had waned since "John-of-the-Goldfish-Catching" left. The young Pygmalion also seemed happy, as if he had found a place to heal his long-held loneliness.
​I truly believe that the young Pygmalion was just about to become a member of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club." It was a certainty. We were talking at the entrance of the museum, discussing the Club's location and my contact information. We had even decided when we would meet next and when I would introduce him to the Club. It was a truly a shame. We had just agreed to meet again the following week, said our goodbyes, and I was about to go look for Adonis by the mummies, when I saw the expression on the young Pygmalion's face suddenly freeze.
​His blue eyes went blank for a moment, and then they began to burn with a bright color. A slow blush spread across his cheeks, which had been so sad moments ago. I turned around in confusion. The feeling I had was confirmed in that split second.
​I saw a beautiful, black-haired lady in a lavender kimono. She must have been at the museum to see the mummies. Her hair was tied up high, and her neck, which emerged from her wisteria-patterned kimono, looked so slender. A man with a thick, black mustache and equally thick, black eyebrows, who I assumed was her father, was walking a little ahead of her, along with an ambassador or a guide. When she noticed us, her cheeks flushed slightly, and she cast her eyes down. But she smiled a little, and she didn't turn her face away completely. Instead, she brought the long sleeve of her kimono and the butterfly-white tips of her fingers to her mouth, hiding her smile and showing her shyness. It was a gesture that was both delicate, like a young girl, and very elegant.
​The young Pygmalion stood there speechless, and her father, the man with the thick eyebrows, looked at the young Pygmalion and us with suspicion. But then, the person who looked like the ambassador whispered something to him, and an expression of admiration appeared on his face. He said something to the ambassador in a foreign language and laughed loudly. It must not have felt bad to know that his daughter was so beautiful that a genius sculptor would stare at her with such intensity. The bearded father seemed to want to know more about the sculptor and began to ask the ambassador questions.
​When I looked back at the young Pygmalion with a sense of resignation, it was clear that he had no intention of joining "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" anymore. I could see it in his expression. I was more than a little disappointed, but I watched the young man stumble toward the lady, and I gave up. He was stopped by the ambassador and the bearded father on his way, but his eyes remained fixed on the woman as he spoke with them. I watched for a moment, unable to look away from his longing gaze, and then I finally went back into the museum. I was still feeling disappointed, so I went to the section with the Buddhist sculptures from the East. And in that moment, I understood why he hadn't been able to carve his ideal woman. His goddess was not from the Mediterranean. I was impressed by this realization, and I meticulously examined the Eastern sculptures, which held a mysterious and unfamiliar spirituality. And in some of them, I found a beauty that greatly appealed to me as well. And so, I decided that even though I had failed to get the young Pygmalion as a member, my artistic sensibilities had broadened, and I went off to find Adonis, who was looking for a life-or-death adventure somewhere in the museum.
​Adonis was no longer in the mummy section. Instead, he was in another room, staring at a glass case containing a terrifying mask made of eerie blue stone. It was covered in a beautiful blue stone, but it had a horrifying face. Adonis, though no one was there to hear him, whispered:
​"It's incredible. You put this mask on and stab a human sacrifice in the heart. It's a much better fight than a mummy."
​People are attracted to all sorts of things.
​For a while, I held out hope that the young Pygmalion would be rejected by the Eastern princess. After all, the bearded father seemed like a firm ally. But I heard the announcement of the young Pygmalion's engagement a month later. Since then, he has closed his "flour mill" and has become famous as the artist who sculpted the beautiful Eastern lady.

06. "The Pinkerton of the Torn Basket"

06. The Pinkerton of the Torn Basket
​
One afternoon, I was heading to "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" for the first time in a week, thinking of getting a late lunch. In front of the club, a small lady was standing, looking right and left, as if she didn't know where to go. She was a beautiful, elegant lady from the Orient, and the sleeves of her dark kimono swayed in the early summer sun. Her black hair was tied up, showing her neck, and the coral hairpin she wore gave her a refined sensuality. I couldn't tell her age, as I wasn't used to seeing ladies from the Orient. She was holding a large package in her hand, and in front of the club, she tilted her head and put her hand to her cheek, peeking inside. How lovely, I thought, but also, I wonder if we can understand each other. I decided to speak to her.
​"Can I help you, mademoiselle?"
​The lady looked up at me, and perhaps she was surprised, for she widened her almond-shaped, clear eyes. Then, she suddenly put her sleeve to her mouth and laughed, amused.
​"No, I'm not a mademoiselle. I'm almost as old as your mother."
​She had a flat accent, but her grammar was almost perfect, which reassured me completely. With this, I might be able to help her.
​"Oh, I can't believe it. You look so young. But my apologies, madam. Do you have business with one of the gentlemen at the club?"
​The lady nodded and pulled something white from the folds of her dark kimono. It was a strange, soft-looking paper. On the surface, I could see letters in an unfamiliar script. The letters were addressed to the name of one of the club members. The address was probably written with a brush and ink, in a graceful, flowing style like a painting, and I felt a little excited by the exotic atmosphere.
​"I was told this gentleman often comes to this club, so I thought I would try to meet him, but I was stopped at the entrance."
​"Ah, the club steward is a strict man. My apologies for the trouble. If it's a letter, I can deliver it for you."
​"Thank you, that would be a great help. And... if I may be so bold as to ask another favor."
​Saying this, the lady from the Orient handed me a package wrapped in a beautiful, peculiar cloth. It was tied in a lovely way, with the knot at the top forming a handle. The package itself was square, like a box of some sort. It must be a box containing something precious.
​"Ah, you want me to deliver this too, of course. Oh, actually, let me go check if he's here first. If he is, I'll bring him out to you."
​"No, that's quite all right. It would be enough if you could just deliver this."
​"But he might not be here right now."
​"That is not a concern. I'm sure he is here."
​Saying that, she gave me a mysterious, sweet smile, and then the lady from the Orient bowed deeply and said, "Then, I'll leave it to you," before turning around and walking away without looking back. Her unique, pigeon-toed gait, perhaps to keep the hem of her kimono from getting messy, left a strange impression on me.
​I felt as though I had met some mysterious creature, and I checked the address on the soft paper letter again. Hmm, who was this? I was sure I had seen the name before, but at the club, everyone was called by their nicknames, so their real names were only vaguely known. But if the sender was an Eastern lady, the recipient might be "The Pinkerton of the Torn Basket." This "The Pinkerton of the Torn Basket" looked like a bear of a man, but he worked with delicate Eastern art and crafts. Along with several partners, he ran the "Turandot Trading Company," which imported Eastern goods, and he was quite successful. But I was sure he had gotten engaged. I was sure of it without even having to ask my memory. Wasn't that why he had been banned from the club for the past six months? If he was banned, he couldn't possibly be here. I had been careless; pressed by the lady's words, I had thoughtlessly taken custody of this square object wrapped in a beautiful cloth.
​"Oh, what a mess. He can't be here. I shouldn't have taken it."
​And so, with such worried words, I entered the club, only to find none other than "The Pinkerton of the Torn Basket." He was lounging on a chair, his large body slumped and listless. He was clutching a handkerchief in his large, hairy hand, and a crowd of club members with expressions of pity and curiosity were gathered around him. I joined the crowd and listened to the lament of a jilted man, a specialty of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club."
​"She was the fifth!"
​He shouted.
​"The fifth! What a thing to happen. I thought it would work out this time. I even brought her all the way here on a boat. We had even set the date for the wedding. But she was snatched away at the last minute again."
​For those of us who had just arrived, his lament was a bit hard to follow, but the passion of "The Pinkerton of the Torn Basket's" weeping was something to behold. But because it was so dramatic, there was no need to hesitate to interject.
​"Say, Pinkerton, why don't you start over from the beginning?"
​When I said that from the crowd, Pinkerton blew his nose, then stared into space and let out a huge sigh.
​"Ah, of course, ask anything you want."
​He blew his nose again and began to speak.
​"The thing is, they're like butterflies. The Eastern girls are like butterflies you can never catch. Just when you think you can reach out and catch them, they flutter away into the sky again."
​"How poetic."
​"Shh, just listen."
​Such conversations were a constant at this club. Ignoring them, I listened closely to Pinkerton's lament. I couldn't quite grasp the details, but I assumed he was talking about the Eastern island nation he frequented for business. It was true, the sleeves of the Eastern lady I had met in front of the club were wide and hung down like a butterfly's wings. I should hand over the package I had been given, but as he was still in the middle of his lament, I decided to wait until he was finished rather than interrupting him.
​"This is the fifth time I've been jilted. The first time, I guess it couldn't be helped. I didn't realize she was in love with her childhood friend. But then why didn't she tell me before I went home to prepare for the wedding? Why didn't she break off the engagement? I came back to pick her up, and she was already married off. How could such a terrible thing happen? And the second one, the second one was even a little romantic. When I proposed to her, her cheeks turned a beautiful red, and she said she was so happy. But when I returned from my short trip home, she was someone else's wife. When I questioned her about what had happened, she got angry at me, saying she thought I would never come back and that if I was going to leave, I should have taken her with me. The third time, to be on the safe side, I got engaged to two sisters at once, but when I returned from my business trip, both of them had become the wives of a wealthy man. And this time, it's the same thing."
​When he was done, he let out a gloomy sigh and wiped his tears, and then he began to listen to the laments and consolations of the other men around him. It seemed that the nickname "The Pinkerton of the Torn Basket" came from his bad luck in continuously letting these butterflies escape him. As I understood this, I wondered if the beautiful lady who had given me the package was the butterfly who had jilted him this time, or perhaps her mother. In any case, I had to give him this package. But there was a crowd of people around Pinkerton, so I couldn't get close. As I was wandering around the edges, clutching the package, a cheerful voice rang out beside me.
​"Hey, Hamleti. What's with the pretty package?"
​It was the cheerful face of "Adonis-of-the-Death-Wish." At that time, he was still alive and well and coming and going from the club. He had just arrived and was looking around the club with eyes full of curiosity.
​"Oh, good morning, Adonis. Poor Pinkerton, it looks like his ban from the club has been lifted."
​"Well, that's cause for celebration, isn't it?"
​Adonis said, and he cheerfully pushed his way through the crowd. I followed him, and we finally reached Pinkerton.
​"Pinkerton, congratulations! I heard your ban has been lifted."
​For some reason, Pinkerton's face changed at Adonis's innocent greeting. The sorrow in his eyes was replaced by anger, and his face turned red, and then he suddenly jumped up from his chair and grabbed Adonis.
​"It was you! You introduced them!"

Adonis blinked in surprise, but the next moment, an amused expression appeared on his face. He laughed a little and then landed a punch on Pinkerton. From there, I watched as Pinkerton's counterattack and the brawl that somehow spread to everyone around them began, and I crawled under a nearby table, clutching the package.
​I'll omit the details of the riot that followed, but by the time things had settled down, and some members were putting ice on their eyes, cheeks, and other injured areas, and I had crawled out from under the table with the package, I had a good grasp of the situation. This time, Pinkerton was jilted because the butterfly had fallen in love with "The Pygmalion Flour Mill," who was Adonis's relative. Since I had witnessed that moment, it took a great deal of courage to crawl out from under the table. Adonis, with his torn shirt and a smile on his face, said to Pinkerton, who was glaring at him from under his ice pack:
​"It couldn't be helped. He's a rare beauty. Besides, it's your fault for getting engaged to a young girl when you're that old."
​"Shut up, you don't understand how enchanted I am by that country."
​"Just because you like the country doesn't mean you have to marry a girl from there, does it?"
​Adonis seemed to want to fight more and was looking for an excuse to start another brawl. Pinkerton, too, was bracing himself as if to vent his frustration, and I rushed back to the table with the package. But then the elders came in, accompanied by the crying steward of the club, and the two men stopped fighting and straightened themselves out. But when the elders just stared at them without saying anything, Pinkerton switched his method to a speech.
​"Listen, gentlemen, you don't understand anything. The感动I felt when I first set foot in that country! The beautiful scenery and the delicate people, the intensity of their emotions in contrast to their gentle words. The green is richer than our own, and the chirping insects hide a quiet ferocity. The young men are all intelligent, and the men are all knights. But what enchanted me the most as a young man was the women. When they walk down the street, it's like a swarm of butterflies, the sleeves of their kimonos swaying in all sorts of colors, and they all have such light, cheerful smiles. I had never seen anything so beautiful. And among them,"
​Pinkerton was so moved that he cut off his words. Everyone had been listening so quietly that when he stopped speaking, not a sound could be heard.
​"But it's the fifth time, so it's probably just any girl, isn't it?"
​When Adonis said that in his relaxed way, Pinkerton's face turned red again.
​"No!"
​But after that denial, nothing followed, and it was clear that Pinkerton had lost the argument. In the corner, Old Alfonso had already started giving instructions for cleanup.
​"No, they were all introduced by proper people."
​Pinkerton said dejectedly, dropping his shoulders and sinking into the sofa. And then he covered his face with his hairy hand and began to cry quietly. The cleanup began around him. I felt sorry for Pinkerton, who looked so disappointed. The elders had appeared, but Old Alfonso and Old Astrophel were busy giving instructions for cleanup, and Old Orpheus was nowhere to be seen. Poor Pinkerton was left all alone, still covering his face with his hairy hand.
​The cleanup continued around him, but I just watched Pinkerton. Around his hand-covered face, men were busy righting overturned chairs and tables and picking up broken glasses. But since I hadn't been in the brawl, I had no obligation to clean up. I saw that more than half of the men's shirts had buttons missing or were torn. It's truly amazing how friendly the members of this club are; all it takes is a little trigger for them to find a reason to fight, and then a moment later, they're patting each other on the back and sobbing. Adonis, seeing me in my perfectly clean clothes, laughed.
​"What a shame. You didn't join in?"
​Adonis was in a good mood, but it seemed he had no intention of starting another brawl.
​"I had something precious to protect. It would have been a disaster if it got broken."
​So, of course, I wasn't going to join in that kind of ruckus. I said that to Adonis and myself as an excuse and finally approached Pinkerton with the package. He was still lost in the world of despair under his hairy hands, but when he noticed my presence, he stopped crying, took the ice pack, and blew his nose into his handkerchief with his other hand.
​"Pinkerton, are you all right? I was given this in front of the club."
​Pinkerton hid his tears under the ice pack and looked up at me as if he wasn't interested. Poor man, a bit of snot that didn't fit in his handkerchief was running down his mustache. When I said, "Your mustache too," he wiped it away with a look of annoyance. As he did so, he saw the package in my arms, and his face registered surprise. He threw the handkerchief and the ice pack aside and snatched the package from me.
​"You... the one who gave you this was a middle-aged, surprisingly beautiful woman, wasn't she?"
​"Well, she was a lady from the Orient, but I can't tell her age... all the women from that country look so young. But she was a small, lovely person."
​Pinkerton wiped the remaining tears and snot from his face with the back of his hand and then ran his hand through his hair.
​"Ah, it's her. It must be Kougetsu-san. Oh, another broken engagement, and I've been jilted by her niece, too. How can I ever face her? But what is this?"
​Pinkerton started making a fuss, and the men who had been cleaning up stopped and started gathering around him again. Pinkerton mumbled loudly to himself and then, with a slightly trembling hand, he skillfully opened the package.
​Inside the package was a beautiful lacquered box. It was a shiny black lacquer, and there was a glittery white painting on top. It was a beautiful white made from the back of a seashell, and it looked like many different colors. It depicted a cloud hanging over the moon and a tree with petals scattering in the wind. The glossy black was so beautiful that it seemed to draw you in, and the painting on the seashell was both fantastic and modern, with a wonderful sense of stylization. It was so lovely that I couldn't help but sigh in admiration. I was truly glad I had been under the table during the brawl. If this had been involved and broken, it would have been a disaster. Pinkerton stared at it intently and then said in his usual lamenting tone:
​"This is that inkstone case! Why would she give this to me?"
​The club members, seeing that the next act had begun, forgot all about the cleanup and flocked around. With their messy hair and torn shirts, they surrounded Pinkerton and me, staring with curious eyes. I was interested too, so I spoke for everyone.
​"That's a beautiful box. What is it?"
​"It's an inkstone case, an Eastern letter case."
​"Oh, wow, that's incredible."
​Adonis said from over there, and I became a little wary.
​"It's a wonderful letter case, with a very modern design."
​"Modern? No, no, this is a very old and historic item. It was made as part of a lady's wedding trousseau for a certain noble family. This inkstone case, along with several other items, was passed down from daughter to daughter for generations when they got married. Look at the painting on the box. This painting is made using the back of a seashell, and the technique is called mother-of-pearl inlay. And with this mother-of-pearl inlay, a cloud hanging over the moon and flowers scattering in the wind are depicted. This is a pictorial representation of an old proverb, which says that all good things in the world are accompanied by difficulties. Isn't that amazing? Even their proverbs are beautiful. Perhaps this theme was chosen to teach her to remain calm even when faced with difficulties, as she would surely face many when taking up a brush to write. But look at this painting. Even though it's a direct pictorial representation of a proverb, it doesn't feel artificial or symbolic at all. The painting itself is a wonderful abstraction of nature, artistically crystallizing its essence. As I look at it, I can almost feel that mixed warmth and coldness in the air of a spring night, when those faint flowers are scattering like snow."
​As he began to lecture, the light returned to Pinkerton's eyes, and that light gradually changed into a dreamy recollection. He must truly love this Eastern country. When he noticed that everyone had gone silent, he was startled and then began his lecture again.
​"In that country, you see, nature is a philosophy with an essence, and that essence is grasped abstractly. That essence is then, I believe, reproduced in proverbs and paintings in a manner and form that suits them, and it appears again as an abstract essence. Do you understand? No, you don't, what a shame. Oh well. And besides, this delicate scenery also has another allegory, expressing the transience of beautiful things. It was made as a wedding trousseau, and the choice of this proverb here also serves as a warning that a woman gets married when she is at the peak of her beauty, and that beauty will eventually scatter like petals, and she will grow old."
​"How Baroque."
​When I said that in admiration, Pinkerton thought for a moment and then mumbled,
​"No, it might be a little different from Baroque."
​I was finding this lecture on Eastern art fascinating, but it seemed that some of the members were bored. A sound was heard from over there, and someone had resumed the task of righting a fallen chair. Then, a relaxed, drawn-out voice spoke.
​"But still, it's a bad omen for something to be part of a wedding trousseau. I wouldn't let my daughter have something like that."
​Adonis, who was sorely lacking in delicacy, seemed to have trouble with a discussion of aesthetics.
​"No, it's not a bad omen. Were you even listening?"
​Pinkerton said to Adonis in exasperation. Of course, he hadn't been listening.
​"Oh, I see. The lady didn't want to give it to her either. So she decided to give it to you instead."
​Adonis said so innocently, and he pushed the expression on Pinkerton's face, which had been recovering, back into despair.
​"No, it's not that. She originally said that her niece would bring this with her when she got married, according to tradition."
​"Then you have no right to it; you have to return it."
​Adonis's teasing seemed to be either malicious or completely unaware, but someone behind me started rolling up their sleeves, and it seemed like another brawl was about to start. So I quickly said to Pinkerton, who was still glaring at Adonis:
​"Maybe she gave it to you as a consolation. How about you read the letter? It should have been tucked in the package."

Pinkerton had been so focused on the package that he had forgotten to read the letter. It had been hidden under the beautiful cloth that wrapped the box, so Pinkerton fumbled for a moment before picking it up.
​"So this is what they mean by 'all good things are accompanied by difficulties'! She thought I should have at least the box. Is she trying to console me with such a roundabout method? No, but it's not impossible, she is a very reserved person, after all. She's the kind of person who would say, 'It's a hot day, isn't it?' even if she was dying of thirst. But still, would she give me something so important for such a simple reason?"
​Pinkerton mumbled to himself as he opened the soft paper letter. A pleasant scent came from the letter. The crowd whispered to each other about how lovely Eastern perfume was and then waited in silence for Pinkerton to finish reading the letter written in Eastern script.
​In front of everyone, Pinkerton began to make a strange face. And with that strange face, he translated the letter and began to read it aloud.
​"I am truly sorry for what happened. There is nothing I can do to apologize. This is a small token of my apology, but please accept it on behalf of my niece."
​Pinkerton still had that strange look on his face.
​"On behalf of her niece? See? It's a consolation present after all."
​Adonis said in a teasing voice. But Pinkerton looked a little happy, and he turned to Adonis and said:
​"Niece, she says. She says niece. It's not her daughter."
​Adonis said, "Oh," and then stared at the ceiling for a moment. He seemed to be thinking. Then, he put his hand on his chin and said with uncertainty:
​"Oh, now that you mention it. That girl, she was always accompanied by a stubborn-looking bearded man and a beautiful aunt, but I've never seen her mother."
​"What did you say? Then, the person who sent this to me..."
​"Kougetsu-san is not married. She is that strict-looking old man's sister."
​The crowd of people moved away in surprise, and in the space that was cleared, the beautiful young man stood next to Old Orpheus. It was "The Pygmalion Flour Mill," the very person who had stolen Pinkerton's butterfly.
​"It's the Flour-Grinding Donkey! Run, Pinkerton will punch you and ruin your beautiful face."
​Adonis said happily, but Pinkerton showed no sign of wanting to fight. Instead, Pinkerton looked at Old Orpheus with eyes full of hope.
​"Kougetsu-san isn't married? Is that true?"
​"Yes, it's true. She felt sorry for her niece, who lost her mother at an early age, and she's been a mother to her all this time, so she never got married. Well, she says she's a little too educated for anyone to want to marry her. By the way, this young man wants to apologize to you."
​The young Pygmalion was prompted to step forward and began to open his mouth, perhaps to explain or apologize for taking his fiancée.
​"Mr. Pinkerton, I don't know what to say, truly."
​"No, I'm sorry, can this wait? No, I'm not angry. Hey, Hamleti, please hold this for a little longer."
​Saying that, Pinkerton ran out of the club, and then he turned back for a moment. He grabbed the young Pygmalion's hand and shook it violently, saying, "I wish you a lifetime of happiness!" with a look of pure joy on his face, before running out again. Everyone in the club, including the young Pygmalion, watched him go with their mouths agape.
​"Oh dear. It must have been difficult for Kougetsu-san to find husbands for five girls. All right, everyone, if you want to hear the truth, get to cleaning."
​When "Old Orpheus" said that, everyone immediately began to clean up. This time, I had no choice but to join in.
​Once the cleanup was done and the repair fees for the broken items were collected, Old Orpheus sat down in Pinkerton's chair and began to speak slowly.
​"Everyone, thank this beautiful young man. For the sake of our dear Pinkerton. Now, as some of you astute members may have already realized, Pinkerton has been in love with one Eastern lady for many years. Her name is Kougetsu-san.
​Kougetsu-san is a very talented woman and has been helping with Pinkerton's business for a long time. Originally, she was a translator, but recently, she seems to have started helping with the purchasing of goods for the Turandot Trading Company. Pinkerton fell in love with her from the moment he met her, many years ago. But somehow, he got the impression that Kougetsu-san was living with a man who had the same surname as her. That gruff man is actually her brother, but he looks nothing like Kougetsu-san, so Pinkerton mistook them for husband and wife. He gave up on her when he didn't need to. To make matters worse, her niece was raised by Kougetsu-san and calls her 'mother,' and her gruff brother rarely talks about the women in their family, which only compounded the misunderstanding. So, Pinkerton has been under this complete misunderstanding until today.
​Pinkerton, being a bit dense, completely missed all the hints Kougetsu-san gave him to correct the misunderstanding, which were as subtle as her reserved nature would allow. Not realizing his mistake, he desperately tried to get married to the girls she introduced him to, as if getting married to one of them would somehow be the same as marrying Kougetsu-san herself. Of course, that fantasy wouldn't last long. Foreseeing this, Kougetsu-san found another suitor for him while he was back in his country. But this time it was her niece, and apparently, she was worried sick because no suitor had been decided upon. Thankfully, this young man fell in love with her at first sight. If it weren't for him, I don't know what would have happened."
​When he was finished speaking, "Old Orpheus" pushed "The Pygmalion Flour Mill" forward and introduced him to everyone. Everyone thanked the young Pygmalion and shook his hand, but I was a little dissatisfied. Of course, the young Pygmalion deserved a great deal of thanks. But shouldn't I also have received a little thanks for delivering the package and the letter? After all, that beautiful box and the soft paper letter attached to it were undoubtedly Kougetsu-san's way of proposing, as subtly as her reserved nature would allow. And it was I, and no one else, who delivered them to Pinkerton.
​

​07. "Old Alfonso's Friend"

My "Weeping Bachelors' Club" has a lot of unusual members, and some who have questionable right to be members at all, but Old Alfonso was the most doubtful of them all. He had a deep distrust of women and love and seemed to find his greatest pleasure in teasing and outwitting us lovesick youngsters. Whenever we'd gather in a circle to recite our own bad poetry, he would look up from the newspaper or philosophical book he was always reading in his large leather armchair. Then, with a twinkle in his eye behind his round glasses, he would usually scrutinize the reciter and then happily hurl some jeers.
​For example, this is what happened with "Cherubino-the-Perpetually-Jilted." It was during a poetry reading where we all brought poems to praise our loved ones. Cherubino, a boy still young enough to be called a boy, was reciting a rather bad poem in his pre-pubescent voice.
​"Queen of the night,
Please let this young man see
Your beautiful face once more.
Like a poor little bird, I was completely enchanted
By your sparkling figure in the opera box
On that misty night.
Blinded by the darkness of love, I fly around aimlessly.
On the lustrous black hem of your gown
There is strong Mars, gloomy Turnus,
and even Jupiter, the king of the gods.
What harm would a small fly do to you now?"
​Cherubino, who was constantly falling in love with other people's wives, seemed to be planning to send this poem to someone he had seen at the opera. In the pause between his lines, a voice from the corner continued the poem at a perfect time.
​"And all this poor fly would do
Is gnaw at the hem of your gown
And cry to you for help to clean up after its bedwetting the next morning."
​I stifled a laugh and turned around to see Old Alfonso looking at me with a mischievous look. And next to him, "The Knight of the Black Lady" was laughing loudly without even trying to hold it in. The Knight seemed to particularly enjoy the sarcastic lines that mocked Cherubino, who, despite his best intentions, always ended up in a position more like a son to the women he loved. Cherubino-the-Perpetually-Jilted, who was popular among us young men, turned completely red and ran out of the room. But as he's a boy who changes his mind quickly, he would probably forget about it soon. Still, we all felt sorry for him and protested in unison. But Old Alfonso simply looked down at his newspaper, as usual, and waved his hand without looking up. So, we decided to take the matter to his close friend, Old Orpheus.
​"Even if his poem was clumsy, that was too cruel to Cherubino. He's just a boy."
​"It seems like Old Alfonso despises love itself."
​"Does he even have the right to be a member?"
​At our outburst, Old Orpheus blinked his wrinkled eyelids. Then, after hearing the story, he let out a laugh.
​"That can't be helped. To me, Cherubino just seems to be trying to get more mothers."
​"But Old Alfonso is mocking love itself."
​"To a youngster whose mustache is still like peach fuzz, his love is a different matter. Alfonso has his own philosophy of love, so you should respect it. He's not just a cranky old man. Still, it's not good for him to be disliked. Well, I'll have to take some action."
​Hearing the words of this wily but wise elder, we finally felt satisfied and began to leave. From among the young men walking away, Old Orpheus stopped me.
​"Hamleti, wait a moment. Would you be so kind as to run an errand for the Lady of the Loci?"
​"My great-aunt? Of course, I don't mind."
​I said, sitting down next to Old Orpheus and waiting for him to finish writing a letter. My great-aunt was a mutual friend of Old Orpheus and Old Alfonso, and they had been close for a long time. In fact, I first met "Old Orpheus" not at "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," but at my great-aunt's mansion. I say "I must have" because I was a baby at the time and don't remember it. And my great-aunt was nicknamed Genius Loci because of her vast garden.
​"I haven't seen my great-aunt in a while. Is she doing well?"
​"You're a terrible nephew. She has no children of her own, and you won't even visit her unless I ask you to."
​"But my father visits her often."
​My great-aunt was a beautiful older woman, a rare sight to behold, but she had no children or grandchildren. Although she was apparently quite a beauty in her youth, for some reason, she never married. According to my father, her direct nephew, she loved her garden so much that she spent too much time on it and missed her chance to get married. But according to my grandmother, my great-aunt's sister, who knew her back then, she was so popular that she couldn't choose just one man. Well, since it's an unprovable story from a bygone era, I don't care which one is true. More than that, I was excited to see her lovely picturesque garden and the beautiful rose garden that was added to it recently. My great-aunt also had a formal garden, an Oriental garden, and even a greenhouse, but the rose garden was my favorite. My father said that she was planning to build her grave there. It's a bit premature, considering she's still in good health. As I was thinking about these things, Old Orpheus finished writing the letter.
​"Here, take this letter. I asked her to scold Alfonso for me."
​"Huh? You're not going to scold him yourself?"
​"He won't listen to me. I'm not a philosopher."
​"But my great-aunt isn't a philosopher either. It seems she's only interested in her garden."
​"Oh, is that so?"
​Old Orpheus said with a smirk. I suspected there was something more to it, but I also thought it was highly doubtful that I would ever find out the truth, and I took the letter. My great-aunt and Old Orpheus have always seemed to enjoy confusing me.
​So, that afternoon, I took a train to my great-aunt's mansion, which was in a rural area. It was a beautiful, clear afternoon, and I was in such a good mood that I didn't care how they planned to confuse me. Besides, I was looking forward to seeing the garden. But when I arrived at my great-aunt's house, I was told she had a guest. And they had gone for a walk somewhere in the garden, so I had nothing to do for a while.
​"That's fine. I'll just wait in the garden. I'll come back when my great-aunt is about to return."
​In reality, I wanted to go to the garden anyway, so I said that to the butler and immediately walked out into the garden filled with golden sunlight.
​Of course, I headed to my favorite place, the rose garden, which was also my great-aunt's pride and joy. It was a slightly unusual garden, which was part of why I liked it, but the hedges around it were a complex maze, and you couldn't get to the rose garden without going through it. The rose garden itself was in the center, surrounded by tall, wall-like hedges, like a secret garden. And the dark, deep green of the hedges was wonderful because it made the colors of the roses stand out even more. The hedges were very tall and deep green, but what I liked most were the windows carved into the hedges around the rose garden. They were carved like small windows you could peek through, and the space behind the windows was wider than the windows themselves, like a medieval castle window or a train compartment. And there were benches set in the hedges, where you could sit comfortably in the dim light. The leaves of the hedge trees were so dense that the inside of this natural compartment was dark, and the view of the roses, the sky, and the greenery from the windows looked even more vivid.
​Thinking about these things, I chased after a white peacock I encountered in the maze for a while, and then I finally got close to the center. Now, where was that hedge compartment? I looked around. And then I saw a hollow in the hedge over there. The hollow, which was the compartment, was hard to find from a distance if you weren't looking carefully. Thinking this, I got closer and was surprised when I peeked inside. A child. I could see golden, curly hair with branches and leaves tangled in it. He was crouched on the bench, peeking into the rose garden through the window. It looked like a mischievous boy was trying to aim a stone at the peacock, but I hadn't heard anything about my great-aunt taking in a child. Judging by the branches in his hair, some brat must have snuck in.
​"Hey, where did you come from?"
​When he turned his head, I was surprised.
​"Hamleti! Shh, crouch down. We'll be found."
​It was Cherubino in a pair of children's clothes with holes in the knees. The clothes suited him well, as if they weren't a disguise but his actual attire. The knees and shins, covered in mud, were still hairless.
​"Cherubino! Why are you here?"
​"It's obvious. I came to admire the lady I adore."
​Still crouching, I looked at Cherubino-the-Perpetually-Jilted with a doubtful expression.
​"A lady? There's only an old woman here."
​"Don't be so rude. Don't you think her snow-white hair is beautiful? If you don't think she's beautiful, why did you come here?"
​"Because it's my great-aunt's house."
​"Really? Hey, introduce me. If you don't, I'll die from unrequited love."
​Such a conversation continued in hushed whispers as we crouched in the dark hollow of the hedge. I raised my eyes, thinking that my great-aunt must be in the rose garden. A little farther away, a large, well-tended white rose was in bloom. And sure enough, between the roses, I could see my great-aunt, wearing a beautiful dark blue dress, walking slowly with a slender white cane in her hand. The butler had told me she was on a walk with a guest, but that didn't mean it would be rude to greet her.
​"All right, I'll introduce you. But I can't guarantee the result."
​When I tried to stand up, Cherubino grabbed my clothes and stopped me in a panic.
​"What is it? Are you going to go change your children's clothes first? Or did you bring a change of clothes?"
​"Shh, look at that."
​So, I crouched down again and looked in the direction that Cherubino-the-Perpetually-Jilted was pointing, and I let out a small gasp of surprise.
​My great-aunt stopped and waited for someone to catch up with her. It was none other than Old Alfonso. When Old Alfonso caught up, the two of them naturally took each other's arms and continued to walk slowly while talking about something. Next to me, Cherubino was gnawing at his nails and groaning. The guest seemed to have been Old Alfonso.
​"Hey, isn't that Old Alfonso?"
​When I said that, Cherubino said bitterly:
​"I know. He mocks me so much, and here he is, walking arm in arm with the woman I love. He must have figured out who my poem was for and was just being mean on purpose. Oh, the humanity!"
​Lamenting, Cherubino ran his hand through his golden hair tangled with branches.
​"Yeah, but, you know, they're old friends. Even if they're close, they're not necessarily lovers."
​Even though I said that, I couldn't help but think how close they seemed as I watched the two of them strolling together. But in any case, seeing Cherubino with tears in his eyes gnawing at his nails, I couldn't help but think that a child like this would be a terrible lover for my great-aunt, and Old Alfonso would be a much better fit.
​Leaving the child-sized Cherubino in the rose garden for a moment, I decided to go back to the mansion to get there before my great-aunt and Old Alfonso. As I walked a little faster across the green lawn to the flower beds along the mansion's wall, I met a familiar gardener.
​"Hello, it's been a while."
​"Hello, young master. You've grown up so much."
​The gardener was a tall, well-built man, probably about the same age as my great-aunt, but his tanned skin and body, which was hardened by daily labor, made him look sharp and young. He had been entrusted with the care of my great-aunt's garden for many years, and he was more of a landscape architect than a gardener. He also seemed to be a plant hunter, occasionally collecting rare plants from foreign countries. There was something about him that was reminiscent of a wandering artist, and I liked him.
​"You look much better, too."
​"Do I? I'm glad to hear that."
​After that, we made some small talk. I continued to ask him persistent questions about the weeping willow tree that had been on my mind, and just as my questions were mostly answered, the gardener said as if he had just remembered something:
​"By the way, young master, did you see anything strange in the garden?"
​The gardener was looking a little worried, with a frown on his tanned, dark brow. I figured he was probably talking about Cherubino. I had no choice but to feign ignorance.
​"Well, I saw my great-aunt and her guest. The guest is someone I know from my club. They're friends, aren't they?"
​"Yes, I know. I heard he used to be a tutor for your great-aunt's younger sister. Your grandmother, that is. Yes, he's supposed to be her friend."
​I felt as if there was some force behind his words. The gardener's worried face didn't go away, so I asked him, thinking it must be about Cherubino after all.
​"Is there something on your mind?"
​Even when I asked, the gardener put his hand on his strong, angular jaw and thought for a while. But then he laughed softly and looked up.
​"No, it's nothing."
​The gardener said and then handed me a beautiful lemon that was on his wheelbarrow.
​"I got these from the greenhouse. Please have some with your tea. Please forget what I just said."
​I looked at the lemon and returned to the mansion, feeling a little confused.
​After waiting for a while, feeling confused, my great-aunt finally returned to the drawing room, and I greeted her. My aunt was wearing a blue dress and had her white hair beautifully styled. She sat gracefully on the sofa and smiled at me.
​"My, my, we have so many guests today. And it's so interesting that they're all from the same club."
​My great-aunt had a habit of always putting a smile in her eyes, and despite the deep wrinkles it created, it gave her a mysteriously elegant and glamorous impression. Even as a relative, I couldn't help but admire her beauty.
​"Oh, did the little bird you brought with you run away?"
​My great-aunt said that and, without any further explanation, handed me the tea that the butler had brought. My great-aunt loved to speak in a poetic manner, so I was always a little confused by her words, but this time, of course, she was talking about Cherubino.
​"Uh, yeah, did you see him?"
​"I see everything, you know. You should have brought him with you."
​"I didn't know if you would like him. Besides, I came here to deliver this letter from Old Orpheus."
​My great-aunt took the letter I held out, thanking me. But she put it down next to her without reading it.
​"Huh? Aren't you going to read it?"
​"I know what it's about. I'll read it later. But still, it's not good to bully a little bird. I scolded him."
​My great-aunt's voice had a strange elegance, intelligence, and something girlish about it. It gave her a slightly relaxed impression, and I always felt strangely confused by her. But my great-aunt was kind, even though she confused people, so I was always honest with her. So, I honestly asked her what was on my mind.
​"Hey, great-aunt, are you Old Alfonso's girlfriend?"
​My great-aunt looked surprised for a moment, and then she laughed heartily and then smiled elegantly.
​"No, we're old friends."
​Then she called the butler and told him to slice the lemon I had brought.
​"You say such funny things. And this lemon. It seems you met the gardener, too. He was a little anxious, wasn't he?"
​"Yeah. What's wrong with him?"
​"He's always afraid that I'll marry that stiff-minded scholar. He shouldn't worry, though. I'm not going to leave the garden."
​Then, was my great-aunt's lover the gardener? It wasn't impossible; he was a fine man. I had a good feeling and a bit of admiration for the gardener, so I was happy and said:
​"Then, great-aunt, you don't like Old Alfonso, you like him, right?"
​But my great-aunt laughed again, softly and elegantly.
​"No. He's a good friend, too, but I love the garden. Or rather, I am the garden."
​"You're the garden? I don't understand at all."
​I stared at my great-aunt's soft, elegant smile, still confused.
​"The garden welcomes everyone. People long for the garden, but they don't find the garden there; they find and fall in love with their own souls. It's like a single tree. The garden is just a refuge for the soul."
​To those words, I could only give a foolish reply.
​"Oh, I see. Is that how it is?"
​"You don't understand. That's all right. You're young."
​My great-aunt kept a smile in her eyes and looked at the greenery beyond the window. Then she said this and smiled beautifully, putting the lemon the butler had brought into her tea.
​"Well, some people can't live unless they can escape to a refuge. But it's good to have a gardener."
​Listening to her murmurings, I was completely confused for the next hour.
​After a full hour of being confused, I said goodbye to my great-aunt and headed to the carriage stand in front of the mansion. I had come leisurely by train, so I was planning to have my great-aunt's driver take me to the station. But at the carriage stand, I saw an unfamiliar, splendid car. In the glossy black car, I saw Old Alfonso with his arm hanging out of the window and a small figure of Cherubino sitting neatly.
​"Oh, there you two are. Cherubino, did you get caught?"
​"No, I caught him."
​"Just get in. I'll give you a ride."
​And so, I got into the back seat of Old Alfonso's car. As we drove through the dazzling green countryside, Old Alfonso said:
​"Honestly, showing up at her mansion... it's just outrageous. Have some shame, little one."
​"You showed up too, didn't you? In any case, if you're just friends, then I still have a chance. Aren't you a little jealous?"
​When Cherubino said that with a pout, Old Alfonso took a few seconds to process it and then burst into a huge laugh. The car shook, and I was pressed against the car's wall. Old Alfonso seemed to be in a good mood, and after he finished laughing and caught his breath, he said:
​"Hey, Hamleti, does this little swallow have a chance? Look, can you see that hill?"
​"The hill? Yes, I can see it. Well, I don't understand what my great-aunt is thinking at all. But don't you like my great-aunt, Old Alfonso?"
​"Me? I don't love her herself. She's just a way for me to get to know what I love. I don't love women on earth. By the way, a famous poem was written on that hill a long time ago. Do you know it?"
​When Old Alfonso said that happily, Cherubino crossed his arms and said unhappily:
​"I have no idea."
​"It's all right if you don't understand what I'm saying. But you're all so busy writing your own poems that you have no interest in the poets of the past."
​Old Alfonso didn't change his usual teasing tone, so the car was filled with Cherubino's grumpy silence. So, I decided to see how Old Alfonso would react and spoke to Cherubino.
​"But, Cherubino, it seems like the gardener there is your rival too."
​Cherubino turned around with an unhappy expression on his lovely face. But before he could say anything, Old Alfonso said in his usual tone:
​"That guy? He's a poor man. He lost his wife and child in an accident a long time ago. If it weren't for her, he would have hung a rope from the ceiling beam and killed himself long ago."
​"That's so sad. Then, did my great-aunt not marry for his sake?"
​"No, no, she's not that kind. She chose her freedom for her own sake. Cherubino, that lady is a schemer. Be careful if you chase after her. But you don't know that poem about the hill? It's a famous one. What a shame."
​Cherubino remained grumpy and silent, so the rest of the ride was a cheerful lecture on local history by Old Alfonso. It seemed that here, too, I had been completely confused.
​The next day, I was at the club, thinking about what Old Alfonso had said. In the corner of the club, "Romeo-of-Impulses" was giving a speech about how the Queen's spies were after John's skull, so I moved to a farther corner. My thoughts kept going back to John's skull, and I couldn't come up with a good interpretation. As I was thinking with my head in my hands, Old Orpheus came up to me with a smile.
​"How was your great-aunt?"
​So, I threw all my questions at Old Orpheus. Old Orpheus, seeing that I had been thoroughly confused, seemed to have decided to spare me from any more riddles. He looked at me with his intelligent eyes and tried his best to explain it in an easy-to-understand way.
​"You see, Alfonso is a philosopher, so his words are complicated. For example, let's say there's a proposition that the young Alfonso has been racking his brains over for many years. He then hears the young Lady of the Loci express the proof of that proposition in a witty remark woven into a casual conversation. Indeed, the Lady of the Loci doesn't construct precise theories, so it's an incomplete philosophy. But with just that one phrase, the young Alfonso can grasp the decisive essence hidden within it. That miracle was like Socrates gazing at a beautiful boy and catching a glimpse of the truth (the Idea) of beauty. Since this happened often, the young Alfonso eventually couldn't tell whether he loved the Lady of the Loci or the Idea of truth. So, since he was a philosopher to begin with, he adopted Socrates's theory and decided that what he loved was the Idea of truth. And as a philosopher, he can't abandon something he has accepted as clear and distinct, so he will never admit that he loves the Lady of the Loci."
​Old Orpheus seemed to be trying his best to give me a simple explanation, but I had already been so confused that I had no confidence in any interpretation. When I was left speechless, Old Orpheus laughed and added:
​"Well, it might be easier to put it this way. Alfonso probably can't tell the difference between philosophy and the Lady of the Loci anymore. That's why he doesn't know which one he loves and insists that they are just friends."
​"Then, Old Alfonso really does like my great-aunt, doesn't he?"
​But Old Orpheus didn't affirm or deny my conclusion and just laughed, changing the subject to John.
​"By the way, do you know how much Her Majesty the Queen is offering for John's skull?"
​And so, it seems I still haven't been able to understand my great-aunt, who is Old Alfonso's friend.

08. "Cyrano with No Nose"

After "John-the-Goldfish-Catcher" made his strange departure from "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," "Cyrano with No Nose" became the most popular contemporary poet among the favorites of Her Majesty the Queen. However, it was unclear whether the Queen truly favored his poems, as Cyrano's style was rather abstract and modern. It's possible the elderly Queen favored him simply because he was John-the-Goldfish-Catcher's cousin. In any case, his poetry was quite popular with the younger generation, and thanks to his gentle and likable personality, no one was jealous of him.
​So, who was this "Cyrano with No Nose"? Well, despite the nickname, his nose was of a normal size, and his appearance was that of an ordinary, everyday gentleman. He was tall and slender with kind, round eyes behind his round glasses. He didn't have to declare himself unworthy of love like the Cyrano de Bergerac of the play, but he was a shy and gentle soul. He was a kind-hearted man who would edit other people's love letters and even write poems for those who couldn't, which is likely where his nickname came from. I, who am about ten years his junior, became quite attached to this gentle poet after John's departure. Cyrano, who never seemed to consider age when choosing friends, was also close to me and the other young members and often looked after us. Though, since "Cyrano with No Nose" was a bit absent-minded himself, we often ended up looking after each other. Ultimately, we looked after Cyrano so much that we ended up pushing him out of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club."
​One time, he appeared at the club with a look of utter despair. When we, surprised, asked him what was wrong, he said, looking pale as a ghost:
​"Her Majesty the Queen wants to throw a banquet to celebrate my new work!"
​We fell silent, wondering what was so bad about that. Was she going to make him pay for the whole thing himself?
​"Is it going to be at the palace?" asked Old Alfonso.
​Cyrano answered, his eyes drifting somewhere into the middle of the air:
​"No, I managed to decline that. I wasn't even planning to have a party this time, since John isn't here and it's a small publisher. But she gave me a strict order to hold a party and said she would cover the costs."
​When we heard that, we all burst into laughter, relieved but also pitying Cyrano's pitiable state. "Romeo-of-Impulses", true to his nickname, patted Cyrano's lanky shoulder.
​"Don't scare us like that. You've done this before."
​"You don't understand. People came to the parties before because of John, not my work!"
​Old Orpheus laughed off Cyrano's frantic protests.
​"Don't be a fool. The printers are swamped with reprint orders."
​"But John always handled everything before! I can't organize a party!"
​Upon hearing Cyrano's pathetic wail, we could no longer stop laughing. Once we had calmed down, several members who were good at organizing such grand events offered to help Cyrano. The main organizers were "Dorian-the-Ever-Youthful" and "Pinkerton-in-Tatters."
​Thanks to their enthusiasm and the Queen's generous funding, the party was a magnificent success. But first, I should say a little about Cyrano's new work, "The Blue Devil."
​"The Blue Devil" was apparently based on the Icarus myth, but the wings were replaced by an airplane, and metaphysical terms were mixed with airplane gauges, mysterious parts, and weather terminology. In short, it was a completely modern and strange work, but the theme was still clear. The protagonist, a pilot, is fascinated by "the Blue Devil" and flies higher and higher into the sky. The air gets thin, and he's already run out of the fuel needed to turn back. He's at a point where he won't be able to fly for another few minutes. Yet, he keeps the plane pointed upwards, flying at full speed until the very moment the engine will stop. And that state of heightened tension continues for minutes, even decades, and the descriptions of that tension are truly captivating. Finally, CRASH! A tremendous sound rings out. He has broken through the ceiling of the sky. A blinding light shoots into his eyes, and glittering fragments of the sky severely damage the plane. The battered plane continues to fly through the pure white space, as fragments of the deep blue sky rain down, looking like rain or snow. Gradually, the fragments melt and disappear below, and the pilot wanders through a void. As he gasps, exposed to the pure white light, he suddenly finds the blue fragments that should have vanished below him, now above him. They gather in one place and take on the form of a gigantic dragonfly, which then attacks the plane. The pilot loses consciousness and finally wakes up flying just above the surface of the sea. When he looks up, the unchanged blue sky stretches out above him. Well, it's a long story, but that's what "The Blue Devil" was like.
​At first glance, it's a heroic, long-form poem that's hard to imagine from the timid Cyrano, but the protagonist's calm, almost honest, and resigned love gives a glimpse into the author's personality. This seems to be one of the reasons it's so popular with the younger generation.
​In any case, the party was themed after "The Blue Devil," and decorated to look like the heavens. "Dorian-the-Ever-Youthful," who provided the venue, was apparently quite enthusiastic, as the curtains in the room were newly replaced with blue ones, and the ceiling was adorned with blue silk and cardboard clouds. And, although this had nothing to do with the poem, the servants, from the butler down to the pages, were dressed as angels. And all the attendees were required to come in some kind of costume. It was a costume party in the heavens, so to speak. However, they forgot to specify what kind of costumes to wear, so the party, while set in the heavens, was filled with all sorts of costumes, from classical antiquity to the Middle Ages to Rococo, and from philosophers to clowns, scarecrows, and even animals, making it a completely chaotic scene. Anyway, people in costumes from who knows what era were crammed into the heavenly-themed room.
​"This is more like a waiting room for heaven. There are too many weirdos."
​"Romeo-of-Impulses," in a Romeo costume true to his nickname, said this, while Adonis, who had dressed his wife in a beautiful classical Greek costume, replied, "I don't think so," while fiddling with the anemone in his hair, concerned that it might have wilted.
​The crowd was glamorous, and I saw some people I knew. Over there were Old Alfonso's philosopher friends in turbans and high-collared Oriental silk robes, and over here were Paris in a beautiful fairy costume with a white dog, his friend in a large white wig, and a handsome young man in a flight suit. There were women dragging gigantic skirts and men running around in just loincloths.
​"Oh no, John is gone. Has anyone seen him? It might be the work of a spy from Her Majesty the Queen. She seems quite taken with him."
​"Dorian-the-Ever-Youthful," in a shirt with lots of frills and a beauty mark, wandered around, saying this. I, dressed as the Prince of Denmark, looked around with a slightly excited feeling. As I was about to get a drink from a butler with a white beard and heavy wings on his back, I noticed Cyrano sitting in a corner, wearing a very plain, ordinary suit.
​"Oh, Cyrano, why are you wearing such a simple suit?"
​"Ah, that seems to be a costume of a clerk. But it's so plain. Is that the main character's costume?"
​What "Romeo-of-Impulses" said was certainly right. It's been like this since John was here, but Cyrano is bad at these kinds of events, so he always hides in a corner. Cyrano seemed to notice me and, still in the corner, waved something white at me. He seemed to be beckoning me over.
​"Did you call me? But, Cyrano, no one will be able to greet you in that corner."
​"Ah, Hamleti. Isn't this skull yours?"
​He held out a glossy, well-polished skull to me. Indeed, the play about the Prince of Denmark that I was dressed as had a scene where he talks to a skull, so it made sense for me to have one, but it wasn't mine.
​"Could this be John? Dorian was just looking for him."
​"Oh, that's bad. Is it a real skull? Oh dear, I didn't think he'd bring just the head."
​Cyrano, still in his plain suit, scratched his head in a troubled manner.
​"He said it's too bulky to carry the whole skeleton. Don't worry, if we put it back where it was now, it'll be fine. Where did you find this head?"
​"Over there, on that blue chair."
​"Where? I can't see it through the crowd."
​Cyrano said "There," and pointed, but at that very moment, he suddenly turned as blue as the chair he was pointing at. His hands were shaking. Wondering what was wrong, I looked at the area again, but there was nothing unusual, just Paris, his white dog, and a few people who seemed to be his friends.
​"Is it near where Paris is?"
​"Ah, no, well... You take it back."
​Cyrano, with trembling hands, thrust John at me.
​"What's wrong?"
​"Nothing, I'll just go get a drink."
​"There are plenty of drinks right here."
​Ignoring me, Cyrano stood up, and in the process, he tripped and overturned a table full of drinks, spilling most of them on himself.
​"Oh, what's wrong? Are you alright?"
​I reluctantly helped him up, and Cyrano stood up and smiled vaguely, saying:
​"I'll go change."
​He then stumbled away, bumping into a cute boy dressed as an angel holding drinks, and disappeared into the next room. His behavior was so strange.
​"What's going on? Hey, John?"
​Since I had no one else to talk to, I said something to John's skull, but of course, John didn't answer.
​"Oh, Hamleti, are you putting on a play here? I'm not in the mood for a tragedy."
​Paris, with a fairy's wings on her back, came over, laughing. Her pet dog seemed to remember me. It wagged its tail violently and tried to pounce on me, so I took a step back.
​"Hi, Paris. How's Phaethon?"
​"He hurt himself on his bicycle again. Poor thing, he broke his leg again and is resting at home."
​Paris sighed and gave the white dog some food from the table. She seemed to spoil him quite a bit.
​"Huh, Phaethon got hurt on his bicycle? That's quite a karma. What happened?"
​"He fell into a ditch. By the way, the person who overturned that table was Cyrano, wasn't he? He's still so plain. He's not even in costume."
​"Oh, that. It's supposed to be a clerk's costume. But yeah, it must be hard for Phaethon to just sit still."
​"I know. You should go visit him. Anyway, let me introduce you to my friend."
​Paris seemed to want to avoid talking about Phaethon's injury. She left her dog with me and walked over to a huddle of people a little farther away. And she brought back a beautiful young man in a flight suit who was in the middle of it. Like Paris, he was slender, tall, and delicate. He had light blue eyes like glass.
​"This is my friend, Stella. The belle of the ball."
​"It's a pleasure to meet you."
​She smiled beautifully and spoke in a woman's voice. The handsome young man in the flight suit was a beautiful woman after all. That wasn't surprising, since she was Paris's friend.
​"It's a pleasure to meet you, too. But if I may say so, the blue flight suit is a wonderful way to show your respect. It fits the poem so well."
​"Yes, it's a wonderful work."
​Stella replied with a glamorous smile.
​"Stella loves Cyrano's poetry. Hey, Hamleti, would you introduce her to Cyrano?"
​"That's all right, Paris."
​Since she was hesitant, I was about to say something. There was no reason to be hesitant; introducing Cyrano was easy, and knowing that such a beautiful woman was a reader would surely boost Cyrano's confidence. In fact, I wanted to ask her to let me introduce him. But just as I was about to say "Of course, I'd love to," the same overly-energetic dog that I didn't care for jumped on me, so I fell on my bottom in the puddle of Cyrano's spilled drink, protecting John's skull.
​"There's glass there, it's dangerous, so go change."
​At Paris's strict command, I reluctantly borrowed a guest room and retreated there. As I was changing into the spare angel costume that the butler had given me, another angel came flying into the room. It was Cyrano. He seemed unusually agitated.
​"Hamleti, did you talk to her? What did she say?"
​"What are you talking about? Paris?"
​The angel costume was too short for the tall Cyrano, and his lanky shins were visible. And he was pacing back and forth, the hem of the costume flapping.
​"No, the beautiful lady in the flight suit. Did she say anything about my work? I mean, did she like it even a little?"
​Cyrano sat down on a chair, clasped his hands in front of his face, and looked up at me with a worried expression. He must have bent the angel wings he was wearing by sitting on them, making them look messy.
​"Oh, you mean Stella. You can tell, can't you? At this party, she and the page boy are the only ones who showed respect for your work, at least in their costumes."
​But Cyrano buried his lanky nose in his clasped hands, looking pathetic.
​"She would do that much even if she didn't like it. You see, she's the belle of the ball. She's great at saying clever things. And since she's so polite, she'd show respect for my work even if she didn't like it."
​Cyrano seemed to be desperately trying to convince himself that she didn't like his work. I didn't really understand the facts, so I decided to tease him to get out of it.
​"Cyrano, if you like her that much, why don't you dedicate your new work to her?"
​I meant to say it teasingly, but Cyrano refused me seriously.
​"No, I can't."
​Cyrano's eyes had a serious glint behind his glasses. I was a little surprised. So, the object of Cyrano's affection was Stella. That's why he overturned the table when he saw Paris's friends.
​"Why not? The author of 'The Blue Devil' should have that much courage."
​When I said that, Cyrano looked a little lost in thought.
​"No, it's not that I don't have the courage. I think I do. But it's not for that reason that I can't. You see, I'm waiting. She has to come to me, not the other way around."
​"Stella? Why?"
​"Can't you see? I'm a plain man with no special talents. On the other hand, she's always surrounded by a circle of admirers. I don't want to bother her. But fortunately, she loves poetry. And I can write poetry. The only world where I can try to get her attention and express my love is in the world of poetry that she loves. If she likes the love written in it, she might also like the man who offers her the same kind of love in real life. If that happens, of course, I'll tell her how I feel, even if she rejects me. If she does, then all I have to do is break my pen and hang myself. But if she doesn't like the love described in the poem, there's no need to make her feel uncomfortable by telling her that the love was directed at her."
​It was a strange theory, but it was incredibly considerate. Maybe for him, poetry and love letters were one and the same.
​"But with 'The Blue Devil,' it must be difficult to express love."
​"Do you think so? I meant to describe the spirit of eternal love."
​"Huh? Was that a love poem? I thought it was a story of courage and adventure..."
​That was a bigger surprise to me. I didn't understand the situation at all, but Cyrano's shoulders were slumped in a dejected way, so I had no choice but to encourage him.
​"But Stella said it was wonderful."
​"She would say that. She's a very polite person. She always shows her respect with a small possession or costume. But she's never greeted me. So I think she doesn't really like it. And if she doesn't like the poem, there's no way she'll ever like me."
​He said it with such conviction that I was convinced. But if he was going to express his love with a poem, it would have been much easier to understand if he had written a more straightforward love poem instead of talking about airplanes and wireless telegraphy.
​By the way, it's been getting noisy in the party hall for a while now. I decided to use that as an excuse to go back to the hall and find some reinforcements to cheer Cyrano up.
​"What's going on? It's so noisy. I'll go take a look."
​When I returned to the hall in my angel costume, the place was a mess. Tables were overturned everywhere, and in the corner of the room, some guests were wiping their wet clothes or talking to each other in a frenzy. It looked like someone had gone on a rampage. What on earth happened? I looked around the hall and found Stella, alone in a corner, elegantly dressed in a blue flight suit, holding a glass. She looked cool and modern, like a painting, as she sipped her champagne and stared at John's skull on the table. I walked up to her and spoke.
​"Oh my, what a mess. What happened?"
​"Paris's dog."
​Stella said, starting to laugh.
​"It seems he's quite fond of you, Hamleti. You're Hamleti, aren't you? I heard from Paris. When you disappeared, that dog started to cry pathetically. After five minutes, he went on a rampage, overturning tables and running all over the place. It was amazing. I shouldn't laugh, but it was funny. But Paris is too soft on that dog. She should do something about it. Her husband's injury was also because he tried to avoid the dog when he ran in front of his bicycle."
​I shuddered a little, remembering the innocent dog's eyes shining with joy. I was about to say something bad about the dog, but then I remembered that Stella was the one Cyrano loved, and I decided to ask her what she thought of his poem.
​"By the way, what did you really think of Cyrano's new work?"
​Stella replied with a delicate smile.
​"It was wonderful. That's the essence of love, of thinking of someone."
​I was completely impressed, as I had not thought so at all.
​"Then, would you mind saying something to encourage Cyrano? He's a great poet, but he has no confidence at all. He almost faints at the thought of throwing a party. I think a word of praise from you would give him some confidence."
​Stella looked a little surprised. Then, a delicate, sugary smile appeared on her beautiful, slender face, and she said clearly:
​"Unfortunately, I cannot do that."
​"But-"
​Stella stopped me with her gaze over the glass of champagne she had held to her lips. Her look was as intense as a spirited young man's, and for a moment, I felt a strange sensation, as if the pilot from "The Blue Devil" was truly standing before me, and I fell silent. To soothe me, Stella's face returned to her kind, feminine smile.
​"Listen, Hamleti, I heard everything from John. When his cousin Cyrano's first poetry collection came out, John gave me a copy and said that Cyrano worshipped me, but he was too cowardly to dedicate it to me himself, and it would take him a long time. The book John gave me was a small one with a poem about the Lady of the Camellias. The pink silk-covered binding had a beautiful white camellia drawn on it, and I thought it was cute. Honestly, before I read the poem, I didn't care about Cyrano at all. I have many gentlemen who love me, and some even write poems for me. But after I read the poem, I knew that no one would ever love me as much as he did. So, to show him that I wanted him to give me the book directly, not through John, I wore a white camellia on my chest to the first publication party. But it didn't work. He wouldn't give it to me. He wouldn't even greet me. Since then, I've brought something related to his work to every party, but it never works. I've started to wonder if he really loves me, and I've even started to think that maybe he avoids me because I'm not the one he loves. When he sees me, he turns pale and runs away, so maybe he dislikes me. And I can't ask John what's really going on, since he's gone. Still, I'm waiting, like a gamble. That's why I can't greet him first. But please keep this a secret. If I lose the gamble, I'll be so sad."
​When she finished, Stella smiled sadly.
​"Before I knew it, I was the one who was fascinated by the Blue Devil. I really am that pilot. I'm flying towards a ceiling of the sky that may or may not exist, and I don't know when I'll reach it."
​I really wanted Cyrano to hear this line, but unfortunately, all that was there was John's skull.
​As expected, when I repeated the lines I had heard from Stella, all Cyrano said was, "She's a very polite person," and he wasn't convinced. Still, it would be bad to break my promise to keep her secret by telling him everything. So, we came up with a plan to get him out of the club. We pressed him to write a new work and then threw another party, this time inviting only Stella in addition to the club members. This way, neither of them would have to make the first move. And so, Cyrano, blushing and stammering, handed his new work, "The Cool Star," to Stella, who was wearing a glittering star-themed tiara.
​"If it's not too much trouble, please accept my poem."
​In response, Stella quoted Cyrano's poem and said with a smile:
​"If poetry is love, then where is the star to adorn my left finger?"
​And with that, Cyrano flew to a jewelry store. Later, the only complaint the club received was from the jewelry store, which said, "Please come for your engagement ring during business hours." Everything else went according to plan.

09.​ "Dark Lady's Knight"

​"Dark Lady's Knight" is a member of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" who is extremely popular with the younger generation. He is the most handsome man in the club, with a dark, tanned complexion, broad shoulders and a surely well-defined abdomen, and a perfectly proportioned, magnificent physique, though he is not exceptionally tall. He would always show up out of the blue, captivating the young members with his exotic tobacco pouch, the "don't look at this" items hidden within it, the secret stories behind the incidents he was involved in last week, and his rough adventure tales. The Weeping Bachelors' Club had members who couldn't settle on a single lover, and even eccentrics who refused to acknowledge their lovers as such, but "Dark Lady's Knight" had a particularly unusual lover. When he suddenly stopped showing up, we, as club members, would get nervous, wondering if he had finally settled down with his "lover," only for him to return as if he had just remembered us.
​His very first appearance was intense and unforgettable. It was during my adolescence. I was idling away in the club as usual. Since it was early in the morning, there were few people, and a sleepy atmosphere filled the large room, forcing the few members present to yawn. Suddenly, a man came in, pushing the door open with his shoulder with a loud bang. The sound made everyone's sleepy eyes turn toward the door, and the sight of the man, who was breathing heavily with his broad shoulders, chased away our sleepiness. The man, who was covered in mud and wearing only a shirt with no jacket, glanced back, rolled into the room, and closed the door with great force. Then, he threw a nearby chair in front of the door and shouted,
​"Where's the back door!"
​Unfortunately, the back door had been hidden by a bookshelf that had been moved in a few years ago, so a few of the members, while bewildered, mumbled that there wasn't one. In the meantime, the man was piling up chairs in front of the only entrance to the room, creating a makeshift barricade. Thinking he hadn't heard, "Romeo-of-Impulses" said a little louder,
​"There isn't one. It's behind that bookshelf."
​"What?! Damn it! Fine, everyone get down!"
​The man yelled, and then, he suddenly pulled out a pistol and fired several shots at a stuffed deer's head on the wall, causing several members to faint instead of getting down. Then, as if on cue, something started banging against the door hidden behind the barricade with a loud thud, and it was broken down. Then, a group of people in strange costumes from an unknown tribe came pouring into the club. The man shouted some kind of curse, shot one of them in the leg, and then, after tackling a masked person on the other side of the group, he shot out of the room like a bullet again. The pursuers, shouting in a language we didn't understand, chased after him. The man who was shot in the leg also followed, a little behind, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet. What was left behind was a pool of blood on the carpet and a few fainted members.
​A few days later, the man was in the newspaper. The headline said something like, "A spy of our country saves another country from a crisis." He had apparently skillfully resolved some conflict over royal succession. However, it seems he ended up running around the city center in a gunfight, and the incident, which should have been handled discreetly, was now completely public.
​"Ah, it's him alright. He got a good picture taken. Look, he's even posing like a movie star."
​When "Romeo-of-Impulses," who was holding the newspaper, said that, we all gathered around and started our own discussions.
​"Wow, so spies really do exist."
​It was "Cyrano with No Nose," who, although he didn't faint, was so shocked he couldn't stand up when the man in the article fired his gun. I should add, for his honor, that he then did his best to take care of the fainted members, even though he was still trembling.
​"He came here, too. I wish I had seen it."
​"Adonis-the-Death-Seeker," who was a little too hot-blooded, sighed as he peeked at the newspaper in Romeo's hand. So, I tried to sound a little more sensible.
​"But a gunfight in the city? I'm not impressed. What if someone got hurt?"
​"That's not his fault. Look, it says so right here."
​Adonis pulled at Romeo's newspaper and pointed.
​"Even so, I agree with Hamleti. Guns should not be fired in the city."
​Cyrano, who was sitting in front of Romeo, said gently, as if he were trying to reason with him. Adonis, who for some reason liked Cyrano's poetry and respected him, couldn't argue back and looked a little frustrated.
​"Then what about the door? The bullet holes?"
​"There aren't any. He didn't shoot the door. It looks like he kicked it from the outside to break the barricade, so the outside is a little dented. The paint is a mess, though."
​"That dent is from two years ago, when Phaethon ran into it with his bicycle. Then what about the deer he shot?"
​"That's a pretty strong door."
​"But what about the deer?"
​"I don't know. Someone must have cleaned it up."
​"That's boring," Adonis muttered, and a short silence followed. Then, "Romeo-of-Impulses," who had been reading the article intently, spoke his mind, half to himself.
​"But if his identity is exposed, he'll have to retire. What a shame."
​Just then, the club's butler, who was bringing a refill of coffee for everyone, said sharply,
​"However, we can charge him for the carpet."
​He had been in a very bad mood ever since the carpet and the door's paint were ruined. I heard that the page who usually brought the coffee, for example, had taken leave because of the incident, and a replacement is hard to find. In any case, it was unusual for him to interrupt our conversation for any reason other than a protest, so we looked at each other. He must have read the article while ironing the newspaper. He was still in a bad mood, but he hid his emotions well and spoke politely, as if he were talking about the weather.
​"Regardless of whose negligence it was, it has nothing to do with this club's carpet."
​And after getting some vague agreement from us, like "Yeah," or "Well, you're right," he smiled and bowed before leaving. Adonis then happily began searching for the bloodstain on the carpet, and I thought that while the butler was a little stiff, that was just right for this club. For some reason, the butler seemed not to care about the stuffed deer he shot and apparently only charged for the door's paint and the carpet. And it was this carpet fee that led to "Dark Lady's Knight" joining "The Weeping Bachelors' Club." In my opinion, the butler probably regretted it a lot.
​It was a few nights later. The man suddenly came in again, pushing the club door open with his shoulder. And he had a group of people from an unknown tribe with him again, but their costumes were slightly different this time. And it seemed that their costumes and their positions were different this time, as they were not pursuers. While the club members were staring at the group with their mouths half-open, the man gave them instructions in a language we couldn't understand. In an instant, the group in strange costumes made the club members stand up and pushed them to a corner of the room, carried all the chairs and furniture outside, tore up the carpet, and left the room empty. Then, the man said something again, and this time, a high-quality, Oriental-style carpet was laid out all over the floor, and then the furniture was neatly put back in its place, and the members who had been trembling in the corner of the room were even carried back to their seats. The workers' job was perfect, and while that was impressive, what was even more surprising was the carpet. It was obviously of the highest quality at first glance, and I had never seen such a large, beautiful, colorful, and soft carpet before. When the man saw that the furniture was back in place, he seemed to remember something and shouted in what was probably an Oriental language. Then, the bookshelf blocking the back door was moved, and when that was done, he smiled with satisfaction, shook hands with the person who seemed to be the leader, handed him a thick envelope, and had the workers leave.
​Then, as we watched, he took off his jacket and threw it on a nearby chair. He then strode to the sofa in the center of the room, sat down heavily, crossed his legs, and started smoking a cigarette. It seemed that even though he had finished his business of paying for the carpet, he was not planning on leaving yet. His tobacco pouch seemed to be made of some kind of reptile skin, but for some reason, it had a dull, iridescent glow. And the smoke curled in a purplish swirl and smelled like a strange kind of cinnamon. The man sat heavily on the sofa and looked around the room for a while, and then he said cheerfully,
​"This is a pretty good club. I'll join you."
​He smiled at us and continued to smoke his cigarette with satisfaction. In such a situation, "Romeo-of-Impulses" was the one with courage. He carefully stepped onto the brand-new carpet, then firmly planted his feet and protested resolutely.
​"Have you forgotten what you did here? A man who almost turned this club into a pool of blood has no right to be a member. Now that you've finished your business, you should leave."
​His voice was a little shaky, but it was quite powerful. But it didn't seem to impress the seasoned ex-spy. The man grinned, pulled an ashtray closer, and said calmly,
​"I didn't shoot to kill so I wouldn't turn it into a pool of blood. It caused me a lot of trouble, but oh well. Let's just let bygones be bygones and get along."
​And since he told him to "have a seat," Romeo had no choice but to be stubborn.
​"I won't sit down until you leave."
​And since the elders were conveniently away, he must have felt responsible for the club. He said resolutely again:
​"This club is a noble club for quietly adoring beautiful lovers. It's not a place for a cold-blooded death machine like you."
​But even as he said that, Romeo seemed to be interested and was watching the man's every move. In the meantime, the man, with the cinnamon-scented cigarette in his mouth, took a small package out of his pocket.
​"Besides, a club like this would bore you. What is that?"
​The man looked up at Romeo with amusement and played with the small package in his hand. And he said nothing until Romeo, his curiosity piqued by the package, fell silent.
​"Hmm. A lover?"
​Once he was sure he had caught Romeo's interest, the man exhaled smoke and opened the small package. Out of it rolled a ring.
​"What's that? That's a creepy ring."
​It was no wonder Romeo looked at it with a condemning expression for its bad taste. On the ring, a skull, which was not cute but had a comical look, was grinning with its teeth bared. I, forgetting my usual shyness, spoke up from the corner of the club,
​"Memento mori. It's pretty old, isn't it?"
​"You know your stuff."
​The man, upon seeing me in the corner of the club, laughed, showing his teeth as white as the skull's. He had a magnificent set of teeth that looked like they could give a painful bite. So, I regained my shyness, laughed bashfully, and retreated further into the corner. Whether this man was accepted into the club or not, I didn't want to be partly responsible. The man saw that I had retreated and was not going to give any more explanation, so he started his own lecture.
​"I don't think anyone doesn't know the meaning of memento mori, but let's just say there was a time when the saying 'remember that you will die' was in vogue. Right, you pale young man over there. By the way, this is something I received from a beautiful woman. When you lift this skull, look, a heart made of ruby is revealed."
​With that, he lifted the white enamel skull, which was a locket, and a heart-shaped ruby sat in the setting. To get a better look, the club members began to gather around him one by one. I guess you could say he had successfully used the members' curiosity to overcome their wariness. The man, after letting the curiosity of the members who had gathered around him build up in silence, began to tell his story.
​"I met the woman who gave me this during the most dangerous job I ever had. It was the middle of winter in a northern country, and the world was completely white. The woman's face was framed by a fur scarf, and she looked so beautiful. The first time I met her, she was in a sleigh, and she almost ran me over, whether by accident or on purpose. She had golden hair and rose-red lips, and her eyes were a cold, burning color that was neither gray nor blue, like ice. She was a woman in a delicate position, caught between enemies and allies. And she was dangerous and bold, and because of her, I almost died many times. She once shot my sleigh dogs, leaving me stranded in a snowfield, and another time, when she pulled me out of a frozen lake where I was about to freeze to death, she left me in front of a fireplace with a rough look as if she didn't care whether I lived or died. I might have died that time if my companions hadn't found and taken care of me. That's when it happened. I woke up from a state of suspended animation, trembling violently, and this ring was on my ring finger. She would often put me in dangerous situations as if she wanted me to die, but sometimes she would also save me or give me useful information. Of course, I fell madly in love. So, when the job was done, I went to get her.
​It was a dark summer night, in a remote southern country. The humid air was due to a heavy mist, and there was a pungent smell of flowers. In the evening, when the mist turned into rain, I visited a small country house where she was supposedly hiding. But..."
​"She was dead," someone in the crowd said.
​The man smiled faintly with one side of his mouth, and stopped him.
​"No, that's not it. She opened the door and had a puzzled look on her face. She looked at my face, which was wet from the rain, with an uneasy expression. A small child was clinging to her feet. A kind-looking husband came out from the back and invited me in. I couldn't make any sense of it."
​"She tricked you," another person said.
​The man shrugged at that.
​"No, that's not it. She just wasn't herself. The woman had a kind but troubled smile on her face. The cold glint in her eyes was gone, and she was content with her role as a gentle wife and mother. She bustled about, serving us our meal. The woman I knew was gone without a trace, and while she was in the kitchen, her husband told me this story: His wife had been missing for a few months, and when she returned, she had no memory of that time. The first thing she said when she came back was that she had gone shopping, but the milk and potatoes she was supposed to have bought were gone. I looked at her and understood. She was a different person. And so, I left a few hours later. The rain hadn't stopped, but I didn't care."
​"So you can't forget the personality that disappeared?"
​I think it was the voice of "Palamon-the-Wretched" who tried to summarize the situation.
​"Love for a disappeared personality. I think he has a right to be a member."
​"Romeo-of-Impulses" made a surprisingly constructive statement. The conversation began to swell into a noisy debate, and just before it did, the man, with a somewhat self-deprecating laugh, waved his hand and succeeded in regaining our attention.
​"Ah, something like that. But there's more to the story. I next fell in love with a black-haired Oriental woman. This was in the middle of a vast, dry continent. I didn't know the woman. But the first thing she said to me was, 'It's been a long time.' I'll say it again, I had never known her or any other Oriental person before. But I felt something familiar in her. She had the same eyes as that woman from the north. In her eyes, which were like the darkness of the desert night, there was a cold, glittering star. She asked me if I still had the ring. Our conversations were like a series of riddles every time we met. I was fascinated by the mystery. And then, unfortunately, she died. It was a tragic end, with a sea of blood all around her. I poured oil on her body and set it on fire as a funeral pyre. I felt like I was left behind in a mystery, and you could say I was sad. But the next morning, I was talking about the same conversation with a different woman. We were in a train compartment crossing the continent. She was a short woman with short hair and glasses. She disappeared, but I didn't look for her.
​A few years passed, and when I had almost forgotten, she appeared again. This time, she was a middle-aged widow with a black hat and veil. She could become anyone, from a woman with brown skin, to a girl from a freezing land, to a woman with fiery red hair. She's a malevolent spirit that can possess anyone and turn them into the most beautiful woman in the world. And one day, she finally told me her name. It was mortis—death. So my lover is the Grim Reaper."
​With that, the man finished his story. He then affectionately kissed the grinning skull on the ring and put it on his left ring finger.
​The club was silent. The members who had been looking at the man out of curiosity now exchanged strange looks with each other. A somewhat awkward atmosphere had been created. It was a chilling feeling. Everyone was a little scared. "Cyrano with No Nose" was probably worried that the Grim Reaper would intrude, as he was looking at the entrance with a disgusted expression. But the man was composed, and he lit a new cigarette with a smile that was a little too strong to be called a sneer. Normally, the elders would handle such unexpected situations, but unfortunately, it was the period of their hot spring trip. "Romeo-of-Impulses," perhaps feeling responsible for the club in their absence, remained silent. So, the first person to speak up with courage was a man named "Pinkerton-in-Tatters."
​"But, my friend, that doesn't mean you'll never see her again. It seems that she's quite fond of you, too."
​At that, the man, who had been exuding the air of an untouchable lone wolf and passionate lover, looked a little hurt, like a young boy.
​"You don't get it. I've retired as a spy. I won't have the chance to dance the tango with the Grim Reaper anymore."
​"But everyone has to die someday."
​"Dying peacefully while basking in the sun is not loving the Grim Reaper. The give-and-take of love is about dodging death, fate, bullets, and blades."
​"But even so..."
​Just as Pinkerton was about to continue his argument, all the lights in the club suddenly went out.
​"Hey, the lights!"
​The club, now in complete darkness, fell silent. Since the topic had been what it was, the air was frozen. Everyone was probably imagining the Grim Reaper with her cold eyes, and the silence was filled with terror. Then, a tremendous crashing sound was heard, and a sound of people wrestling. Naturally, the club fell into a panic. Everyone was looking for the exit, screams went up, and the sound of various things being overturned in the darkness could be heard.
​"Where's the exit!"
​"It's the Grim Reaper! That man brought the Grim Reaper with him!"
​"Calm down!"
​The person who shouted this was probably the man who would later be nicknamed "Dark Lady's Knight." At his powerful voice, the club became quiet again.
​Then, a few seconds later, when the lights came back on, the club members were so surprised that they were speechless. In the middle of the club, "Dark Lady's Knight" was holding down a stranger who looked strong. The stranger was still struggling, so the "Dark Knight" hit him with a nearby ashtray and knocked him unconscious.
​"Hey, don't just stand there, someone help me. Someone tie this guy up."
​The younger members of the club happily took on the task. Everyone else, except for the young men who were absorbed in their work, must have been puzzled by John's skull lying right next to them. John's white skull was unceremoniously thrown on the brand-new carpet. The Dark Knight picked up John's head and put it back in its original place, on top of the full skeleton in the corner of the club. As if remembering something, a murmur returned to the club. "Romeo-of-Impulses," still pale, asked him.
​"Hey, who is that man who's tied up? What's all this commotion about?"
​The Dark Knight, standing by John's side, turned around and said in an exasperated tone.
​"Don't you know? You guys are so carefree. This head of John's is something that people want so badly they'd do anything to get it."
​"Well, John was popular, I guess. He was a great poet."
​Romeo said that, but he didn't seem to be able to connect the robbery to John.
​"No, that's not it."
​The Dark Knight smiled faintly and waved his hand to stop Romeo from saying anything more.
​"The transformation method that John developed is popular. It's half-magical, but there are people who want to apply it for military purposes. So, they tried to steal this head to see if there were any compounds left on it."
​"That's ridiculous. There's no way it could be applied."
​I had been under a table during the commotion, so my comment was made as I crawled out from under it. But as someone who had witnessed John's transformation, I couldn't help but say something.
​"But John transformed for the woman he loved."
​"Love aside, I think so too. What good would it do to examine a poet's skull? All you'd find is earwax. And besides, I doubt the method was even scientific. But it's the nature of evil people to try something they've thought of. I'm sure this kind of thing will happen often from now on. So, what do you say? This club has something this dangerous in its possession. Don't you want to let me join now?"
​Even "Romeo-of-Impulses" fell silent at that. And so, the man, as if he had just remembered, picked up his jacket and searched his pocket. I thought he was going to take out another cigarette, but what came out was a letter. The man threw it on the table and said,
​"Oh yeah, I have a letter of introduction, too."
​Romeo picked up the letter that had been casually thrown on the table and opened it. His eyes widened, as if he couldn't believe there was anything else that could surprise him.
​"This! There's no way the elders can turn you down now!"
​It seemed to be a letter of introduction from Her Majesty the Queen. However, it was not an official document but a private letter, which gave it an elegant but modest impression. But the signature and seal on it were, without a doubt, those of Her Majesty the Queen.
​"That's right. The Queen is a fan of that skull. What did she say? Oh, she said it was a truly lamentable thing that the skull of one of our country's greatest poets was being stolen. So, she asked me, who had no choice but to retire from the front lines, to be the guardian of this club's skeleton. I would have preferred a more dangerous job."
​The man, as if he had just finished a job, threw himself back onto the sofa and said happily,
​"Well, from the looks of it, it might be unexpectedly dangerous."
​He smiled strongly and lit another cigarette. It seemed he really wanted to see the Grim Reaper again.
​After that, his membership was officially decided, and his nickname was settled on as "Dark Lady's Knight," which Romeo had come up with. This name made sense whether the "Dark Lady" was the Grim Reaper or Her Majesty the Queen, who had been in mourning ever since her husband's death. And so, whenever the club members remembered the Queen by that name, they would forget the fear of the Grim Reaper and feel a little proud. Also, fortunately for the club members and unfortunately for "Dark Lady's Knight," there were no more major incidents involving John's skull. So, it seems that "Dark Lady's Knight" got bored of being a guardian of a skull. He became an adventurer and started wandering through rugged nature and ancient ruins. And the strange souvenirs he brought back began to decorate the club, which, for some reason, the club's butler disliked. He didn't seem to have cared much for the stuffed deer to begin with, so he probably didn't like the gigantic bear skins, the jars for sorcery, the colorful tasseled masks, or the breadfruit tree that reached the ceiling. But the unpredictable "Dark Knight" was usually absent, or if he was there, he wouldn't accept the butler's protests. Instead, the complaints always went to "Romeo-of-Impulses."
​"It can't be helped. I'm the one who let him join."
​Romeo said with a look of being a little overwhelmed.
​"But recently, I've been thinking that I was tricked. I haven't seen anyone try to steal John's head since then, and besides, when you really think about it, the people who would want a poet's skull are either poets, readers, or researchers—in any case, they're not violent people like foreign spies. In my opinion, it was all an act. I think the Queen, the elders, and the Dark Knight had already planned everything and just put on a show. Otherwise, how could all the elders, who are usually just wandering around, be on a hot spring trip on that one day? They pushed the responsibility of letting that troublesome person join the club onto me."
​"But why would they do that?"
​"It's obvious. Because the butler here is so annoying."
​Romeo answered me, sighed, and stroked the stuffed baby crocodile on his lap that was grinning with its teeth bared. The baby crocodile was one of "Dark Lady's Knight's" tamer souvenirs, but it had been rejected by the club, so Romeo had reluctantly been looking for someone to take it.
​"But it's fine. I like the guy."
​With that, "Romeo-of-Impulses" showed his masculine side and shouted, "Does anyone want a stuffed baby crocodile?" Hearing his voice, I wondered if it was a stretch to think that maybe Romeo was the one who shouted "Calm down!" back then.

10. ​"Cherubino of 'Maybe Someday'"

​"Cherubino of 'Maybe Someday'" is a member of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" who is still too young for his voice to have broken or for him to have grown a beard. Yet, this Cherubino is slightly older than I was when I joined the club. Therefore, it is my pride that no one has yet broken my record for the youngest member.
​Speaking of "Cherubino of 'Maybe Someday'," he has a bad habit of falling for other men's wives. While he probably doesn't intentionally seek out married women, to be frank, the women he falls for are a bit past their prime, to put it simply, he has a taste for older women. Most beautiful women of that age already have wonderful husbands. On top of that, Cherubino is blessed with a youthful, cheerful charm, so most of the ladies feel like they have gained a lovable child and send him sweets instead of love letters, and puppies instead of secret rings. Despite this, he considers himself a respectable lover and keeps a list of the ladies who have kissed his cheek. Since Cherubino was so lovable, the club members enjoyed teasing and egging him on. However, some who knew his circumstances, with the exception of one, never teased him.
​Cherubino's affection for older women stems from the fact that he lost his mother. When Cherubino was a toddler, his mother, who was as beautiful as a flower, tragically died in a fire at her own mansion during a party. Of the two parents who rushed into the burning mansion to look for their young Cherubino, only his father, holding Cherubino, survived. The mansion was completely destroyed, and several people died. Knowing this, any decent person would not have the heart to tease him. However, there was one heartless individual. One day, Cherubino came into the club with a joyful, light-footed stride.
​"Hello, Cherubino. I saw you with your mother at the arcade yesterday. Did you get a new pram?"
​"Dark Lady's Knight" said this. He apparently considers teasing Cherubino a nice pastime to pass the time. I've heard that "Old Alfonso" taught him this pleasure.
​"No, you're wrong."
​Cherubino answered nonchalantly. He would usually get angry and turn red at such questions, but for some reason, he was more composed that day.
​"The lady let me choose which hat suited her best. I strongly recommended green. It makes her eyes stand out."
​Cherubino said this with an air of composure, sat down, and took a pretentious sip of the apple juice he was holding.
​"Oh, how boring, you chose based on eye color. How predictable. And did your mother buy what you said?"
​"She bought the color I chose. Who cares about that anyway?"
​Cherubino said this discreetly, but the Dark Knight maliciously dug deeper.
​"Oh, so your mother bought green?"
​"It was purple."
​The Dark Knight burst into a triumphant laugh, and Cyrano and I struggled to hold back our laughter as well.
​"Be quiet, it's fine. It just happened to suit her better when she tried it on. And besides, that lady isn't my mother."
​Cherubino finally turned red with anger, and the Dark Knight, as if he was enjoying himself, continued to tease him.
​"If she's not your mother, then what is she? She has a son only three years younger than you at home."
​"She's not my mother. The lady says I'm her friend."
​"See? Just a friend, not a lover."
​At this, Cherubino, for some reason, looked triumphant.
​"Being her friend is enough. She's another man's wife, after all. Besides, I have someone else I like now."
​"Oh? You have someone you like now. What's she like?"
​Cyrano probably felt that it was too cruel to tease him any further, so he asked in a gentle tone.
​"Well,"
​Cherubino proudly paused and said,
​"She's a girl."
​While this might have been normal for other club members, it was an unprecedented event for Cherubino, so we were all surprised and stared at him. With the flushed shyness of a new love, Cherubino proudly waited for our questions.
​A few hours later, we were with Cherubino, under a clear blue sky. The weather was beautiful, the sky was perfectly clear, and for some reason, we were struggling to walk through a dense, overgrown forest. We pushed aside branches, trampled the undergrowth, and wiped away cobwebs from our faces as we walked. Only Cherubino and the Dark Knight walked ahead as if they were used to it, not even looking back, while Cyrano and I worried about the cobwebs on our hair and glasses. Soon, the view opened up, and we arrived at a bright ruin. Collapsed walls stood around in a desolate manner, and we could hear birds chirping in the distance. We also saw pretty wildflowers here and there, and although it was a ruin, it had a vibrant, peaceful atmosphere.
​"What is this place? Don't tell me your princess is homeless."
​The Dark Knight said, brushing a caterpillar off his sleeve, and Cyrano answered instead of Cherubino.
​"She might be a local girl. There are many large mansions around here."
​We could see a hint of protest in his tone, probably because he disliked the thought of anyone speaking ill of a girl just because she might be homeless. But Cherubino's expression was unusually serious. A dead branch was tangled in his curly hair.
​"I don't know if she's homeless or not, but that would be convenient because she could come to my house. But she might be a fairy, or a ghost."
​The Dark Knight let out a condescending laugh, but Cherubino shushed him, and the Dark Knight smirked and fell silent. Cherubino persistently looked around for a while, and then,
​"Quiet. Come over to this shadow."
​He whispered and beckoned us to a nearby collapsed wall. We all squeezed into the relatively narrow shadow. Cherubino looked at our faces and said,
​"Okay, you can laugh all you want, but don't say anything out loud no matter what you see. Look, over there by that wall."
​So, we poked our heads out from the left and right of the collapsed wall and looked in the direction Cherubino pointed.
​The bright afternoon sun was shining down. A young girl in a sky-blue dress was slowly walking in front of a large, crumbling wall in the distance. The girl's light brown hair reached her waist, and she was strolling as if lost in thought. Occasionally, she would nod to no one in particular, look up at the wall, or stop and stare intently at a piece of metal lying at her feet. She was a lovable, gentle-looking girl even from a distance. But the surprising thing was that with every step she took, the old scenery would reappear, as if a spotlight were shining on that spot alone. I couldn't believe my eyes. The green undergrowth at her feet turned into a beautiful carpet, and only behind her could we see wallpaper and portraits hanging on the walls. Faintly, we could even see furniture in front of the wall. In other words, only the area around the girl would transform from a ruin into a magnificent mansion, and when she passed by, it would return to its original state.
​"My goodness,"
​Cyrano muttered. Even though the girl was far away and couldn't have heard him, she suddenly looked up. Her gaze lingered in the air for a moment, and then it was suddenly directed at us. And then, the girl suddenly ran away and disappeared from our sight.
​"Oh! Cyrano-san, I told you to be quiet!"
​Cherubino let out a cry of despair and then lashed out at Cyrano, but Cyrano didn't seem to mind being blamed. He was pale, and as he pushed up his glasses that had slipped down, he said,
​"Cherubino, that's not right. She must be a ghost."
​"I told you she might be!"
​Cherubino seemed surprised by Cyrano's reaction. But Cyrano continued with a pale face.
​"Cherubino, where are we? It looks like a burnt-out ruin. And it seems like it used to be a very large mansion. Is this, by any chance,"
​Cyrano stopped his words, looking for an answer. Cherubino was silent for a while, as if it was difficult to answer, but after a wild pigeon finished cooing, he looked down and said quietly.
​"It's my old house."
​"I knew it."
​The Dark Knight and I looked at each other, wondering what he meant, but Cyrano sighed and suddenly changed his tone to a gentle one.
​"Cherubino, do you remember what your mother looked like when she was alive? Or do you know from a portrait or something?"
​Cyrano's gentle tone did not seem to impress him, and Cherubino pouted and answered,
​"I don't know. All the portraits burned in the fire. My mother's family is in another country, so I've never been there."
​Cyrano was silent for a while after that, and Cherubino stomped his feet impatiently.
​"What's the big deal?"
​When Cyrano still remained silent and troubled, the Dark Knight grinned and said,
​"Oh, you don't get it? I do. Cyrano is worried that Cherubino has fallen in love with his mother's ghost in the ruins."
​It seemed that the Dark Knight had decided to play the villain himself. However, he was still smirking, so it probably wasn't out of kindness.
​"No way! You're saying that was my mother?"
​Cherubino's eyes widened even further, and he stared at Cyrano, as if he couldn't believe the words of the person who usually took his side.
​"No, I'm not sure. But I did see a lady who looked like that girl a long time ago. But I can't be sure that she was your mother, but still, she was probably,"
​Cherubino interrupted Cyrano, his face turning red as he shouted,
​"That's mean! You're all making fun of me!"
​I don't know if he included me, who hadn't said anything, in "you all," but Cherubino ran off after shouting. He disappeared into the grass as quickly as a wild rabbit, leaving us behind in the green ruin where the birds were chirping cheerfully.
​So, we had no choice but to talk about it as we wandered, not knowing the way back. The Dark Knight, as if he were used to it, used the position of the sun and his watch to figure out the direction and showed us the way back.
​"But how do you know Cherubino's mother?"
​"I don't. I just heard from a close friend of a lady I know that Cherubino's mother was in her circle of friends. I just have a feeling that I saw a lady who looked a lot like that girl a long time ago."
​"Oh? Cyrano-kun, I thought you were a recluse."
​"That's why I'm not sure. And a young girl and a lady give different impressions."
​As he said this, Cyrano stumbled over a tree root, but the Dark Knight didn't bother and continued walking ahead.
​"But it's too bad. A ghost is a bad thing."
​Cyrano said, brushing his dirty knees.
​I was rather quiet during the walk back. Or, to be more precise, I was lost in thought. It wasn't because I was protesting the way Cherubino was being treated; it was something I was thinking about. Since that was a common occurrence, the two of them let me be.
​However, there was another reason why I was silent, which was related to what I was thinking about. I, for some reason, am somewhat used to seeing ghosts and such. So, in short, I was suspecting that the girl was not a ghost. But since it was still just a suspicion, I decided to keep quiet instead of refuting Cyrano. To turn that suspicion into a certainty, I visited a lady. But this lady had stopped appearing in high society, so I went through a lot of trouble, and in the end, I had to ask Paris to arrange a visit. It was already a week after we had visited the ruin.
​As the car drove, I confirmed that the mansion was, as I had thought, very close to the ruin. Through the car window, I could see a large grove of trees and the edge of the ruin within it. When I got out of the car, I looked around for a while and then rang the doorbell.
​The lady, in a pale purple dress, greeted me. She was a refined woman, with beautiful chestnut hair that was streaked with gray, but the laugh lines around her eyes were indescribably charming.
​"Hello. Are you a friend of Paris? We don't have many visitors these days, so I can't offer you much in the way of hospitality, but please forgive me."
​With that, the lady led me to the drawing room. I looked around the room while she prepared the tea. The drawing room was neatly tidied up and decorated in a delicate and elegant Rococo style, and it smelled of a nice, flowery scent. From the large window, I could see the roses below, and beyond them was a lawn that continued all the way to the grove of trees. The ruin would be beyond that grove. When I had finished looking around the room, the lady offered me tea and a plate piled high with sweets.
​"Do you have a sweet tooth? My house is full of women, so we have a lot of sweets."
​I took a small cookie from the pile of sweets. Then, feeling a little restless, I looked around the room again. On the fireplace, several charming porcelain figurines were displayed, and beyond them hung a portrait of a young man. I didn't know what to talk about, so I decided to start there.
​"My, what a handsome man. Is that a portrait of your husband?"
​At that, a shadow of sadness crossed the lady's face. But it disappeared as quickly as a cloud passing over a sunny sky. The lady smiled, looked up at the portrait, and said,
​"Yes. My late husband. I am reminded of him every time I see it. But if I hang it, my daughter will remember her father's face well. My husband died when my daughter was very young."
​I thought, "She does have a daughter," and latched onto that topic.
​"You have a daughter? She must be a beautiful young lady, no matter which parent she resembles."
​"Unfortunately, my daughter takes after me. Of course, she's my only daughter, and she's still adorable, but I wish she had a little more of her father's looks."
​It was just as I had thought. I was certain that Cherubino's little princess was this lady's daughter. In fact, that was the reason I had visited this mansion.
​My guess was that the lady Cyrano had seen in the ruins, who he said looked like the girl, was not Cherubino's mother, but this lady. He must have confused the two because Cherubino's mother died and this lady stopped appearing in high society around the same time. According to Paris, this lady's husband also died in that fire, so it wasn't strange that the timelines overlapped. All I had to do now was to confirm the facts, but I couldn't just suddenly ask if her husband had died in a fire, and it would be strange to ask to meet her daughter without a reason.
​"Looks, you say? My father used to say the same thing to me."
​"Speaking of which, how is your father? I met him a long time ago."
​"He's very well, thank you. He's as melancholy as ever."
​From there, the topic shifted to mutual acquaintances. We had a lively conversation about Paris's dog, and when it died down, the lady seemed to have started wondering about the purpose of my visit. It was my fault for not getting to the point, but I didn't know how to bring it up. Just as I was about to give up and say my goodbyes, a heavenly or ghostly intervention occurred. The butler announced a new visitor.
​"Oh, my, we have a lot of visitors today. Please show them in."
​Almost immediately after she said that, Cherubino rushed in, holding a bouquet of flowers.
​"Hello, my lady! Oh, Hamleti."
​Cherubino didn't seem to care much about seeing me, and after saying that, he focused all his attention on kissing the lady's hand as a greeting.
​"My, little fairy, do you have human friends too?"
​It seems that Cherubino had been introducing himself to this lady as a fairy.
​"Oh, that guy is a ghost. He's so pale, you see. Anyway, my lady, I have tickets to a wonderful play. Let's go together and leave this gloomy guy alone."
​It seemed that he was still holding a grudge about what happened at the ruins the other day. The lady giggled, looking a bit apologetic toward me.
​"Ho ho, what a cheerful fairy you are. Well, calm down and have some tea. I have a lot of sweets ready for you."
​"Okay, but will you come to the play with me?"
​The lady laughed as if to distract him and then looked at me with a troubled expression. It seemed she didn't want to go. She hadn't been to any social events since her husband passed away, so she probably wanted a quiet life. So, I said,
​"In that case, why don't you go with your daughter?"
​I thought that was a brilliant suggestion. The lady immediately jumped on this lifeline.
​"That's right, why don't you take my daughter instead of me? What do you say, little fairy? You two are about the same age, so it will surely be more fun than going with an old lady like me."
​With that, the lady gave me a look of gratitude, then quickly disappeared into the next room. As soon as she was out of sight, Cherubino let out a resentful sigh.
​"Oh, my lady. I don't care about the daughter anyway."
​He glared at me, and I quickly said,
​"Cherubino, why are you here? What happened to the princess of the ruins?"
​"What's that? You laughed at me, you know. It's not that I don't care about her, but still. The day before yesterday, I went back to the ruins of my house, and I met this lady there. She was so beautiful that I just found myself drawn to her."
​For the next ten minutes or so, I endured Cherubino's persistent complaints, and then the time came. The lady entered with her daughter. The daughter had the same light brown hair as before and was wearing a pink dress today. When the lady beckoned her, she smiled shyly and ran to her side. I saw Cherubino freeze next to me and couldn't help but grin. The lady kissed her daughter's cheek and then smiled and pushed her forward.
​"Little fairy, this is my daughter. Please be friends with her. Now, Lily, this is Mr. Cherubino, who will take you to the play. Say hello."
​The daughter, gently pushed by her mother, stepped forward with her head down shyly. She then timidly looked up at Cherubino, and at that moment, she cast aside all her shyness.
​"No, I won't go."
​The daughter said firmly with her arms crossed. On the other hand, Cherubino, who had been looking at his princess with teary eyes out of emotion, screamed in response to her rejection.
​"Young lady! Why, why not?"
​Cherubino couldn't say anything more and fell silent. A lump of tears must have blocked his throat. But the daughter showed no pity and spoke with contempt.
​"I know who you are. You're the child of the family who used to live in those ruins. I saw you there the other day when I was on a walk with my father. I heard all about it. You're always chasing after other men's wives. It's embarrassing. I don't like people like that. I'll never go to a play with you. My father said that your mother is terribly worried about you in the other world. Aren't you ashamed?"
​I was impressed by her firm way of speaking, Cherubino fell silent with wide eyes, and the mother was so shocked that she was speechless for a moment. Then, she came to her senses and said in a hurry,
​"My, Lily, how rude of you to say that to a guest! And your father..."
​Before she could finish, her daughter turned on her heel and walked away with a determined stride. The lady gave me an apologetic look and a bow, then hurried after her daughter. I could hear the daughter's loud voice from beyond the door.
​"No, I won't apologize. Yes, I see my father often. He's a ghost and often visits the ruins. You didn't know that, Mother? That's why you never went there. My father was lonely. Yes, that's right, he told me not to tell you because it would be a surprise. Do you want to meet him? Yes, okay, then follow me."
​The lady must have decided to be guided to her husband's ghost immediately. It became completely quiet beyond the door. In the presence of her deceased husband, the lovable Cherubino and the pale, newly arrived guest must have been completely forgotten. So, I gently led the sobbing Cherubino out of the completely silent living room.
​Cherubino continued to cry and whine in the car on the way back, but eventually, his clothes absorbed all his tears and snot, and he looked up with a crestfallen, puffy face.
​"Hamleti, that girl wasn't a fairy after all."
​"No, she wasn't. But isn't it better that she's a human?"
​"But I was rejected."
​Well, that was to be expected, so I just said, with a hint of uncertainty, that her feelings mig

11. The Reminiscences of "Old Orpheus"

​It was an early spring evening, a long time after I had become a member of "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," and I was nearing the age when I would be kicked out. The club was uncharacteristically empty, and I was lost in my own thoughts. Romeo's niece, the irritable girl I adored, had grown up and become a young lady as wise and lovely as a spring goddess. My long effort of sending her hats, poems, and letters had paid off, and she was now even willing to have tea with me. She still didn't speak to me, but that seemed to be because she knew the rules of the club. In her letters, she wrote with a thoughtful yet heroic tone that she had no intention of throwing my life into despair. I would then vow in my heart to send her a ring on our next hat anniversary, all the while feeling a sense of unease and impatience at the slow passage of time. The early spring evening was still a bit chilly, but I sat by the burning fireplace, observing the flashes of my own emotions.
​"Oh, it's a bit deserted tonight."
​A quiet voice said, and when I turned around, "Old Orpheus" was standing there. But his words seemed to be directed not at me, but at the full skeleton of "John the Goldfish Catcher" that still stood in the corner of the room. I stood up and was about to speak, but Old Orpheus continued.
​"Well, I suppose it can't be helped. It seems everyone is at Romeo's house tonight to plan your send-off, Hamleti. Do you remember that little boy who smeared shoe polish on his face? He still can't grow a decent beard, and he's still pale, but he's grown quite a bit. But how quickly time flies; you're already old enough for a send-off."
​Old Orpheus said this as he slowly sat down on the sofa in front of John, which made it difficult for me to speak to him. It seemed that Old Orpheus had not noticed my presence. Well, my official nickname is "Ghost Prince Hamleti," so it's not surprising that my presence is a bit ethereal. Feeling a little lonely and awkward, I hesitated, and in the meantime, Old Orpheus began to speak to John's skeleton again.
​"How quickly the years pass. The youngest member is now old enough to be kicked out, and you have cast off your flesh, but I am still here. I wonder when I will ride that triumphant chariot again and meet my wife. But you know, I might be content with this. Of course, I regret that I couldn't bring my wife back with me that time. But perhaps that was also necessary. At least I no longer have any reason to fear death. I have already died twice. The first time was when I first saw my wife's eyes. A golden arrow pierced my heart. After that, I completely changed. The old me died and was gone. But it was only with this death that my life truly began for the first time. And then I died once more. It was when I lost my wife. But that, too, was nothing more than the beginning of a new life. The first death brought me awakening, and the second death taught me. The third death will bring me eternity. And my wife will be with me through it all."
​I was intensely conflicted about whether I should be listening to this aimless monologue. Old Orpheus didn't know I was here. Eavesdropping is not a good thing. But I knew almost nothing about Old Orpheus's life story. After a while of good and evil battling in my heart, curiosity won. I closed my eyes in case he noticed me, sank a little into the sofa, and pretended to be asleep as I listened.
​"The first time I met my wife was in a small village in the mountains. My wife was a nun at an old monastery in that village. She was walking through a meadow, singing a hymn. It was a beautiful early summer day, and she was probably picking flowers to decorate the altar. Her appearance was so sacred and beautiful. I just happened to look up at her singing and saw her. She had wildflowers in her short, shoulder-length hair and was humming. It was a strange feeling; it even resembled despair. It felt as if the world were collapsing with a roar, all for the sake of this one ordinary maiden. How can I even describe it? I was just taking a nap, and then suddenly, the world changed into a single force. The green around me turned into a gentle, burning flame, and the pure scenery enveloped her and praised her. I didn't know what I was seeing, but I saw God in the moment she turned around with a surprised expression. Unfortunately, I had never thought about God before that. But it was God. God, with His most delicate finger, had created and was supporting the form of this woman right there. She simply gave me, a military man taking a nap, a gentle smile, and a nod before leaving.
​But I died right there. After seeing a manifestation of God's power, how could the old me not perish? I returned to my country as if I had a high fever and ended up leaving the military and returning to that village. I had seen what God had shown me. So, I didn't care about anything else. I had enough money, but even if I hadn't, I would have done the same. I didn't need honor. I didn't even know if I could have her. If she had refused to marry me, I would have joined the monastery in the same village and died a widower there. Of course, I couldn't help but laugh at myself. It was foolish to throw away my life for one girl. But I knew that if I lost sight of her, I would lose sight of my soul, and my life would be meaningless. Thinking about her was both intense joy and pain, but it was also a purifying fire. During my short journey, my face completely changed, and the debauchery, vanity, petty jealousy, and desire to dominate from my military days all disappeared. All the flowers, the green, the clouds, the birds, and even the people I saw were beautiful, pointing to her. My heart was wounded, but for the first time, I was happy.
​My wife was an orphan who had grown up in the monastery. She was knowledgeable, graceful, wise, gentle, innocent, and, above all, devout. I turned pale and spoke to the abbess. There was nothing more reckless than proposing to a nun. I was more terrified than when I was on the front lines. The life and death of my soul were at stake. But the abbess smiled and made me take her hand. 'Congratulations, you are blessed,' the abbess said. 'You will learn how God loves each and every one of us.' Of course, I vowed to love her more than God, but she smiled and said, 'Then we can learn together.'
​Our wedding was simple, and our home life was even simpler. It was simple, but there was nothing more magnificent. All my emotions were like a fountain of light, filled with joy. We lived in a house a little way down from the village. That happiness was worth more than my soul. Everything was beautiful, and every moment had immeasurable value. We lived there for two years. And then my wife died. She had always been frail, and she passed away unexpectedly from a cold.
​I must have cried by her side for three days and three nights. I cried until I finally fell asleep, and when I woke up, my wife's body was gone. I thought the people at the monastery had stolen it, and I went there in a fit of madness, shouting. But they knew nothing and instead cried out when I told them the news. The abbess, with tear-swollen eyes, handed me a Bible.
​But what was I supposed to do? I had been living a humble, peaceful, and devout life with my wife, a paradise on earth. And yet, God had taken her from me. I didn't read the Bible in the way the abbess had wanted me to. I delved into the Bible and all other books and records to prove God's cruelty. I was in despair, so I sought complete despair. For a long time, I did not leave my house. The people from the village and the monastery, who pitied me, brought me food, but I avoided seeing them. On top of that, I boarded up the windows, shut out the light and the chirping of the birds. I shut out everything beautiful. They all reminded me of my wife. But no matter what I read, I couldn't completely despair of humanity. After having known the most beautiful things, what did it matter how wicked and corrupted they were? The beautiful memories could not be erased. I, who had gone to the trouble of shutting out the light, slept with my wife's clothes in my arms every day. In the end, I somehow started looking for light in the books. I wanted comfort. I wanted to feel my wife's presence, even if it was just a hint of it, in the light that leaked through the wooden frames. But the intense fear that the love that would arise there would have no object kept me away from it. I cried myself to sleep every day.
​I don't know how many years passed, but when I woke up in the middle of the night, light was leaking from the staircase leading to the second floor. The second floor was the bedroom, where my wife's clothes were kept. I was afraid that someone might have broken in to steal my wife's clothes, so I rushed up the stairs. But no one was there. And I was still on the first floor. I thought it was strange. And I went up the staircase to the second floor, where the light was still shining. But it was the same thing again. I wasn't particularly surprised by this. Does one in deep sorrow have any room for surprise? I thought about just going to sleep on the first-floor landing. But then, for the first time, my heart was surprised. It ached intensely. I thought I heard a voice similar to my wife's from the second floor. I ran up the stairs.
​It was the first floor again. And there was no wife there, but there was me. I was a little older than I was at the time, but I was well-built, healthy, and happy. He called out to the second floor. 'Where did I put that old ball of yarn? It's okay, I'll find it.' The other me said that and went up to the second floor. Then I heard laughter. It was undoubtedly my wife's and my own laughter. I cried and ran up to the second floor. But it was the first floor again, and a happy me was there, talking to his wife on the second floor. I cried and did this over and over again, and I fell asleep on the stairs many times out of exhaustion. I saw decades pass within this, and I saw my daughter's husband and my grandchildren. I was sad because all of it was not real. But sometimes, I felt that the happy man who was calling my wife's name without even realizing it was the real one. And that feeling gradually grew stronger.
​I continued to climb the stairs. I wanted to see the happy moments of my life that had not come to pass. I, like a ghost, tried to whittle away my own existence and make myself believe that the illusion in front of me was real. And I gradually succeeded. But there was one hope that wouldn't disappear. I wanted to see my wife's form. With that single desire to see my wife, I continued to climb, and the sight of the happy me on the first floor no longer mattered. I no longer paid attention to the scene on the first floor and just kept climbing."
​At that, Old Orpheus stopped talking, and I instinctively sank into the sofa, out of his sight. I had been deeply moved by this story and had been crying for a while, and I was afraid he might have heard me sniffling. I was a bit surprised. Old Orpheus was usually a gentle, cunning, and laid-back old man, but there was something strong and masculine in his storytelling. While I was hiding in the shadow of the sofa, Old Orpheus slowly began to speak again.
​"Now that I think about it, I had forgotten what it was to desire. My sorrow had been whittled away, and only a single, pure desire remained. I'm not saying I had hope. Hope only exists in despair. Only by desiring can a person truly exist. Well, John, maybe you can understand that.
​It came suddenly. Quite suddenly, I reached the second floor. I looked around in surprise and searched for my wife, but she was not there. Instead, there was a staircase leading to one more floor, which should not have been there. A blinding light was gushing from it. I climbed it without thinking about anything. I was thinking of nothing but finding my wife. And I was there. In the Kingdom of Heaven.
​It's impossible to describe what that place looked like. But it may have been just the town at the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven. It had not yet ceased to take on a form familiar to our eyes. There were golden buildings like sunlight, and lush greenery that seemed to flow, and people like transparent ivory who spoke in a language like music. All colors were overflowing there, but even when they mixed, they didn't become dull. Instead, they glowed with a brilliant, whitish light. I was standing in a huge room like an idiot. And then, I heard a cry. It was my wife. My wife had found me from a distance and was running towards me, crying with joy. My wife, crying, threw her arms around my neck, not caring about my dirty appearance, with my unkempt beard and hair. I was crying too. We hugged and kissed.
​It was a very long embrace. It felt as if we had been like that for hundreds or thousands of years. I had regained what I had lost. It was none other than my wife's personality itself, and the ability to touch it. For a very long time, we hugged and cried, and when our tears washed away our sorrow, it became ecstasy. I don't know how long we were like that, but eventually, I wanted to do something for my wife. I couldn't do anything, but I wanted to give her something wonderful, something better, something better than me. And the thought of God crossed my mind. I was bewildered and finally pulled away from her.
​But my bewilderment was immediately swallowed up by the welcome and joyful shouts of the crowd around us. Unbeknownst to me, the surroundings had taken on the appearance of a festival. Everyone was playing instruments, singing, and dancing. And a person wrapped in light said to us, 'Come, we shall send you back to earth, for that is what God wishes.' I remembered the time I had proposed to my wife. Indeed, the people of heaven and those who lead a life close to it on earth do not begrudge anything for a true desire. And that person said, 'But on your way back, you must not look back until you have passed through the camel's eye of the needle.' I didn't know why.
​They put us on a huge, white-gold triumphant chariot. It was a truly massive vehicle, as large as a palace. It was pulled by pure white peacocks, and the peacocks were so large that the patterns on their tails were as dazzling as the midsummer sun, and the path they traveled on shone as if it were paved with pearls. And despite the chariot's immense size, the buildings along the way were even more gigantic. Everyone along the path waved at us and threw flowers. All along the way, people danced, laughed, and scattered petals of a magnificent spectrum of colors. They were happy for us, just the two of us. And the wonderful thing about this chariot was that, even though it was made of white gold, it was soft and warm to the touch, and a wonderful sound would ring out from where you touched it. And we sat on hair that had grown out of it, as soft as a lawn, and around us, silvery-white plants grew. They contained green only in their sparkling light. And here, too, people laughed merrily, and songs and dances were performed, and kind and beautiful people offered us the sweetest fruits. They were as beautiful as jewels and as sweet as jewels. And a little way from the circle around us, a philosopher was giving a lecture, musicians were competing with each other, and children were playing. I smiled and looked at my wife. My wife was wearing beautiful heavenly clothes, with flowers in her hair, and she was truly beautiful. My wife said to me happily, 'What a joy it will be to live on earth with you again. Let us live, rejoice, and sorrow together, and grow old together.' I remembered the happy me that I had been watching on my way up. All of that was going to become real. I was happy and couldn't wait. But something crossed my mind. I didn't want to cloud our happiness, so I ignored it and quickly forgot about it.
​However, the journey in the triumphant chariot was a long one. I was as happy as could be and was joyful about what awaited us, but I had that feeling of something crossing my mind over and over again. 'What is it?' my wife asked. 'I don't know,' I replied, 'it's probably nothing.' But this doubt that cut through our perfect happiness gradually grew larger. I couldn't understand what was causing this unease. I was in heaven, and I was about to descend to earth again with this wife whom I loved more than anything. I suppressed that anxiety and continued the long journey in the chariot.
​And eventually, the long, long journey came to an end. In the distance, a pearly gate began to appear. It was the camel's eye of the needle. But how could it be a camel's eye of the needle? It was a colossal gate. It was so huge that when I stood in front of it, I couldn't see all of it. I looked up and saw its beam far in the sky, but it was faintly shrouded in a mist because of the distance, and birds were flying far below. I was about to get off the chariot, but the people told me that it was okay to keep going. They told me that the chariot was filled with everything we would need for our happiness on earth, so we should take all of it with us, and then they got off the chariot. I was filled with emotion and looked at my wife, who was left alone. My wife was indescribably beautiful and lovely, like a flower. I felt my love for her welling up, and it ran down my cheeks as tears. But then, I suddenly realized. 'What am I doing?' I thought. Even if I could give my wife all the happiness in the world, the best thing I could give her was my love. But my love was too poor for this wife. I was seized with anxiety and, though it was forbidden, I looked back. And I saw it.
​How can I describe it? I realized that the triumphant chariot and the gigantic cities I had seen until then were nothing in comparison. Beyond them lay a golden city that was far larger. But that, too, was a tiny speck of dust. Beyond that, there was water that lived and moved freely, as if it had been freed from weight. It was like a huge river or a spring, writhing, flowing, and rotating as it surrounded the golden city. Beyond that river, there was a white rose of light. No, the river was not even a single drop of morning dew in that rose, and the city was not even a speck of dust sparkling in that dew. Each of them was a lump of light larger than the sun, a flower so large that it was beyond our comprehension, and from it, a deafeningly loud, delicate, sweet, and yet heroically magnificent and sorrowfully mystical music resounded. But even that was nothing. Beyond that, there was a mysterious, light-filled darkness, and from its far-off abyss, something beyond my comprehension was flowing out.
​I screamed. I had realized what I was trying to pull my wife away from. I understood why it had been forbidden for me to look back. How could I pull my beloved wife away from something so wonderful? And then, I felt both pain and joy. I was sad, but at the same time, I felt the greatest joy. Because I had found a way to give her something better. Now, there was only one thing I could do.
​I smiled at my wife and said, 'Go back.' My wife said no. So I said again, 'What I have to give you is poor. I think you deserve something better, so go back.' My wife said, 'Why are you saying such a thing? If you only desire it, all these things will be given to me through you. I will go with you.' But I thought that was impossible. My love was nothing compared to that darkness. So I said once more, 'Please, go back.' And my wife said, 'Then I will wait here, without moving a single step, until you come back here.'
​And so, I got off the triumphant chariot alone and passed through the camel's eye of the needle alone. When I passed through, a gigantic staircase stretched out to the horizon. The gate and the staircase in front of it were so huge that I couldn't see their end, so I hardly met anyone. I don't know how long I walked, but I eventually found myself descending the staircase from the second floor of my house to the first. It was a repetition of the same thing as on my way up. I saw the happy me there again. But I no longer envied him. The thought of where my wife was made me content. It was in the presence of God. With every step I took down the stairs, my loneliness grew, but that loneliness was a weight that was just right for me to bear. I knew that I could endure that weight by feeding on the joy of thinking of my wife. And when I finally reached the first floor, I took off the boards that were covering all the windows. The view from the window sparkled in the light of May and was much poorer than everything I had seen in heaven, but it was still beautiful. Even after seeing the heavenly kingdom, the earth still looks beautiful. No, it looks even more beautiful, because of the greatness that dwells in its small, brave self. And in all of it, there was the darkness of heaven and the image of my wife. I knelt and prayed. I continued to pray for a long time, and then I left that country.
​And the rest, John, you know. Before I knew it, I joined this club to share the joy of loving and the loneliness of not having what I love, and before I knew it, I had become an elder. My, how quickly time flies. But you know, John, couldn't you have waited a little longer before you left? You were so close to becoming an elder yourself."
​Old Orpheus finished speaking quietly and began to sing something softly. I was overwhelmed by this magnificent story and remained silent. I just didn't know what to think. After a while of silence, Old Orpheus spoke again.
​"But you know, I've been thinking lately. What if what my wife said was true, and if I had only desired it, I could have given her the love of that light-filled darkness as my own love? After all, they say that man is made in the image of God. Don't you think so, Hamleti?"
​I was surprised when he suddenly called my name and jumped. Old Orpheus turned around and said with a grin,
​"Did you think I was so senile that I didn't notice you?"
​And with that, Old Orpheus laughed loudly, said hello to John's skeleton, and left. I was left dumbfounded and stared at the fire in the fireplace again.

12. A Man Who Lost His Memory

​A Man Who Lost His Memory
​It was a cool, drizzling autumn evening, and the city was shrouded in fog. On that day, my "Weeping Bachelors' Club" was bustling with people, but the weather cast a gloomy spell over the atmosphere. Therefore, the members were uncharacteristically quiet, slumped over and muttering somber poems, lacking their usual liveliness. At first, no one paid any attention to the man arguing with the butler by the entrance.
​"No, Mr. Michaud, your name is not on the membership list."
​"But I don't even know if that's my real name. And I'm not even sure if I was a member. But I'm sure I was connected in some way."
​"Even so..."
​"Isn't there anyone who might recognize my face?"
​Because the room was so quiet, their conversation leaked into the room. Perhaps intrigued, "Romeo of Spontaneity" stirred. He had been tired of lying on the sofa with a look of despair for the past fifteen minutes and had just begun to hesitantly crack jokes, so this might have been perfect timing. Romeo stood up, went to the entrance, had a lively spat with the butler, and then returned to the room with the visitor. He seemed to be completely bored of the gloominess. His face lit up as if something finally interesting had happened, and he said cheerfully,
​"Hey, everyone, does anyone know this man? He seems to have amnesia."
​The amnesiac man standing awkwardly next to him was a slender man in his late twenties, with large, gentle black eyes. He looked serious and a little nervous as he looked around at the gloomy faces in the club. Then, he offered a vague smile and greeted them.
​"Hello, everyone. Um, it seems we're meeting for the first time, unfortunately. But perhaps, does anyone here know me? As this gentleman said, I have amnesia. I came here hoping to find some clues."
​All the members rose from their sofas and tables, and a murmur spread through the gloomy air of the room.
​"What?"
​"He has amnesia, he says."
​"How dramatic. But I don't recognize his face."
​Unfortunately, it seemed his initial assessment was correct; no one appeared to know who he was. Yet, his arrival brought a definite change to everyone in the club. In other words, he replaced their yawns and sighs with curiosity and liveliness. At this point, it was inevitable that the club would lose its composure, so it didn't take long for the glances they exchanged to turn into a barrage of cheerful shouts and gleeful questions.
​"So, when did you lose your memory?"
​"Where are you living and what are you doing now?"
​"Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?"
​"How much do you forget when you lose your memory? Your parents' faces? Grammatical knowledge? Can you read, can you dance?"
​While everyone was shouting questions, forcing the young man to sit in the middle of the room, offering him coffee, brandy, cake, and cigarettes, and a crowd gathered around him as he became confused, "Romeo of Spontaneity" maintained a self-controlled silence. In recent years, Romeo had developed a certain quality that had not been noticeable before, a quality that could make him a good leader for the sometimes disorganized members. So, he waited until the young man was completely surrounded by the crowd, holding coffee, cigarettes, and chocolate, with a look of utter bewilderment, and then he exercised that quality.
​"Gentlemen!"
​Romeo's voice was so loud that the entire club fell silent. Then, in his usual theatrical manner, he dramatically put his hand to his forehead and sighed, and after he had everyone's full attention, he said,
​"Gentlemen, don't overwhelm our guest. Look, he's completely confused."
​And so, the young man, who was holding coffee, a cigarette, and chocolate in his hands, and who had a teacup of tea about to spill on his lap, along with, for some reason, a stuffed baby alligator, still offered an ambiguous smile.
​"One question at a time. But wouldn't it be faster to hear his story first?"
​Romeo continued with his usual grandiosity, slowly walked over to the young man, took the items from his hands, put them on a table, and then picked up the stuffed baby alligator from his lap. After placing it on the mantlepiece of the fireplace, he pulled a large chair from the corner of the room, placed it right next to the young man, sat down, and said,
​"Now, Mr. Amnesiac. Please tell us what led you to visit this Weeping Bachelors' Club."
​The silence that filled the club was now brimming with curiosity. So, the young man, looking a little nervous, picked up the tea from his lap and sipped it. He was about to say something when he was interrupted by a slice of lemon that someone silently offered him. After he put it in his tea and took another sip, he finally began to speak.
​"I seem to have lost my memory about two months ago. I live in a flat near that big river. Every day, a young, loyal valet comes to the house to take care of me. He calls me Mr. Michaud and says that I am some kind of foreign scholar who studies ancient languages and that he has been employed by me for about a year. I don't really know, but a considerable amount of money is transferred into my bank account, which he says is mine, every month by someone I don't know, and I pay his salary from there. The valet doesn't know much about my background. He says he was told not to pry and still follows that instruction. Just as he says, I seem to be a foreigner, and I have no friends who visit. So, even after two months, I have almost no clues to regain my past memory.
​Strangely enough, my memory begins with the river. I seem to have been floating in it as if I were dead. The water was cold, and the surroundings were dim. I had no idea where I was. Suddenly, I was just floating in the water. I was surprised and started to struggle. Then, something suddenly pulled me. I was terrified and struggled even more, but the one who pulled me out seemed to be a rescuer. He hit me once to calm me down and then pulled me to the shore. When he threw me onto the bank, he said angrily, 'What a terrible thing to happen.' When I, still confused, spit out water and tried to thank him for saving my life, he said angrily again, 'Take care of yourself,' and left. It was around dawn, and I couldn't see well, but he had a strong physique. He must have been a passerby. I regret now that I didn't get a better look at him so I could have thanked him, but I was so confused. And I stayed there, crouched and confused.
​I couldn't remember who I was, where I was from, or what I had been doing. Even if I wanted to go home, I didn't know where my home was. I was at a loss, and I crouched and shivered by the river in the cold of the dawn. Then, eventually, I heard a shout from a distance. 'Mr. Michaud!' the young man shouted as he ran towards me. I didn't know who the young man was, but he introduced himself as my valet. He took the drenched me to the flat he said was mine and took care of me. At first, he didn't seem to realize that I had lost my memory. He thought I was just in a panic because of the terrible experience. Besides, I had almost drowned and drank a lot of water, and since I had been crouching by the cold river bank while soaking wet, I must have gotten a chill and was very sick. Also, there were what looked like bruises all over my body, and he thought I must have been robbed. But as I gradually calmed down after drinking warm cocoa, he finally realized that I had completely lost my memory. He was almost in tears and pitied me.
​My valet is a kind-hearted young man. He seems to feel a great debt to me because I had paid for his sick father's hospitalization and had found his sister a good job, so he is very kind to me. The job I introduced to his sister seems to be taking care of a certain lady, but I have no idea how I, a foreigner with no friends, could have done such a thing. I don't even know the lady's name. But the valet says that I always cared about his father and sister and asked about their well-being. My valet is so kind to me that I almost believed I had been an impeccable, gentle, generous, and kind gentleman before.
​But was I really? It's bad to speak ill of myself, but I don't think so. And that's not because of my current personality, but because of something I found. For about a month, I lived at a loss with no memory. I searched all over the flat for clues, but I didn't find anything noteworthy. I even started to doubt whether I was really studying archaeology or something. The reason is that there were almost no books or documents related to such a study in the room. Instead, there were only a few foreign poetry books. I could read and understand the poems, so maybe I am from that country, but maybe I just studied it before. Other than that, there were a few Renaissance paintings on the walls. I was strangely drawn to one of them, a painting of a young lady holding an ermine. So, I took it off the wall to examine it. To my surprise, there was a hidden safe behind it. And I even knew the combination. I was surprised, but when I turned the numbers as I had remembered, the safe opened. I had hoped to find something that would reveal my identity, but all that was inside was a notebook and a handgun. The handgun was chilling, but the notebook was even more so. It seemed to be written in the ancient language I was supposedly studying, but the contents were completely insane. It wasn't even a diary; it was just a massive record. It just recorded when, where, and what the lady called 'The Lady with the Ermine' did, who she met, what she bought, what she ate, whether her health seemed good, and so on, without any emotion. There were almost no other records, just occasional notes like 'Send report' or 'Contact researcher,' which seemed to be related to a scholar's work. I felt sick. What in the world? No matter what I was doing before that, it seems that for the past year, I had been dedicated to stalking this unfortunate lady. Is that what a gentleman does? I was so depressed that I was grateful to have lost my memory. I couldn't even talk about this to my kind valet, and I suffered. Even with his kindness, he would surely despise me if he knew about this and would quit, leaving me completely alone in a world I don't know.
​And something even worse happened. It was when I visited a museum, hoping to find a clue. Oh, what a thing to happen. It was just as I turned a corner before I reached it. I found her. She was a beautiful lady who looked just like the lady in the portrait in my room. I knew at a glance that she was 'The Lady with the Ermine.' And the passion that had been lost with my memory reignited. I fell in love with her again at first sight. But this time, I didn't follow her. No matter what kind of person I was before, I have no intention of doing anything shameful as a gentleman and a human being from now on. However, I stopped going to the museum and returned to my flat, but no matter how much I cried, my heart wouldn't be at ease. Losing my memory might have been a blessing from heaven. After all, it allowed me to stop doing something as shameful as stalking her. But my new love has nowhere to go. And then, I remembered something. Tucked inside that notebook was a business card that said, 'If you're in trouble, come here.' It was the business card for this club. So, I thought that maybe someone from this club, who had seen my crazy love before, had given me this business card, and that's why I came to visit today."
​The young man finished his story, drank the completely cold tea, and said,
​"Does anyone here know me? It's true that I was a despicable person before. But I have no intention of ever doing such a thing again. Please, I want you to help a lost man."
​With a sad smile, the young man looked around at the members and then, politely, reached for the cold, oxidized coffee. A murmur was beginning to rise again in the club. It seemed that half of the members were despising the young man and the other half were sympathizing with him, and it was obvious that if left alone, the discussion would escalate into a brawl. So, while it was still just a murmur, Romeo let out a loud cough to bring the room to order. And then he began to speak to him as if he were the club's representative.
​"So, you want to join this club?"
​"Yes, if possible. If I do, I might feel a little better."
​The young man said this as he drank the oxidized cold coffee, and Romeo looked around at the faces of some of the displeased members. Romeo was silent for a while as he looked at their faces. He was probably remembering the trouble he got into because he was responsible for "Knight of the Dark Lady's" admission. But it seemed he had made up his mind to take responsibility for this amnesiac man as well.
​"What do you say, gentlemen, why don't we let him join us? If we do, I think we can prevent him, who has been born anew, from falling back into his old ways."
​Romeo's words were on point, and a murmur of agreement came from the club members. With this, it seemed that the amnesiac man's admission was a done deal. But then, "Knight of the Dark Lady," who had appeared out of nowhere and was standing in a corner with his arms crossed, said, "Wait a minute," and everyone's eyes naturally turned to him. They were also surprised by his sudden appearance, as he hadn't been seen for the past few months.
​"What? I only heard the end of the story, but has this guy not gotten his memory back yet?"
​When the Black Knight said this, the young man looked at him with eyes full of surprise and hope.
​"Do you know me?"
​"Do I know you? I'm the one who dragged you out of the river, and I'm the one who got stuck with the job you threw away."
​The Black Knight said this, ignored the young man who was about to stand up and thank him, and asked Romeo, "Can I test him a little?" When Romeo nodded, not quite understanding, he walked up to the young man and suddenly punched him.
​"Hey! What are you doing to our guest!"
​Romeo shouted in a panic and stood between the Black Knight and the young man, who had fallen over and looked terrified.
​"I just want to test him a little, to see if his memory comes back. Hey, Michaud, get up. What is this about love? How ridiculous. The passion you felt was your professional duty."
​With that, the Black Knight pushed Romeo aside and punched the young man again. Of course, everyone tried to stop him, but the lively ones were the first to be punched and knocked out by the Black Knight. I was at a loss and just watched, but then, I noticed something strange. The expression on the young man's face, who had been just taking the punches, gradually changed, and at the same time, he shifted from defense to offense. And now, he was fighting the Black Knight on an equal footing, and before I knew it, they were eyeing each other for an opening and glaring at each other. A tense atmosphere filled the air, and the club members watched with bated breath.
​"You seem to have remembered, Michaud."
​When the Black Knight said this with a grin, Mr. Michaud said in a calm voice that was a complete change from before,
​"Yes, I remember everything. So, can we stop now?"
​And so, when the young man, Mr. Michaud, suddenly dropped his fighting stance, the tension that had filled the club also dissipated at once. However, while the tension was gone, the questions remained. We, the onlookers, had no idea what was going on and just stared blankly. Mr. Michaud helped Romeo and the other members who had been knocked out back up, and then he said,
​"Everyone. I am very sorry. I was terribly mistaken. Please forgive me for involving you and causing this situation."
​Mr. Michaud looked around at the members and spoke in a clear, calm voice. His words now had a faint foreign accent that hadn't been there before.
​"Well, things like this happen often, so don't worry about it."
​Romeo said, rubbing his punched jaw, with a somewhat confused look.
​"But did you get your memory back?"
​"Yes, I remember everything. I saved the Lady with the Ermine from robbers and fought with a few men. Thanks to you for recreating that situation just now, I remembered. I was outnumbered, but I have some martial arts skills, so I wasn't completely overwhelmed. However, I couldn't keep an eye on all the men. And so, they cowardly hit me from behind, and I lost consciousness and my memory at the same time. I was probably thought to be dead and was thrown into the river. But this wasn't done out of some chivalrous love. It was my job.
​The Lady with the Ermine is the daughter of a nobleman from a certain country. She ran away from an unwanted engagement and came to this country. And I was originally dispatched to bring her back. However, just a few days after I arrived in this country, the very fiancé she was engaged to fell ill and went into a coma. Since he was already old, it was uncertain whether he would recover. So, my role changed to covert protection for a while. Unfortunately, the fiancé passed away within a few months. However, she couldn't forgive her parents for trying to marry her off to a man so much older than her, so she didn't return to her country. Therefore, I continued to secretly protect her, and her family decided that they would persuade her to return. So, for the past year, I have been secretly protecting the Lady with the Ermine and writing reports. I introduced my valet's sister to her with the help of this country's government for that very reason. It was to find out if there were any dangerous people around the Lady with the Ermine and to curb her recklessness. After all, she is the kind of person who would run away to a foreign country alone or go for a walk in the middle of the night. So, one day, she got into a fight with a friend at a party and was walking home without a car when she was robbed. I was lucky enough to help her escape, but I lost my memory. And that brings us to the present."
​When Mr. Michaud finished speaking, the Black Knight added,
​"And I got stuck with the entire job. She's the daughter of an allied nation's dignitary, so I couldn't just ignore her wandering around alone. So I got assigned to be this guy's assistant. That was about a year ago. At first, I was just supposed to help him, but then this guy lost his memory, and I had to babysit that fickle lady for two months."
​When the Black Knight said this with some bitterness, Romeo, looking troubled, cut in.
​"But didn't you retire as a spy?"
​"That's why I only get assigned these boring jobs."
​"The club isn't in any danger, is it?"
​Then, Romeo began to lecture the Black Knight, saying it was outrageous to give a foreign secret agent, a spy, a club's business card. Since that wasn't of immediate concern to the club members, their eyes were again focused on Mr. Michaud.
​"So, you don't have any feelings for the Lady with the Ermine?"
​Since Romeo, the representative, was busy lecturing in the corner, "Cyrano with No Nose," who was nearby, asked instead.
​"No, I make it a point not to let personal feelings interfere with my work."
​Mr. Michaud said this with a calm demeanor, as if he were still on the job.
​"That's why I'm going to quit this job."
​Mr. Michaud said this so calmly that we couldn't quite grasp what he meant. But the Black Knight, who had been listening to Romeo's lecture with a smirk, seemed to understand. His expression changed, and he protested.
​"What? Hey, what are you talking about?"
​Romeo, not understanding the situation, turned and asked the people closest to him, "Hey, what's going on?" Mr. Michaud, however, remained calm and said to the Black Knight,
​"It can't be helped. Realistically, it's impossible for me to continue this job."
​"What are you talking about? You can continue now that you've remembered everything. Nothing has changed from two months ago."
​Mr. Michaud quietly stared into space for about ten seconds. Then,
​"No, it has changed."
​he said.
​"I was able to do this job precisely because I didn't let personal feelings interfere. Before starting a job, I always turn off my emotional switch for the people involved. That's why I could be kind to my valet. It's surprisingly easy to be generous to others and make them allies if you don't get bogged down by personal feelings. However, I found the Lady with the Ermine when that kind of emotional glass window was open. If I hadn't lost my memory, that would never have happened. But once I fell in love, that love won't go back outside the glass window. Therefore, I can no longer continue my work as before. That's why I'm quitting. Besides, I like that valet, and I'll keep him by my side as before."
​"Oh, do whatever you want."
​The Black Knight said angrily, plopped down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, opened a bottle of brandy, and said roughly,
​"You haven't gotten your memory back. That's what it is. Live out the rest of your miserable life in a foreign country, pitied as a man with amnesia. Be grateful you're not being treated as a traitor. Damn, I should have just left you in the river."
​I interpreted the Black Knight's words as, "Leave the rest to me," in a rather indirect way. Mr. Michaud probably felt the same, and he smiled a little. And then, Mr. Michaud turned to Romeo and said,
​"And I like this club too. I would really like to join."
​Romeo said, "Let me think about it," and sat down in a nearby chair. He probably thought that taking responsibility for a second ex-spy was a little too much.
​"But first, why don't you go and meet the Lady with the Ermine in person? You never know, she might return your feelings."
​"Yes, I intend to do that eventually. But actually, I remembered one more crucial thing. The fiancé who died was actually my only relative, my grandfather. So, I don't think she would want to see her grandson's face for a few years. I want to wait here for a while."
​In the corner, the Black Knight burst out laughing, and Romeo let out a deep sigh, and "The Weeping Bachelors' Club" accepted its second ex-spy.

13. Notice of Withdrawal: "With the Help of Ganyme

13. Notice of Withdrawal: "With the Help of Ganymede"

That day, when I went to "The Weeping Bachelors' Club," no one was there. This has been happening often lately. I felt a little sad, as if the club members were avoiding me. This was because it seemed everyone thought my marriage was only a matter of time. Indeed, the next Hat Anniversary was approaching, and this year, the person I love would turn into an adult, so I could send a ring with the hat. And there was a strong chance she would accept it. But even so, it was not certain, and my anxieties and worries were endless. There were so many things I wanted to discuss with my friends at the club.
​"Why is everyone so cold?"
​I muttered to myself, and only then did I realize that someone was in the club.
​"Oh, are you Hamleti?"
​A person stood up from a seat on the other side and said that. I felt my breath stop. The young man looked exactly like the person I loved. He was wearing an exceptionally stylishly tailored suit, and his short hair was neatly combed, but it was enough to make me feel like I was going to faint.
​"Well, don't be surprised. I'm Ganymede, Rosalind's twin brother."
​He smiled and held out his hand for a handshake, with his polished nails gleaming.
​"I wanted to meet the person my sister is going to marry."
​He said, motioning for me to sit down, and asked the butler for coffee. But I still couldn't control my composure and just stared at Ganymede. He didn't have a beard, and his voice hadn't changed. Could he really be the person I love? Ganymede spoke in a smart and brisk manner.
​"You're doubting me. It's understandable. But we can worry about that later; I don't have much time now. I came here to help you."
​"Help me?"
​"Yes, to help you. You're going to have to make a certain choice after this. Rosalind and Romeo are going to test you. And I'm going to help you so you don't make a mistake."
​Ganymede handed me the coffee the butler had brought. In the meantime, I found a few slight differences between him and the person I love. First, he seemed a little quieter, his eyebrows were a little thicker, and his nose seemed to be a little more upturned. And the hand that handed me the coffee felt firm and large. All of it was still beautiful. But I was completely bewildered. What were they going to test me on, and why would he want to help me?
​"Why do you want to help me? You don't even know me."
​"Well, that's why. To get to know you, I'll ask you a few questions first. And if I like you, I'll help you. I'm curious. Why do you love my sister so much when you don't even know her well?"
​Ganymede said, staring at me like a detective in an investigation. I felt intimidated by his gaze and started to feel that this Ganymede was a very respectable person. It was an absurd feeling, but since he was beautiful and looked so much like the person I admired, I guess it couldn't be helped. I was flustered but tried my best to answer.
​"Well, have you read Dante or Petrarch? The moment I saw her, my heart was wounded by love. Since then, she has been the source of all love and beauty."
​Ganymede didn't seem satisfied with that answer. He chose his words carefully so as not to offend me.
​"Yes, I understand that. You've written about it in your works all the time. But you know, they didn't end up marrying their lovers, did they? That's my problem. She's not a muse or an angel for geniuses; she's a human being. She burps and she can make a silly face when she fails at grooming her eyebrows. It's the same with everyone in this club. Aren't you just in love with a fantasy you created yourself?"
​Ganymede's beautiful green eyes shone with a stern and serious light. There was no hint of accusation in his tone. As a brother facing a man who was in love with his sister, he was asking a question he had every right to ask. I was flustered. Indeed, he was right. I had often thought about such things. But I had never found an answer. I had no choice but to answer honestly.
​"That's true. I've never even had a proper conversation with her. But I've tried to improve my unlovable qualities by loving her. And I'm sure she is more wonderful than any fantasy I could ever create."
​This time, Ganymede smiled, as if he liked my answer.
​"Good. You're a serious person. Then, aren't you afraid of breaking the illusion? You brought up Dante. For Dante, Beatrice was a guide to heaven. For you, Rosalind might have been that. A little ill-tempered Beatrice, perhaps. But if you get married, it won't be that way."
​"Do you think so?"
​"I think so. An illusion elevates a person to the heavens, but reality doesn't."
​Ganymede said with a hint of sadness.
​"You know Romeo, don't you? He's my uncle, and he knows this well. That's why he has never spoken a word of his secret feelings to the person he loves, even now. He loves Rosalind's tutor, a smart woman, and she loves Romeo, too. But they don't say anything to each other to protect the illusion that elevates them. Romeo is going to build a school for her and make her the principal. And that's also a form of love. Why don't you want that?"
​I was startled by the question. Dante didn't marry Beatrice. Romeo followed his example, and perhaps Old Alphonso did, too, in a way. And I remembered the story of Old Orpheus that I had heard the other day. The life on earth that he cried as he watched, the life on earth that he gladly gave up. I wanted that.
​"But I want to marry her. I don't want her to guide me to heaven; I want her to be by my side on earth. I don't just want beautiful things. I want to hear Rosalind scold me when she's an old woman."
​Ganymede was silent. His face was expressionless, and only his green eyes watched me, burning brightly. I desperately tried to make him understand.
​"I heard Old Orpheus talk about his deceased wife. Old Orpheus wanted to grow old with his wife. But when he saw God's love in heaven, he realized how poor his own love was, and he decided to entrust his wife to that love and live alone. But Rosalind is alive. And I want to create a little heaven on this earth, together, every day, with her."
​Ganymede was still silent.
​"And I heard Old Orpheus say this: 'Man is made in the image of God.' And if God is love, then He will help me love. So, I must not doubt my own ability to love."
​I finished my desperate plea and waited for Ganymede's reply. I had nothing more to say. To be honest, I was surprised at myself. I had said things I hadn't even thought of. But they were words that had been in my heart all along. By speaking them, I felt as if I had found something I had long lost. And then, Ganymede smiled.
​"Good. That's enough for me. I'll help you. You like paintings, right? Then you know Titian's Allegory of Love?"
​It's a painting with Venus, representing the sacred love of heaven in her nudity, and another Venus, representing the worldly love of the earth in her lavish clothes. I knew it, so I nodded. Ganymede responded with a smile.
​"You will be asked to choose one of them. And the worldly love will be closer to what you seek. But you must find the heavenly love within that. So, you must not choose either. Because if one is missing, it will be incomplete for you. Therefore, choose the third thing. You will know it when you see it."
​With that, Ganymede stood up.
​"I have to go now. They're coming. Don't make the wrong choice."
​He quickly turned on his heel and left. I watched him leave in a daze, but only after he disappeared did I realize I had forgotten to thank him. And so, I was left alone in the club. Ganymede's appearance was short and serious, leaving a phantasmal impression. I listened to the quiet afternoon and sighed heavily, as if entrusting all my thoughts to it.
​Then, suddenly, the entrance became noisy. The butler's protest, which sounded like a scream, was drowned out by the noise of a band, and the commotion, filled with cheerful shouts, flooded into the room. It was a festive procession. The club members wore flowers on their heads, the younger ones scattered petals they held in baskets, a band they had hired somewhere played lively music in matching uniforms, and the younger ones danced randomly to the music. The older ones wore white ancient-style clothes and were being hit with flowers by the younger ones as they talked enthusiastically.
​"Yo, Hamleti!"
​Adonis, who had put a beautiful white dress on his wife, threw a flower at me. Then, two small children, laughing cheerfully, tumbled in front of me. Both of them had angel wings on their backs. One was almost naked, and the other was wearing a beautiful blue dress. They each held a box with a beautiful ring in their hands and jumped onto my lap.
​"Come on, Hamleti, look at these lovely twin angels. Let's have you choose a ring."
​Saying that, Romeo came forward.
​"That's right, you're going to choose a ring for my sister. I'm her brother, Ganymede."
​Saying that, Ganymede, wearing the same exceptionally stylishly tailored suit as before, came forward with a grin. But I noticed that his nose wasn't as upturned and his hands were a little smaller. This was not the brother Ganymede I had spoken to earlier. This was Rosalind, disguised as her brother.
​"Come on, choose! Which ring will you take from the two Cupids?"
​Rosalind, disguised as Ganymede, said this cheerfully and aggressively. I was completely silent and pushed the children off my lap with trembling hands. Since I pushed both of them away, the crowd around me let out a surprised and somewhat deflated protest, but I didn't care. I somehow managed to walk with my trembling knees and approached the beautiful person in Ganymede's disguise. My mouth was dry, but I took her slightly smaller hand and looked into her green eyes.
​"The ring you have, Rosalind!"
​My voice squeaked and cracked, but Rosalind turned bright red and held out the ring box. The entire club erupted in cheers, and music and cheerful shouts flew around. Then, everyone began to pop champagne corks, dance, and settle their bets, and Rosalind, still bright red, smiled at me shyly. Romeo, happily gulping down champagne, cut in.
​"But that's amazing, Hamleti. I thought there was no way you'd get it right. How did you know?"
​"Ganymede gave me a hint."
​"Ganymede? That's a lie. I don't have a nephew."
​When I looked back at Rosalind in surprise, she was quickly running away and disappearing from the entrance. Romeo laughed loudly and said,
​"Haha, I bet my niece got embarrassed after saying it herself."
​It seems Ganymede was Rosalind all along!

​This story is set in the early 20th century, but it was written in the early 21st century when I was in my twenties. The way of thinking back then was subtly different from today's.