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Short Story Collection

This translation is a fan-made, unofficial project created out of love for the original work. I do not claim any ownership. All rights go to the original author and publisher. Please support the official release by buying the book if you can.

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(51) Soleá

Dry guitar notes echoed across the parched earth. It was the loquacious tone of a flamenco guitar. It continued for about three bars, then stopped. It began again. But then, just as quickly, it stopped once more. A deep sigh mixed with the wind.

“Ah geez… this is bad.”

“Aluyoshi, something wrong?”

“Same as yesterday. The music just won’t come.”

Aluyoshi —real name Shimomura Haruyoshi— muttered, and his longtime friend Juan accepted it with an, “Oh my.” Haruyoshi had come from Japan, Juan from Argentina; both were studying abroad in Spain.

Haruyoshi, sitting on a low adobe-brick wall and staring out over the dry, rolling hills spread beneath them, cast a probing glance at the man beside him.

“Aluyoshi, how’ve you been lately? What’s your daily routine like?”

“My routine? … Ultra-healthy. Three meals a day and seven hours of sleep.”

“Then stop that! A tocador has to burn his life hotter than that!”

A tocador is a flamenco guitarist. Centered on cante —the singing— it weaves together with baile, the dance, to create the world of flamenco. It had been nearly ten years since Haruyoshi had first been captivated by that world.

Haruyoshi shot Juan a dubious look.

“Isn’t that way of thinking a little outdated? I mean, even now I’m thinking about flamenco all day except when I’m asleep. If I push myself more, I’ll wreck my body.”

“Then let it wreck.”

“No way. Once something breaks, you can’t just fix it that easily. In Japan we even have a saying: ‘Health comes first.’”

“Then rewrite it as ‘Flamenco comes first.’”

“For you it’s ‘New romances come first,’ isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

Like Juan, Haruyoshi also attended a school in Granada, but he already had work as a tocador — or at least as a musician. He could at least demonstrate that he possessed the necessary guitar skills. He even had a set of pieces he could play. He could competently liven up a place when needed.

But Haruyoshi knew that wasn’t enough.

He needed a piece.

Not just the well-known pieces everyone could play — he needed music that could serve as his calling card. That was true not only in flamenco but for anyone living in the world of music.

When Haruyoshi had first entered that world, musical ideas had bubbled up one after another, like air rising from the bottom of water. About seventy percent of them were shapeless, neither fish nor fowl, but maybe thirty percent actually took form. A few pieces had become important parts of his repertoire to this day — time capsules that let him relive the joys and pains of his youth again and again. But now Haruyoshi was beginning to settle into the middle ranks.

Naturally, new music should have been emerging.

Should have been.

Juan clicked his tongue in a teasing way.

“You’ve got such a gloomy face. How about this— forget everything today and come drinking with me.”

“You said the exact same thing the day before yesterday. And the day before yesterday you drank until morning and puked.”

“This time I won’t puke! I swear to God I won’t!”

Just then, a kakan! rang across the dry ground — a sharp sound of zapateado. It was the strong stamping sound made by heel-tipped flamenco shoes striking a hard board.

Both of them, still seated on the brick wall, turned around wide-eyed.

A blonde woman in a red dress was dancing, lifting her long hem as she moved. Her skirt flashed in the dry air, and her black shoes with their hard heels hammered out the rhythm. A flamenco dancer — a bailaora.

On that windswept hill, she danced as if trying to wring music from her entire body. Haruyoshi and Juan both started to take out their guitars, but before they could, the woman stopped. She looked at them properly this time, and smiled warmly.

“Buenos, gentlemen.”

“Buenos días, señorita. That was an amazing dance. You don’t see much of that around here—are you traveling?”

“Yes. I plan to stay a little while.”

Her Spanish carried an English accent — something you could hear not only in Granada but throughout Spain. Juan looked slightly surprised, and she smiled back at him.

“Unexpected? It’s true people often mistake me for Spanish, but my nationality is British. My mother is Spanish and my father is Scottish. So I’ve got three origins, you could say.”

“Wait— Scotland isn’t in Britain?”

“Hey, Juan, if you say that in Scotland, there’ll be a massive brawl…!”

The woman burst into hearty laughter, showing her white teeth, and offered her hand.

“I’m Lyra. A pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Juan! And this is Al—Aluyoshi.”

“It’s Ha-ruyoshi,” he corrected.

The woman —who looked, at most, in her early thirties— narrowed her eyes as she looked at Haruyoshi.

Her black eyes sparkled more brightly than the stars in the night sky.

“So you’re Japanese. I’m happy — you know, my best friend from university was Japanese. Yoroshiku. Are you two both tocaores?”

“Of course! We’re students at a flamenco guitar school, after all. Right, Al? Oh, and among our friends he’s called Al or Aluyoshi, so I call him that too. By the way, my family’s from Buenos Aires—”

“Juan’s self-introductions are always too long. Anyway, we can both do palmas. And Juan can sing — you know, a cantaor.”

“Lovely.”

Lyra explained that she had come to Granada to train in flamenco. She would be studying at a tablao the two of them knew well — a place where many students from their school worked part-time, and where a famous female dance master taught. She was sixty-five, a true veteran, and yet there were always guests who came specifically to see her baile.

“Tonight they’re letting me go on stage for the first time. If you’d like, please come watch. I’m a newcomer, so I’ll be dancing pretty early in the evening.”

“Absolutely! I’ll bring a whole cheering squad!”

“You’re getting carried away, Juan. I’ll be there too.”

“Gracias,” Lyra said, smiling toward Juan. Then—

She looked straight at Haruyoshi.

“I’m looking forward to it, Haruyoshi-kun.”

Even though they had surely just met for the first time, Lyra carried with her a strangely nostalgic scent.

Night fell slowly in Granada. Even at nine in the evening, orange light still lingered naturally in the sky. All of Spain was like that, and in the early days after coming from Japan, Haruyoshi would sometimes feel confused by the difference in the sense of time.

The flamenco bar —the tablao— where Lyra would be dancing was a place in the Albayzín district called Garden of Stars. The word tablao came from the Spanish word for “board,” because all you needed to perform flamenco was a single wooden board. If you’ve got one board, you can do flamenco — that had also been Haruyoshi’s guitar teacher’s favorite saying.

The audience was about seventy percent tourists and thirty percent locals, all gathered inside a building styled after Moorish palaces. Once drinks and tapas had been passed around, the show began. The first performers were the children of the main stars of the tablao: one cantaor, one tocador, and three people doing palmas.

Drawn in by the ta, tata, ta, ta of their clapping, the guitar began. Lyra appeared from the wings. She wore a red dress and a red flower clipped into her hair. The piece was a basic Soleá de Alcalá. Soleá was a musical form built on a twelve-beat cycle. Lyra danced with dignity.

Back when he had just begun learning guitar, Haruyoshi had once asked his teacher, “Is there such a thing as non-intense flamenco?”

His teacher, with a serious expression, replied: “That’s like asking if there’s paella without saffron.”

“There actually are recipes like that in Japan,” Haruyoshi had said jokingly.

His teacher had snorted. “That’s something ‘paella-like.’ Not the real thing.”

So that was how it was. Lyra whirled the hem of her dress as she danced. The cantaor sang of tragic love: Oh, you. Why did you leave? I am drowning in a sorrow so deep it could set my clothes on fire. Oh, you. I want you to return. If only you would come back, I’d give you my life.

At the climax of the dance, Lyra stamped her feet and lifted her arms high, then froze in place. The guitar cut off as well.

“Olé!”

“Olé!”

Haruyoshi and Juan called out.

In flamenco —much like the shouted calls in kabuki— there were set phrases thrown in to punctuate movements. The dancer, the palmas, and even the audience would sometimes exchange these brief, dialogue-like calls.

Lyra showed the two of them a slightly pleased expression, then offered a deep bow and slipped back into the wings. After her, a succession of veteran bailaoras appeared, each performing magnificent flamenco in turn. Altogether, the program lasted about three hours.

The two men stepped outside once, then headed toward the backstage area through the tablao’s rear entrance. A familiar tocador called out, “Hey,” as they passed. They exchanged casual greetings and went to look for Lyra — and found her.

Still in her dress, Lyra was bracing one hand against the wall and chugging a bottle of mineral water. When she noticed them, she lifted her head and forced a brave smile.

Her forehead was drenched in sweat.

“Thanks for coming! And sorry — I was so happy you were watching that I ended up smiling at the end. Flamenco isn’t a dance you’re supposed to smile through. I’m going to get scolded later.”

“No, no, it was great. Right, Al?”

“Yep. It was really good.”

Neither of them said what they were both thinking: Your dance earlier today on the hill was even better. They didn’t say it — but it seemed to get across anyway. Lyra gave a strained smile.

“...I got nervous.”

“When the show’s over, let’s go get a drink! I mean — unless you’ve got other plans, of course.”

“No, none! My part’s already over, so let’s go together— Juan, Haruyoshi.”

Lyra moved lightly, but something made Haruyoshi uneasy. If she wanted the maestra’s guidance, she should be going to the after-show gathering with the other performers. Was it really okay for her to spend the night hanging around with two young students? He couldn’t bring himself to ask. He didn’t even know how seriously Lyra wanted to improve her flamenco.

From ancient times to the present — Christians, Muslims, and people of countless backgrounds and circumstances had gathered in the city of Granada.

Lyra left the tablao as though escaping.

The three of them went to a tetería, an Arab-style teahouse different from ordinary bars or cafés, and while nibbling on mint tea and sugary sweets, they talked about flamenco. That said, they didn’t know each other well enough to have many other shared topics. Their conversation drifted into personal stories — how Haruyoshi had dropped out of his Japanese university, how Juan had turned away from the path of becoming a tango dancer and come to Granada instead — until, inevitably, the turn came to Lyra.

Now in a black one-piece dress, her hair let down and flowing over her shoulders, Lyra gave a strained sort of smile.

“The truth is… I forced my way into that tablao using my family name. My family isn’t exactly poor — we’ve got enough money that if we insist on something, people tend to step aside and let it happen. Normally, someone with my level of skill shouldn’t be performing in a show like that, right? But… that’s the kind of thing money can make possible.”

“Don’t say things like that. Al thinks so too, right? A flamenco show isn’t some contest where people go just to see the most skilled dancer or singer. People clap and shout because they want to see the shape of someone’s soul. And you did show us your soul, Lyra! Didn’t she, Al?”

Juan’s passionate words made Haruyoshi nod in agreement: “Yeah, yeah.” But Lyra tilted her head.

“Maybe it’s not something a bailaora should say, but… I feel like my dancing doesn’t have any soul in it.”

“Like paella without saffron?” Haruyoshi said.

“Yes,” Lyra replied with a perfectly serious nod.

Juan, who had been wearing an expression that said he wanted to keep talking to Lyra forever, finally couldn’t hold out and got up to use the restroom. After thinking for a moment, Haruyoshi leaned forward slightly.

“This is just a Japanese person’s nonsense, but… you shouldn’t take every bit of spiritual theory at face value. Your dancing really is wonderful.”

“Gracias, Haruyoshi. But you don’t believe that one hundred percent, do you?”

“Well… I guess if you ignore soul entirely, flamenco dies.”

“I agree. It’s a complicated subject.”

Haruyoshi nodded.

“…Talking about things like soul or heart — it’s easy to put them into words. But figuring out what they actually are, how to polish them… that’s something you have to think through on your own each time, and then experiment your way into a temporary answer. Now I can think about these things in Spanish and even put them into Spanish words, but at first I could only speak Japanese. So I’d think in Japanese and then try to transfer it into Spanish… all that back-and-forth. It was pretty rough. I’m not the quick, capable type. I’m the kind who has to muddle through, overthinking everything and trying things out. Maybe because of that I ended up with a bit of a knack for encouraging people.”

When Haruyoshi shrugged, Lyra smiled. It was a smile like late autumn — quiet, fading, and new to him.

“…Someone would be very lucky to have a person like you as a friend.”

“Huh? We are friends, right?”

Lyra burst out laughing with her mouth wide open.

“You’re right — we are. I tend to get tense around people, so it helps when someone like you approaches me.”

“Juan’s a good guy too. Want me to give you his number?”

“Hahaha! I’ll pass on that.”

Juan came running back from the restroom, and after the three of them talked until the shop closed at midnight, they parted ways there. Lyra waved and walked off. Juan, apparently not feeling well, left early — unusual for someone who normally hung around until morning.

Haruyoshi, guitar case slung over his shoulder, was left alone in the labyrinth of the night city.

“……………”

On his way back to the apartment, he took out his phone and checked his notifications. Most were trivial, but a few were important: a message from his older brother back home. Photos from his parents, who were traveling domestically. And—

Enrique. Haruyoshi already knew his real name. Henry Claremont.

He was an acquaintance Haruyoshi had gained through his Japanese university friend, Seigi Nakata — and a genuine British nobleman. He owned property in the City of London, held a massive insurance company in the United States, and engaged in numerous philanthropic activities. In old-fashioned terms, he was a man of his own domain. At times, he also had the face of a pianist who played fiercely complex pieces. His personality was gentle — so gentle as to be almost fragile.

He had always been particularly fond of his sessions with Haruyoshi. But lately, his work had grown so busy that chances to meet had become scarce.

That scarcity was, in a way, proof that his once-ill body had been recovering well — but for Haruyoshi, it wasn’t entirely without loneliness. They had tried doing sessions via video call, but Henry wasn’t very good with devices, and the connection or something else would cut out halfway through, so they had eventually stopped.

His email was simple:

“Are you well?”

Haruyoshi narrowed his eyes slightly. It was the same tone Henry always used. The previous email —“I’m glad you’re well. That’s all for now.”— from two weeks earlier sat right above the Henry folder.

He typed: “I’m well. Bit of a slump though. How about you?”

Then erased “Bit of a slump,” and sent it.

A little while later, a reply came:

“Work is a little busy right now.”

Haruyoshi sent back only: “Okay.”

The time difference between Granada and London was only one hour —Granada being ahead— but because of the difference in latitude, Granada stayed bright for so long while London’s sunset came early, making it feel like there was a greater time gap. Thinking about the scale of the Earth —something he hadn’t been very conscious of back in Japan— Haruyoshi looked up at the starry sky.

Another message from Henry arrived.

“I want to see you again after a long time. But right now it’s difficult.”

So that’s definitely not just “a little” busy, Haruyoshi thought with a wry smile.

If Henry were only a little busy, he would usually say, “Not busy at all,” especially to someone who was already in Spain. The two of them had known each other long enough to understand that much without explanation.

Haruyoshi typed another reply:

“When can we meet next? I’m looking forward to it!”

He recalled the time Henry had last visited Spain.

A modern nobleman who acted as though the two bodyguards walking three meters behind him didn’t exist, Henry had worn a gentle smile and enjoyed a piano session with Haruyoshi’s guitar.

They drank sweet mint tea in a tetería and smoked a bit of shisha. They’d skipped the famous Alhambra Palace because there wasn’t enough time — but to Haruyoshi, that had felt like a promise: I’ll come again.

With a small ping, another message arrived.

“Sometime. Truly, sometime.”

Haruyoshi mouthed the word “truly” and smiled.

In Henry’s language, “truly” always contained the nuance of “absolutely.”

For a moment, Haruyoshi wondered whether to mention Lyra.

“…………”

He thought better of it, and instead simply wrote:

“See you.”

Then he hit send.

Lyra spent the next day and the day after in the same cycle — dancing outdoors during the day and at the tablao at night. She really ought to have taken proper rest days, but she wouldn’t listen even when Haruyoshi or Juan advised her.

Even when they said “Your body will break,” it did no good.

“I don’t have time. I have to hurry.”

She never explained to them what exactly she meant by that.

Under the dry midday sun on the hilltop, Lyra danced with a somewhat gaunt expression and asked Haruyoshi for advice.

Juan, once again, was bedridden with stomach problems. When Haruyoshi suggested he go to the hospital, Juan refused, insisting stubbornly that he would heal with sheer willpower. Haruyoshi sighed. Neither of them was what he’d call healthy.

“I’ve said this a lot, but for baile you should ask your dance teacher, not me. I’m a guitarist.”

“Of course I’ll ask my teacher too, but I want a guitarist’s perspective as well. Ideally I’d ask the audience, but imagine a tablao where a dancer suddenly charges up to you going, ‘How was my dance? Any suggestions for improvement?’ Isn’t that terrifying?”

Haruyoshi laughed a little, but when he noticed she was completely serious, he quickly pulled the smile back. He thought for a few seconds, then spoke.

“…It’s really good. From the first time I saw you, I thought it was like watching flames dance. But… how do I put this? Your baile isn’t like our maestra’s purple inferno — it sometimes looks more like the flame of a candle. A flickering orange flame…”

“Is that meant in a good way? Or a bad way?”

“Well… I’d like you to take it as neutral. Sometimes it looks like it might go out, and it seems… anxious.”

“Yes! Exactly! I knew asking you was the right choice.”

So Lyra was anxious — and afraid of something.

But she had no intention of saying what.

After a moment, Haruyoshi gave a troubled smile.

“Then… you just have to keep dancing. My teacher always says this. Keep going. Whatever you’re trying to accomplish, that’s the minimum requirement. And by continuing, there are things you’ll start to see.”

“What a lovely thought. But it’s such a difficult thing, isn’t it?”

Haruyoshi nodded.

After spending about an hour practicing dance and guitar, the two took a bus down the hill and returned to the city.

When they got off —there, strangely out of place in Granada— five men in suits blocked their path. One of them stepped forward as if to approach Lyra. Haruyoshi moved to shield her.

“What do you want? Do you need something from her?”

The man ignored Haruyoshi completely and spoke only to Lyra.

“Milady, please come home.”

Milady? Haruyoshi turned to Lyra. Strangely, she showed almost no sign of confusion.

“…I should still have time left. And what’s with ‘milady’? I’ve been an adult for years.”

“Your father is terribly worried about you.”

“The father you serve is already quite senile — maybe you should listen to him only in moderation?”

“Please come with us, milady. If you refuse, we may be forced to use somewhat rougher methods.”

Lyra smiled and gave a resigned shrug. Then, in Japanese —just loud enough for Haruyoshi to understand— she whispered:

“Haruyoshi, I will… run. Soon.”

“I’ll help. Give me the signal.”

“Tres, dos, uno!”

At the same moment, they sprinted off, hearing shouts of “Stop!” behind them. Haruyoshi led Lyra toward the winding maze of narrow streets. As expected, the suited men weren’t familiar with Granada’s layout, and after thirty minutes of running, they had shaken off most of them.

For the finishing touch, Haruyoshi barged into a friend’s apartment and begged for shelter. Assad, a Syrian guy who owned the place, widened his eyes but, seeing how exhausted the two were, let them inside.

As Lyra collapsed onto the floor in relief, Assad whispered to Haruyoshi so she wouldn’t hear:

“Al… you get girls without even trying, huh? She’s insanely gorgeous…”

“It’s not like that at all!”

They explained the situation to Assad and had him check outside several times. When he finally gave his assurance that it was probably safe, the two slipped out quietly. They headed to a hidden-style tetería and sat near the back door, nibbling on sugary sweets.

Lyra called the tablao.

“I decided to take the night off from the show. Some of the young ladies had their turns stolen because of me anyway, so maybe it works out. Just kidding!”

Even as she joked, her expression looked lonely.

Imagining the general outlines of her situation, Haruyoshi put on a playful face, smiled at Lyra, and bowed his head.

“Princess Lyra, thank you for the rare adventure. Might I ask that you appoint me as your knight?”

“Stop it! What would you do if I seriously said, ‘All right, I’ll make you a knight’?”

“I’d take an advance on the knight’s salary and run away.”

Lyra elbowed him, and Haruyoshi laughed. Lyra laughed too.

“Ahh! We’re in Granada, but it feels like Roman Holiday. It’s been over half a century since that movie though — have you seen it?”

“Nope. But I think it’s one of my best friend’s favorite movies.”

“You should watch it too.”

For an instant, Henry’s image flickered through Haruyoshi’s mind. Lyra’s figure overlapped it.

He felt he understood a little better where the sense of nostalgia he’d felt upon first meeting her had come from. Both of them carried the same scent of loneliness.

“Haruyoshi?”

“…Nothing. Anyway, what will you do after this? If it’s hard to keep working as a bailaora at that place, we can ask around so you can work at another tablao. Preferably not one too nearby, though… Huh? What’s wrong?”

Lyra was staring blankly at him. When he waved a hand and asked if she was okay, she snapped to attention, eyes widening — and began to laugh.

Lyra looked delighted.

“I’m surprised. You’re not shaken at all. Even after what just happened.”

“It’s not my first time getting mixed up in that sort of thing. I’ve got a friend who’s… well, a bit wealthy. Once, when someone tried to kidnap him, I smashed the attacker on the head with my guitar. The bodyguards didn’t make it in time.”

“…Oh my.”

Lyra murmured with an indescribable expression, then stared off blankly for a while.

Seeing her gaze fixed on some faraway place, Haruyoshi again remembered his best friend’s face. Not just the face of a rich man—Henry always carried a faint loneliness. And that was something Lyra shared with him.

Lyra spoke softly:

“…Maybe I should just run away with you.”

“Haha. I’m not really the prince type, though.”

“But I feel like life would be so much more fun if I were with you.”

“Hey now, my wishes should matter too! Lyra, the only one who can carve out your life is you.”

“…You’re right. Truly, you’re right.”

That’s why I came here, she added — not to Haruyoshi, but while staring off far into the distance.

The next day, Haruyoshi and Lyra took a slow local train one stop away and practiced dance and guitar in the middle of an olive grove.

Juan, whose stomach pain still hadn’t gone away, finally gave in and went to the hospital — only to end up getting emergency surgery for appendicitis. He sent an excited email saying the nurse who scolded him —“Why didn’t you come earlier, you could’ve died if it ruptured!”— was unbelievably beautiful. Haruyoshi decided not to reply.

Under the sun, Lyra danced. Without thinking about anything — simply surrendering herself to the dance.

When she looked at him as if to ask Well?, Haruyoshi clapped lightly, his fingers still carrying the afterglow of flamenco.

“The sharpness in your movements… it’s way better. What happened? Did the running yesterday help? No, that can’t be it.”

“Well… I remembered my purpose.”

“Your purpose?” Haruyoshi asked.

Lyra smiled — though not her usual bold grin. It was more like the expression one has after watching a sad film.

“I can’t tell you the details. But roughly speaking… I want to set myself free.”

“From that ‘father’ of yours?”

“That’s part of it, but there are other things too.”

Like reminding her body how to dance, Lyra moved her arms slowly and fluidly. Like a wavering flame, Lyra’s hands traced the outline of her own body.

Haruyoshi strummed the strings. Lyra looked at him and smiled.

“Maybe I’m a coward. I thought I was working hard because I wanted to reach a place you can only get to by throwing everything away.”

“Has your goal changed? Even if there is a place you can only reach by being reckless — are you sure that’s somewhere you’re supposed to go?”

“I don’t know if I’m ‘supposed’ to. I just wanted to go there. I’d never done anything so reckless in my life. But that wasn’t the goal. I mixed up the ends and the means.”

“?”

“I got possessed by how good flamenco is.”

“Maybe that feeling carried into your dancing,” she said with a laugh.

Haruyoshi tilted his head.

“So… does that mean until now you were dancing flamenco without those feelings?”

“Pretty much. Well, I thought I was putting emotion into it. Resentment, anger, suffering, despair… the feeling of pounding on the walls, shouting ‘Let me out of here.’ All sorts of things.”

“Ah. That’s the essence of flamenco.”

The origins of flamenco were said to lie with the persecuted people once called Gitanos.

The cantaor would sing their suffering, the guitarist would weave sound to accompany it, and the dancer would offer solace with movement. It was, in a way, like confronting one’s own shadow.

Lyra spun once and flicked her skirt as she turned, then smiled at him invitingly.

“Haruyoshi, I’m a terrible woman. The kind the men in flamenco songs curse — terrible, terrible.”

“You don’t seem like that to me.”

Lyra shook her head. In her wide, dark eyes, Haruyoshi imagined a night sky without stars.

“If you knew the real me, you’d surely despise me.”

After a beat, Haruyoshi smiled brightly and met her gaze.

“If you say that, then you’ll probably despise me too. We all despise each other, admire each other, get tangled in messy emotions — and we still do flamenco.”

“Really? But you always look so calm.”

“Maybe I’ve just gotten used to it. I’ve been doing this for years now.”

As he said it, Haruyoshi realized something. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was the very reason he could no longer write music the way he wanted. Maybe the days drifting lazily along in the river of habit were the cause.

And if so — maybe Juan was right, and a breakthrough would only come from doing something reckless.

“…Haruyoshi?”

“It’s nothing. What should we do? Want to go through one more piece?”

“Yes, please.”

Lyra danced another intense number, then, drenched in sweat, downed a bottle of sports drink in one go and let out a long, heavy sigh.

Then —almost as a continuation of her dance, almost as if singing cante— she began to talk about herself.

“You’ve probably guessed, but my family’s ridiculously influential. Because of that, the restrictions on me since I was little were incredibly strict. They let me do almost anything I wanted, but only inside the big play area inside the zoo. I could never leave the cage. Exaggerated, but… that’s what it felt like.”

Haruyoshi simply nodded. Lyra continued.

“I can’t choose my own life. When I realized that, I felt like dying. Felt like, okay? Not that I truly wanted to die. There are people out there with nothing to eat, people being killed right now — compared to them, my troubles are nothing, just dust blown away by wind. But… that didn’t tell me how to stop hurting. And I’ve lived like that for thirty years. It feels like I’ve been stuck in an eternal blue spring. That’s how you say it in Japanese, right? That unstable adolescent phase — aoi haru. But my body is already fully adult. It’s unbalanced.”

“‘Seishun’ —youth— has a bit more of a positive nuance than just ‘unstable adolescence.’ More like being young and lively, enjoying things with friends.”

“Really? Is adolescence that nice? Haruyoshi, was your youth fun?”

Haruyoshi fell silent, but Lyra didn’t push further. She didn’t say that’s enough of that topic or sorry for asking. She simply waited.

With a faint smile, Haruyoshi adjusted his grip on his guitar and opened his mouth to speak.

“…I have two older brothers. One’s a doctor, the other’s a lawyer. In Japan, those are pretty elite professions, and I think our parents were already satisfied enough with how the two of them ‘turned out.’ Since I was little, I was in the ‘cute kid’ category. No matter what I did, they doted on me. It was easy. But at the same time, I realized no one expected anything from me — and that was hard. But I also knew I could never win if I tried to compete on the same field as my brothers, so… maybe that’s why I’m here now.”

“You want to prove yourself to your family with the guitar?”

“I don’t think it’s that,” Haruyoshi replied.

Lyra didn’t answer — just waited for him to continue. Haruyoshi smiled.

“To put it in Lyra-terms… my goal is to find one unshakable axis inside myself. I want to be someone who doesn’t waver. Competing with my brothers, wanting recognition from my parents — stuff like that, I’ve left all of it behind in my ‘youth.’ Now I want to live as the person I am, as I am — and I want to allow myself to do that. I think that’s why I’m doing all this.”

As he said the words aloud, Haruyoshi straightened his back slightly. He felt as though he had made a declaration to himself.

Lyra smiled.

“You’re an honest person. Not toward others — toward yourself.”

“Are there really performers who lie to themselves?”

“I think there are plenty. I’m a performer too, but I don’t think I’m that honest with myself.”

“Really? Well, in that case, the two of us are just fellow lying artists.”

Suddenly, Haruyoshi understood why being with Lyra felt so comfortable. It was because he didn’t have to tell her the truth.

With Juan and Henry —because they had become such deep friends— the truth or a lie amounted to the same thing. Whether he said it or not, they would grasp his thoughts with uncanny accuracy. And he had to accept that. Lyra didn’t have that.

Smiling, Haruyoshi spoke in a teasing tone.

“Hey, Lyra— if I really said I’d run away with you, what would you do?”

“I’d ask where you wanted to go. I’d have to respect your opinion.”

“Where would be good?” she asked with a smile.

Because her expression was exactly the same as always, Haruyoshi felt a faint chill — but he forced himself to smile back.

And he wondered where would be good…

He wondered…

After a moment that felt like his mind had turned into a vacuum, he grinned.

“Actually— just kidding!”

“Oh, come on.”

“Hahaha.”

Their dry laughter rode on the wind blowing over the hill and scattered into the olive grove.

Two days later, Lyra had found a new part-time job. It was at a not-very-popular tablao on the outskirts of the Albayzín district. She would work as a bailaora while also doing miscellaneous chores around the shop.

“I’m really happy. It feels good to get work that isn’t because of connections. I thought if I introduced myself with ‘I’m not very good…’ they’d say, ‘We don’t need a timid bailaora here,’ so I pitched myself as the best bailaora in my entire life. They burst out laughing and hired me.”

“Hahaha.”

Lyra didn’t tell Juan anything, but she gave Haruyoshi the location of her new workplace.

Carrying his guitar, Haruyoshi went to the tablao where Lyra now worked.

The place had six light bulbs, two of which were flickering out. It looked like a natural cave, and for some reason several pots hung from the ceiling. The only drink options were sangria or orange juice, and there were almost no tourists. Though he’d never been there before, Haruyoshi guessed it was a gathering spot for locals.

As a guitarist, it made his blood stir — but whether it was a welcoming place for a dancer like Lyra was another matter.

As he wondered if she would be all right, someone slapped him on the back. It was an elderly woman in a red-and-white polka-dot dress. Her wrinkled face and thick eyebrows radiated a kind of unshakeable authority.

“You — tocador, right? If you don’t mind, would you get up on stage? My old man’s not doing well. His rheumatism’s so bad today he can barely move his fingers.”

“You idiot. I can play. I said I can, didn’t I, you old hag!”

A man’s voice rasped from the back, and the old woman shouted back with just as much force:

“Shut it, you crusty geezer! You think I’m letting a doctor-stopped wreck set foot on my stage? Sit still! Anyway, that’s that. I’m counting on you.”

And just like that, it was decided.

But being pulled into an impromptu performance wasn’t unusual at a tablao.

Thinking it might become a small source of encouragement for Lyra, Haruyoshi sat down on a backless chair. Next to him were the golpe player tapping rhythm on a chair, and three people in charge of palmas. The cantaora was a woman.

After two people finished dancing a style of flamenco called taranto, it was Lyra’s turn.

Lyra, happy that the tablao would lend her costumes, wore a black dress with a large black shawl — the traditional mantón. She glanced at Haruyoshi. Her bright red lips twisted into the shape of a smile.

The eyes of the singer, the dancer, and the guitarist intertwined — and the music began.

Flamenco was a dance with a unique sense of rhythm. It wasn’t that each piece had a fixed choreography; rather, within the unit of rhythm called compás, the dancer had to decide how to take the sound. In extreme terms, as long as you counted the beats correctly, you could dance to almost any piece.

Lyra’s movements were crisp. Her fingertips and the motions of her arms landed perfectly at every crucial point. Fiery like flame, powerful like molten magma. Haruyoshi felt himself being pulled in.

He wrung music out of his guitar, playing with the thumb-focused technique he had learned in Granada, coaxing supple tones from the strings.

His consciousness felt as though it were drifting away from his body. As if he were floating, lightly, through some far-off place.

A sharp heel strike snapped him back, and he refocused his fingers on the strings.

A ten-minute dance felt as long as an hour and as compressed as a single minute.

When the exhausted Haruyoshi exhaled, he suddenly found a wrinkled old man standing behind him, pushing forward to sit in his chair. It was the husband — the man supposedly barred from playing by his doctor because of rheumatism.

When Haruyoshi quietly asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”, the old man grinned.

“I’ve decided I’ll live by the guitar and die by the guitar. Who cares what some doctor says? Out of the way, kid.”

Haruyoshi glanced backstage. The elderly woman in the polka-dot dress —pushed aside earlier— stood with her hands on her hips, looking at her husband as if to say good grief.

“Well, I skipped one song thanks to you. Appreciate it, kid — go watch from over there.

By the way, are you Chinese?”

“Japanese. Land of geishas and samurai.”

“Oh my, Japan isn’t China? I was sure it was.”

“Hmm…”

At that moment the music started, and the conversation with the old woman ended.

Haruyoshi went looking for Lyra and slipped out the tablao’s back door. Lyra was smoking a cigarette. It was the first time he had seen her do that. She lifted her hand in a small greeting, and Haruyoshi gave a wry smile.

“…That was incredible earlier. You left me behind. Honestly, until now I thought your very first dance —back when we met— was your best. But tonight you beat it.”

“Thanks for saying it straight. Maybe it’s because I finally let something go.”

“Let something go? What?”

“Myself—who I am right now.”

Just then—

Suits appeared, blocking the narrow alley in front of the back door. They watched Lyra and Haruyoshi. Surrounded, Haruyoshi panicked, but Lyra stepped in front of him.

“Milady.”

“I told you, I’m not ‘milady’ anymore.”

She said it in a tone full of exasperation, then smiled gently.

“But… fine. I’ll let you do your job. Go on— take me.”

“What?!”

When Haruyoshi protested, Lyra laughed.

“I told you, I’ve let go. But don’t misunderstand — nothing bad is going to happen.”

The suited men grabbed Lyra’s arms from both sides. It was impossible to imagine this leading anywhere good. Haruyoshi drew in breath to shout for help—

But before he could, the suited men recoiled. Someone else was standing in the alley.

Unlike the men’s heavy suits, this person wore a white linen suit with a vest, and a dawn-colored bolo tie.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

He spoke in clear, unclouded King’s English. It was a voice he knew.

“Lord Claremont, Lord Claremont—”

The murmurs rippled outward like waves. The suited men released Lyra’s arms. Lyra rotated her shoulders as if loosening the stiffness.

Haruyoshi let out a breath of relief and ran to Henry Claremont with a smile.

“Enrique! You came! Perfect timing — I had no idea what was going to happen. Ah— let me introduce you. This is my friend Lyra. Lyra, this is—”

Before he could finish the introduction, Henry walked right past Haruyoshi and approached Lyra.

Haruyoshi blinked in confusion as Henry spoke in his polite, formal voice:

“Liliane. How did you find Granada?”

“Liliane?”

Haruyoshi stared, wide-eyed.

“Lyra” smiled sweetly and faced Henry.

“I believe it was a wonderful place, my lord. I remembered what it means to be honest with oneself.”

“I’m glad to hear that. And about my proposal?”

Lyra nodded and answered Henry:

“I accept, Lord Claremont. I will become your wife.”

Haruyoshi’s eyes flew open. He thought he must have misheard. But Henry dropped to one knee and lifted “Lyra’s” hand to his lips. She dipped a graceful curtsey in return.

Rising, Henry turned to Haruyoshi with a smile—neither bitter nor sweet, simply a smile.

“It has been a while, Haruyoshi. This lady is Liliane W. Lothringen, who will soon be my wife. I had been wondering when to tell you about our engagement, but I never expected it to happen like this.”

“You’re jumping ahead, my lord. I decided I would marry you only just now.”

“That’s not quite true. I was certain you would say yes.”

Before the stunned Haruyoshi, Lyra tilted her head elegantly — with the poise of someone born into privilege, utterly unlike the woman who had been dancing in the tablao moments earlier.

Lyra turned toward Haruyoshi and spoke gently.

“Haruyoshi, do you know the story of the Moon Princess? A Japanese friend once told it to me, so I thought you might know it too. I gave the count a difficult challenge, just like in that tale: ‘Tell me who your dearest friend is. I will meet that person, judge you through them, and only then will I answer your proposal.’ And the one he introduced to me was you.”

“I was surprised when I heard it would be a meeting as a flamenco dancer.”

“You kindly agreed, so I had to accept with all my strength as well — otherwise I would have been rude to you, Haruyoshi. For someone who trained only three months, I managed decently, didn’t I?

Being able to abandon all my company work and devote myself to dance lessons — I was truly happy. Thank you, Haruyoshi.”

“…Lyra and Enrique… you two already knew each other?”

Yes, both of them nodded. After blinking several times, Haruyoshi asked. He felt as if he were watching a daydream.

“You two… are getting married?”

“Yes. Although Liliane’s father still seems opposed.”

“That man believes he can keep me under his protection forever. And on top of that, he can’t stand the idea of his only daughter marrying into a noble house greater than his own. These things happen often. It’s nothing the count should trouble himself over.”

“But…”

Henry let the words trail off, and “Lyra” smiled at him.

“I’ve decided to trust you. Because a man who introduces Haruyoshi as his closest friend — I can’t think such a man is bad.”

“Liliane, I’ve never once thought of myself as some villain.”

“But of course, my lord — I know that. Still, aren’t all people like that in some way?”

“I agree.”

The two exchanged a serene smile. Haruyoshi hugged his guitar case tightly and forced a smile onto his lips. He even tried to let out a small laugh.

“Y-you two… you could’ve just told me from the start, you know.”

“I truly am sorry, Haruyoshi,” Henry said. “But if I had told you, it would not have fulfilled her condition.”

“……………………”

“I won’t ask you to forgive my selfishness. I used you for my marriage. Because I very much wanted to marry her.”

“…But why?”

“For the sake of the house’s future,” Liliane answered. “Yes, my lord — this concerns you. You have no children, and I want to have children. You’ve adopted a daughter, but an adopted child cannot inherit the title. To prevent a family dispute, you need an heir — and to have one, you must marry.”

She delivered that unbelievable explanation all in one breath. And Henry did not deny any of it.

Still confused, Haruyoshi set down his guitar case and grabbed both of Henry’s arms with his hands. The white suit fabric stretched softly under his fingers. Haruyoshi spoke.

“…Henry, are you… really okay with this? Won’t this be hard for you?”

He felt like he was talking to a kindergartner. Henry was much older than he was, but when he played the piano he always had the face of a young child.

But the Henry standing before him now felt older than usual — like a man Haruyoshi had never met before. The middle-aged English gentleman smiled gently.

“Yes. When I decided to step out of that room I used to sit in alone and groan, I had already accepted that someday this day would come. Haruyoshi… I’m glad you are my friend. I mean that not only regarding this marriage — but in a deeper, broader sense. You are the guardian of my world… and its guide.”

“……………………”

“Let’s have another session together. I look forward to it — if, of course, you can forgive me.”

“My lord,” Liliane said, “would you escort me to my hotel?”

“Of course. Where are you staying?”

“The Alhambra Palace.”

Henry offered his arm to Liliane, and the two of them walked away close together.

Men in matching suits — presumably Henry’s bodyguards — followed behind, talking into their radios. Liliane’s own bodyguards also withdrew, heads lowered, disappearing into the night.

Haruyoshi was left standing alone. He had no idea how much time had passed when the tablao’s back door suddenly burst open.

The elderly woman in the polka-dot dress blinked her eyes rapidly.

“Where’s your friend? It’s the finale — we want her out there. Lyra, was it?”

“Lyra… went home.”

“Huh? That’s trouble. What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow… I don’t think she’s coming.”

“My, my. What about you?”

“…I’m going home too. Tonight.”

“You kids are a handful!”

But she didn’t look troubled at all. Smiling, she gently closed the door.

Haruyoshi continued standing there for a long time. By the time he could make himself walk, the tablao had closed, and only a few bars were still open. But he didn’t feel like entering any of them. It felt like all the doors were shut. All the doors in the entire world.

Carrying his guitar, Haruyoshi walked and muttered under his breath:

“…I’ll write a piece. I’m a musician—I’m an artist, a creator! I can do anything. Anything!”

Haruyoshi started running through the night. He was a musician, an artist, a creator — British aristocratic troubles had nothing to do with him. Within music, Haruyoshi was infinitely free.

As long as there was a guitar and its strings, as long as his mouth could spin melody and words, as long as his fingers could move freely — he could go anywhere.

He had to believe that. Because if he couldn’t, he felt as though he might smash his head against a stone right here and die.

For the next week, Haruyoshi contacted no one and shut himself away in a tiny room at the school. Consumed, possessed, he clutched his guitar, faced sheet music, recorded nonstop, and completed three pieces.

Another week of isolation turned one of the three into something real — and during that time, four entirely new pieces were born.

He lived in hours where the monster called music grabbed him by the hair and dragged him around.

Two months later, when he finally stepped outside the school to have lunch, Haruyoshi felt the sun’s existence as reality for the first time in ages. Not just in songs — actual warm sunlight seeped into his body.

When he went into the restroom and glanced at the mirror, he laughed at the man reflected there.

His beard had grown out like some relative of Santa Claus, his eyes were bloodshot, his hair was a mess.

Staring at himself, half-smiling, Haruyoshi muttered:

“Not bad.”

Shown into a room of the country house, Haruyoshi bowed politely. Inside stood the master of the estate —the Earl— and his spouse.

Henry was dressed rather casually, but Lyra wore a designer two-piece suit: deep navy, with matching pumps and nude stockings.

Haruyoshi greeted them with a smile.

“Long time no see! Since the wedding, right? Lyra, it’s been a while. I’m glad to see you.”

“Haruyoshi, it has been a while. I’m sorry about the wedding. You came all that way and we barely got to talk.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine — celebrity weddings are like that. If I’d barged in more, I just would’ve caused trouble, right?”

After a friendly high-five with Lyra, Haruyoshi turned to Henry.

Though he had a bit more gray hair, Haruyoshi knew all too well that Henry was not as old as he looked — and that his actual age belied an even deeper maturity.

Henry bowed his head.

“It has been some time, Haruyoshi.”

“Yeah— last time before the wedding was Granada, wasn’t it? How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been very well. I heard you signed with a record label. Congratulations.”

“Heh-heh, yeah—pretty cool, right?”

Beaming, Haruyoshi told them how it was an American label, not a Spanish one; how they would distribute his music on a powerful platform; how the royalties were excellent.

Henry listened with sincere happiness — and then looked toward his wife.

“Lyra, if you don’t mind… could you leave me alone with Haruyoshi for a bit?”

“Of course. See you later, Haruyoshi.”

Lyra waved cheerfully and left the room. Haruyoshi and Henry were left behind, staring at each other in silence for a while. The one who finally broke it was Henry.

“You have many things you ought to say to me.”

Haruyoshi laughed. Even when he tried to joke —Yeah, I mean, I do— Henry’s expression remained exactly the same: a calm, gentle smile.

After a brief pause, like taking a small breath, Haruyoshi finally spoke.

“...It’s a little late to say this, but — can I? I was shocked. Seriously shocked.”

“I understand.”

“When you said you’d introduce me as your closest friend, I was happy. Really. But to find out it was for your marriage …that really surprised me.”

“I imagine so.”

“Did Lyra really only practice for three months? Or did she learn some kind of dance when she was little…? No, wait, never mind — this isn’t something I should be asking you right now.”

Henry’s mouth tightened upward —barely— a faint, lonely expression. Seeing that, Haruyoshi exaggerated a sulky face, and Henry opened his mouth again.

“...There are countless things I must apologize to you for.”

“For example?”

“For keeping my marriage from you.”

“That kind of sounds like we were dating or something, doesn’t it?”

“A relationship does not have to be between a man and woman, nor does it have to be romantic to matter. Between you and me, without question, there was a bond of some kind. And I valued it.”

“Valued? Past tense?”

Henry did not answer —only fell silent for a moment— before continuing.

“I destroyed that bond. So now, I no longer have the right to say such things to you.”

“Why do you think you destroyed anything?”

“Because I used my relationship with you as a stepping stone for my relationship with Lyra.”

“Henry… do you love Lyra?”

“I intend to build a warm household with her, and to have an heir who will inherit the earldom.

Jeff was terribly opposed to it, but I insisted. Because this is, for both her and me, mutually beneficial.

Ah— this does not answer your question, does it. In short, from now on I will gradually —or perhaps rapidly— come to love her.”

“....................”

“Of course, I do already respect her deeply. And I am told she feels the same toward me.”

After a quiet pause, Haruyoshi nodded. Henry silently watched him do so.

Outside the window, gentle rural hills stretched into the distance.

Through Henry, Haruyoshi had heard stories about Nakata Seigi —Haruyoshi’s friend from university— visiting this very place and causing an enormous commotion.

It was truly dreadful. I had endured various difficult matters before that, but nothing compares to that time, Henry had once told him in hesitant Japanese. Now, Henry and Haruyoshi were speaking together in calm English.

Haruyoshi smiled.

“Henry, you’ve really become… well, impressive. Remember when we did that anime-song session together?”

“Of course. It was wonderful. I still have the CD we recorded.”

“And you invited me to your house in Giverny. That was amazing too. We made pancakes.”

“You were at least a hundred times better at making pancakes than I was.”

“And we traveled all over Japan. I was such a terrible tour guide that we had to sprint through the station — and still missed the Shinkansen.”

“That trip is one of the things I will surely recall on my deathbed.”

The two exchanged a peaceful look, and Haruyoshi let out a small laugh.

After a long, quiet stretch —like listening to shifting sky and wind moving across grass— Haruyoshi, trembling, finally spoke.

“...When we were in Granada, you know — Lyra asked me to run away with her. She said we could go anywhere I wanted.”

“And?”

Henry gently urged him on. Haruyoshi smiled — though the smile was slightly strained.

“I couldn’t think of anywhere. I guess… maybe I already knew where I wanted to be, and I was already there. I want to do music. I only want to do music. And I want to be in the place that’s best for that, and I know that place is Spain. So I didn’t want to go anywhere.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. That’s how it is,” Haruyoshi said, nodding.

After a short silence, he looked up at Henry, his voice trembling.

“Will you still be my friend from now on?”

Henry’s blue eyes widened. He fell silent, and then —this survivor of the British aristocracy, owner of one of the great fortunes of his country— spoke hesitantly.

“...If you will allow me.”

“Of course I will!”

Haruyoshi thumped a hand against Henry’s chest, then wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tightly. Henry hugged him back.

After a flurry of “That was awful of me,” “I’m sorry,” “No, really awful,” and “I’ll make it up to you,” Haruyoshi suddenly looked struck by a thought.

“Come to think of it — was this our first fight?”

“Perhaps. Should we commemorate it with a medal?”

“Uh… no. That’d be really awkward.”

“Then we won’t.”

Soon after, there was a knock at the door. Henry invited the visitor in, and Lyra entered. She pushed in an upright piano on casters.

“I got tired of waiting. Since all three of us are finally together, let’s do something properly musical. Look — I even brought a board.”

Behind her stood a footman of the estate, holding a thick, scuffed plank that looked terribly out of place in a country house. It was the board used for zapateado, the footwork of dance. Another footman carried the guitar case Haruyoshi had left at the entrance. Lyra smiled.

“Let’s have a session. Normally flamenco doesn’t include piano, but there’s no need to fuss over details today.”

“I’m in! Henry, you up for it?”

“It would be a great pleasure.”

Lyra laughed and pointed at her shoes. Not the navy pumps she’d been wearing earlier, but black dance shoes fit for zapateado.

The footman laid the plank down on the carpet. Henry wheeled the piano toward the window and locked the casters. The footman brought in two backless chairs — one for Henry, one for Haruyoshi.

“Shall we?”

The three exchanged glances. Then Henry and Haruyoshi traded a quick look between themselves. Lyra seemed to smile again.

Short Story Collection

This translation is a fan-made, unofficial project created out of love for the original work. I do not claim any ownership. All rights go to the original author and publisher. Please support the official release by buying the book if you can.

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(51) Alegrías

"The other day, I went to Japan."

"What?!"

Haruyoshi Shimomura let out a startled cry.

The person on the other end of the call was Enrique Wabisabi—Henry Claremont—Haruyoshi's Japanese student and music session partner. They were connected through a free video-calling app. Haruyoshi was in Spain, while Enrique was in the United Kingdom.

"Why Japan?"

"Personal business—no, company business. Hmm... something like that."

"Personal or company business, huh…"

"But it was only a very brief stay," Enrique said with a wry smile. He jokingly moved his hand through the air like an airplane.

Haruyoshi had noticed that, compared to when they had first started their casual Japanese lessons, not only had Enrique's language skills improved considerably, but his expressions had become much brighter as well.

"Still, it was your first time in Japan, right? How was it?"

"I wanted to stay a little longer..."

"Of course you did! Ah, Japan. I miss it too. The fact that you can walk into a convenience store and find practically anything—it feels like a dream when you think about it from over here."

"I went into a convenience store. It was clean? Beautiful? Very nice."

"Right? Right? Japanese convenience stores are clean. By Spanish standards, it's almost abnormal."

"There were many different kinds of snacks, so I bought some as souvenirs for my family."

"Good choice, Enrique. Japanese snacks are delicious."

"Gracias."

"And actually," Enrique continued,

"I also have a souvenir for you."

"...Huh? For me?"

"Yes. This."

And with that, Enrique brought something into view from outside the screen.

It was a small plastic figurine. A miniature Tokyo Tower, no bigger than a thumb. Because it was made of transparent plastic parts, it looked like a tower carved from crystal.

"...Whaaat? What's that supposed to be? Enrique, did you go to Tokyo Tower?"

"No, I wasn't able to. My stay really was very short. I was only in transit. However, how should I put it... a mysterious sphere stuffed with toys, three hundred to five hundred yen, a box where you can try your luck..."

"Gachapon!"

"Gachapon."

"That's what it's called. Ahhh! So it's a Tokyo Tower you got from a gachapon machine. They're really elaborate these days! Even through the screen, I can see all the tiny details. Amazing, amazing."

"It's a very inexpensive item, so I feel somewhat embarrassed. If only I could have brought you something else..."

"Don't worry about something like that! Besides, I already know you're rich, Enrique. It'd be weird if I suddenly started saying I wanted something expensive now. It's the thought that counts. That's what makes me happiest. Muchas gracias, Enrique. I'm genuinely happy."

"You're welcome. Dōitashimashite, dōitashimashite."

"Heh heh. Still, this really makes me happy."

"Actually, this toy has a surprise. Like a Fabergé egg."

"A Faber... what?"

"Never mind. The creator of an ornament we have at home. This tower has a gimmick."

"Huh? What is it?"

"It lights up."

With that, Enrique fitted a black stand—something like the cap of a plastic bottle—onto the bottom of the Tokyo Tower figurine. Then he pressed a switch. The transparent tower began to glow blue.

"I got the blue one. The gachapon contained pink, orange, and blue versions... but I remember that the beautiful tower you told me about was orange. So I wanted to give you the orange one. When I tried to have another go, my security detail stopped me..."

"You didn't have time, huh?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"No, no, no! Wait, didn't I ever tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"The story about when I left for Spain."

When Enrique shook his head, Haruyoshi gave a wry smile and began to explain.

"The tower on the day I left for Spain wasn't orange. It was blue."

"Oh."

"I don't know if it's still like that these days, but back then Tokyo Tower had only recently started using LED illuminations. I think they alternated between blue and orange. I already knew I wouldn't get to see it again for a long time, so on my last day I kept praying, 'Orange, orange.' But, well, it was blue."

"I see. That must have been disappointing..."

"But looking back now, I think it was symbolic in its own way."

If those lights had been orange, it would have felt as though everything had ended a little too neatly.

Haruyoshi said this. Then he switched to English.

"Life isn't a story divided neatly into chapters. As each day passes, little by little, through the ordinary process of renewal and change, we become someone different. Just as you can look at a childhood photo album and be surprised, at some point you have become a different person from the one you once were. Yet there is no visible border where that change occurs. Perhaps it is better that way."

After speaking that far in English, Haruyoshi switched back to Japanese.

"I was all fired up, thinking, I'm leaving my old self behind and doing my best in Spain! But that blue light kind of took the wind out of my sails and made me think, Hey, maybe I don't need to take it quite that seriously. In the end, even after getting completely crushed by my classmates' skill levels at school, I've somehow managed. And I got to meet you too, Enrique. So it hasn't been bad. That blue Tokyo Tower might be something like a lucky charm for me."

"...Wonderful."

"Heh heh. Was it a good story?"

"Well, yes, that too, but Haruyoshi, somewhere along the way you have become an excellent English speaker. Bravo. You can now talk about abstract things in English. Splendid."

"Huh? R-Really? Hahaha! Maybe it's because you're always telling me complicated things in English. You know that saying, ‘even a temple boy learns sutras by listening at the gate’? I guess I just picked some things up along the way."

"Temple gate child? I don't know that expression, so I'll have to study it later. In any case, it is your own ability. I intended to give you a present, but instead I am the one who has received a wonderful gift."

Looking slightly embarrassed, Haruyoshi scratched his head and smiled gently.

"That Tokyo Tower," he said, pointing at it through the screen.

"Keep it for me. You don't need to send it."

"...What?"

"Just put it next to that Faber-whatever ornament. Whether it's in England or Spain, we'll meet someday. You can give it to me then. Besides, how should I put it... Spain's postal service isn't exactly... good. It might get lost, so I'd rather you hold onto it."

"......That is a promise I am very much looking forward to."

"It won't be that far in the future, right? I'm free whenever, so just let me know when it's convenient for you."

"Yes. Certainly. Really, all I ever do is receive gifts. Today is a good birthday."

"Huh?"

"Hm?"

"...Birthday? Your birthday?"

"Yes. Though it's nothing worth paying attention to. Merely the sort of thing that causes a bit of commotion among the household and business associates..."

"...Aaaahhh—!"

With a shout, Haruyoshi dashed out of view.

A moment later, he returned carrying a guitar.

Then, after an introduction consisting of "Sorry," "I forgot," and "Seriously, I'm so sorry," he began to sing Happy Birthday.

Holding the blue-glowing Tokyo Tower figurine in the palm of his hand, Enrique listened with obvious delight.

How happy it made him to hear a friend casually admit that he had "accidentally forgotten" his birthday; how much it felt like being treated as a real human being, warm-blooded and ordinary, after spending an entire year without a single person—neither his family, nor those connected to the family business, nor his temporary friends—forgetting it at all.

Short Story Collection

This translation is a fan-made, unofficial project created out of love for the original work. I do not claim any ownership. All rights go to the original author and publisher. Please support the official release by buying the book if you can.

← Back | Index | Next →

(50) Felucca

“What’s it like, holding a Christmas market inside your own house?”

“Mm. Somewhat… strange.”

“Well, yeah, of course!”

The brown-haired Japanese man looked out at the garden stretching as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with Christmas stalls. Ginger cookies. Ornaments. Scarves. Mulled wine.

Shimomura Haruyoshi let out an “Ahh!” and stretched his arms. Thanks to the enormous grounds and the lively noise, no one in particular turned to look.

Behind the two of them stood a country house so massive that “huge” hardly did it justice. On maps, it went by the name Claremont House.

“It’s so big. I thought I’d gotten used to ‘big houses’ after visiting that farm in Spain, but this kind of size is on another level.”

“The result of long years of domination, exploitation, and violence.”

“Enrique, your Japanese vocabulary is still really skewed…”

“I’m British, you know,” the Englishman in the gray cashmere coat joked in English.

Tourists holding up their various “harvests”—tree ornaments, scones, mince pies, mulled wine, gardening tools—wandered between the stalls, unaware that the owner of the gardens and the manor house was standing right beside them.

In a corner of the garden, where the cold wind swept through, about ten meters away from the row of market stalls, the two friends—different in nationality and age—stood staring quietly at the lively scene.

“How long does this go on?”

“Until Christmas.”

“I see. That must be a lot to manage. And if weird people show up, that’d be a problem too.”

“People weird enough to come after paying the high entrance fee… are very… well-behaved.”

“Hahaha.”

Watching the young man laugh, the Englishman murmured softly:

“It’s been a long time… since we last held this market.”

“Really? So it’s not something you do every year?”

“I have to be the one managing it. Until now, I simply… didn’t have the time.”

“I get it.”

The Japanese youth understood that “time” here meant less literal time and more mental room to spare.

The Englishman, whose pale cheeks carried a faintly self-satisfied expression, asked his younger friend:

“How is it, Haruyoshi? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah! I’m having a great time! Lunch was delicious, and the rehearsal was fun too.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Oh, right!”

Before he forgot, the Japanese youth said aloud as he searched through his backpack. It was a black backpack he had stubbornly refused to take off, despite suggestions that he leave it behind.

Inside was a white drawstring pouch.

A stylish brown ribbon was tied at the opening.

“Here. Enrique—happy birthday. It’s your birthday present.”

“Oh…! I told you… not to worry about that.”

“Enrique, mōshiagemashita is honorific, you know. We’re equals, we’re friends—so ‘I said that’ is fine.”

“That’s true.”

After the usual polite exchange—“May I open it?”—Henry carefully untied the ribbon. Realizing there was no servant around to take it from him, he quietly hung the ribbon over his own arm and opened the pouch. Inside was a box. One side was covered with clear plastic so he could look inside.

It was a box containing a diorama.

Inside a Middle Eastern–style clay-walled house, people were kneeling, peering into a manger.

Henry’s eyes widened.

“This is… a Belén?”

“You know it well! Yep, it’s a Belén. A classic Spanish Christmas decoration. A diorama of the baby’s birth scene. In English it means ‘Bethlehem,’ right?”

“Correct. And you know it very well.”

“What’s ‘Bethlehem’?”

“…A place name.”

Henry did not add that it was the birthplace of the most important figure in Christianity. The Japanese-born young man nodded, “Hmm, I see, I see,” as if mentally filing away this curious new name.

Clearing his throat lightly, Henry continued.

“But this isn’t Bethlehem. It’s something else.”

“Yeah, right. In Spain they sell those ‘handmade Belén kits’ everywhere, so I tried arranging one a bit in a Japanese style. Belén scenes are always about a child being born, right? So I thought—maybe something else could be born instead.”

“Oh… that idea is very fresh.”

“Hehehe.”

Lying in the manger was not a baby.

It was a piano and a guitar.

Mary and Joseph, who should have been celebrating the child’s birth, had multiplied into a dozen or so men and women with similar faces. They looked like spectators enjoying music in an overcrowded tablao.

“I call it ‘The Birth of Music’! Looks fun, doesn’t it? I put into it the feeling that, as long as there’s music, people can enjoy themselves together anywhere.”

“…Wonderful.”

“It’s not all that well made, but you can display it for a bit and then throw it away if you want.”

“No. Why would you say such a thing? Japanese people take modesty too far. Telling someone to throw away a gift is entirely inappropriate.”

“Apuroppri…?”

“You know, that thing—um—tekisetsu.”

“Oh, so you mean ‘not appropriate.’”

“Yes. I will cherish this. Very much.”

“Thanks. But Enrique, you treasure everything. Like the coasters from that café we went to together, or the chocolate wrappers. Aren’t you going to run out of space?”

“I won’t. After all… my house is large.”

“Ahh… yeah, that’s a whole different level of persuasive…”

“Looking at things like that during work makes me happy.”

“You have been busy with work lately, Enrique.”

“You too.”

“More or less, yeah. Can’t complain.”

The two gazed absentmindedly out at the garden.

Trees turning yellow. Half-withered grass. Autumn-colored flowers. A pale blue sky. Clouds.

People enjoying the market.

“It’s nice. If there were music here, it’d be even better.”

“Then… shall we play?”

“Isn’t the concert supposed to start in the evening?”

“That is true, but I would also like the people visiting during the day to enjoy it.”

“Agreed! Then let’s do a guerrilla performance.”

“…Gorilla…?”

“Not gorilla performance—guerrilla. Uh… what does ‘guerrilla’ mean in English…?”

After tilting his head, the Japanese youth laughed. Henry laughed as well.

“Anyway, let’s do it.”

“Yeah! Let’s just do it!”

And so the two went to a spot slightly apart from the market stalls—a white, round-roofed pavilion used as a gazebo in summer—and took out the instruments that had been covered with a waterproof sheet. The sign that read “Small Concert” said the start time was at night, but that didn’t matter to the musicians’ mood.

As guitar and piano began to play bright, Christmas-like music, smiles slowly spread across the faces of the people browsing the stalls.

Short Story Collection

This translation is a fan-made, unofficial project created out of love for the original work. I do not claim any ownership. All rights go to the original author and publisher. Please support the official release by buying the book if you can.

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(49) Ascot, 20XX

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who appraise, and those who are appraised.

Eighteen-year-old Jeffrey Claremont understood that this place might be the ultimate embodiment of that divide.

“What a lovely outfit! A fine young gentleman who will lead the next generation—your father must be so proud.”

“Thank you, Lady Mary. But I am the second son.”

“Indeed, yes. Perhaps I shouldn’t say something like this, but… it would have been better if you and your elder brother had been switched.”

If you think you shouldn’t say it, then don’t, Jeffrey thought, all while maintaining a polite smile. Lady Mary was the widow of the previous head of a neighboring marquess’ family and nearly eighty years old. No matter what she said, it wasn’t something he should take offense at.

June in England meant one thing: the Royal Ascot.

Held at Ascot Racecourse on the outskirts of London, it was a glamorous, royally hosted horse racing event. In truth, it was a party where those who breathed the air of “high society” gathered en masse—a competition of fashion as much as anything else. It wasn’t a fashion week runway show, but it did have a strictly enforced dress code: for men, a tailcoat and hat; for women, a dress and an elegant hat were mandatory. The outfits worn by royals, earls, and other “celebrities” who attended—the men’s silk top hats or bowlers, the women’s extravagant headpieces—would adorn the front pages of the tabloids the next day.

Jeffrey had long understood that high society existed not for those within it, but for those outside it.

But there were people who didn’t understand that.

“Jeff.”

When a familiar voice called his name, Jeffrey pretended not to hear it the first time. But at the second call, he had no choice but to turn around.

It was the Claremont family’s eldest son, Henry Claremont.

Although there was nothing wrong with his internal organs, the timid young man—who always looked a little pale and wore a somewhat troubled smile—seemed to have run after his younger brother with his tie crooked and his buttons misaligned. Up until the very last moment before the car arrived at the racecourse, Henry had refused to put on the stiff formal wear, which meant he couldn’t rely on anyone else’s help to dress properly.

Smiling, Jeffrey escorted his brother to a shaded table away from the crowds. There, he straightened Henry’s tie, unfastened the mismatched buttons, and redo them from the bottom up. Only then did Henry seem to realize how sloppy his attire had been.

“Ah… sorry. I really thought I’d done it correctly.”

“You were practicing piano late again last night, weren’t you? Don’t push yourself. So, what happened? Something came up while I was greeting people?”

“Well… how should I put this… I’d like you to listen without getting upset.”

“I’m not going to get upset! We’re the only two brothers, after all!”

Henry was the first to realize that his dramatic statement sounded like a tasteless joke. He was honest—too honest, really—and not well suited for surviving in high society; his thoughts tended to show clearly on his face. Now, he was giving Jeffrey a vague, uneasy smile.

The face lingering in Henry’s mind was probably that of the “other one.”

“…Yes. You’re right. We really are.”

“So? What did you need?”

“It’s not from Richard. It’s from me.”

There’s no need to bring up the ‘other one’ at a time like this, Jeffrey thought, but he kept smiling as he responded to his brother.

From inside Henry’s tightly fitting silk coat—where nothing at all should have been stored—he produced something resembling a crumpled photograph. Flustered, muttering “oh, oh,” he tried to smooth out the wrinkles, but didn’t manage to improve it much. In the end he handed it over completely creased. Jeffrey frowned.

“What is this?”

“…A pressed flower.”

“A pressed flower?”

“I… tried making one.”

“You made it? Why?”

“Because I won’t be able to spend your birthday with you this year.”

Jeffrey’s eyes widened.

Now that he thought about it, Jeffrey’s birthday did indeed come at the end of June. It was the day he made a ruckus with his friends from boarding school and opened the presents sent from home—but more often than not, it was a quiet event overshadowed by the flashy brilliance of the Ascot races held just beforehand. In the Claremont family, which hosted numerous major events—garden parties, contemporary art competitions, equestrian tournaments in the garden, and more—the second son’s birthday ranked near the very bottom of priorities.

Jeffrey was genuinely exasperated.

“Ah… Henry, listen. Today is Ascot. And you brought something like this? When did you even make it?”

“Last night. I—I didn’t just throw it together on a whim. I’m not familiar with this kind of craft, so I studied it for a while and picked the one that turned out best… No, I shouldn’t say things like that. Sorry.”

It seemed today was the sort of day when everyone said things they shouldn’t say and did things they shouldn’t do. Suppressing the urge to blow his bangs up with a sigh, Jeffrey swiftly took the wrinkled pressed flower from Henry’s hands. Then he reacted with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

“Wow! You’re giving this to me? Thank you. I’m really happy. I’ll take good care of it. Anyway, now that your clothes and hair are in order, I think you should get back to greeting people. You can’t possibly be done with everyone yet, right?”

“I’ve only managed about a third…”

“I see! That’s tough, but do your best, okay? Everyone wants to see your face, Henry. They want you to greet them. They want to connect with you and build a good relationship for the future—not with me. Yep, your outfit is perfect. You look great! Now off you go!”

With that, Jeffrey gave Henry a push on the back and guided him toward the most prestigious section of high society—the area reserved for royalty and the highest-ranking nobility. It was the space under the blue canopy, where champagne glasses sparkled.

Henry still looked as though he had something more to say, but Jeffrey had no intention of hearing anything further. Warm sentiments, subtle concern, the clumsy affection of brothers—none of it belonged at Ascot. Such things were utterly out of place among the glossy tailcoats and glittering hats, like a wildflower waiting to be trampled underfoot. It was uncomfortable even to stand beside it, let alone look at it.

“Good luck!”

After sending Henry off, Jeffrey resumed circulating among the guests—exactly as his father had instructed him to do as a “rover,” moving between those who, while not aristocrats of the highest order, held considerable power within London’s financial world. His task was to show his face, make an impression, and build connections.

Jeffrey was eighteen—legally an adult in the United Kingdom.

He could drink openly, and he could do practically anything on his own. There were many things he could do that his brother—who should have been an adult long ago—still couldn’t.

“…Honestly, I really can’t stand awkward situations,” he muttered.

Jeffrey cast a glance back toward the blue tent. Hidden behind a cluster of extravagant, borderline barbaric hats, his gentle brother was no longer visible.

After finishing his story, the man in the suit murmured quietly from his seat at the corner of the bar counter.

“I still don’t know the name of that pressed flower.”

“Oh?”

“I lost it before I realized. There were a lot of people around, so maybe I dropped it at the racecourse. I just went along with Henry and said things like ‘I’m taking good care of it!’ but he’s perceptive. I’m sure he realized right away that I’d lost it.”

Sitting beside him at the counter, Joachim recrossed his legs and muttered:

“You really are such an awkward person.”

“…I tell a story like this and your response is ‘you’re awkward’?”

Yes, Joachim nodded.

“You wanted to cherish that pressed flower. If you hadn’t lost it, it would probably still be tucked away in a drawer of your desk even now. But unfortunately, it disappeared somewhere, and you’ve regretted it for years. If that’s not awkward, then what is?”

“I thought you were going to say something like ‘you’re a heartless, ungrateful little brother.’”

“That’s just your own self-evaluation and regret. I would never say that, or think it.”

Silence settled over the counter.

Listening to the distant sound of the bartender shaving ice, Jeffrey murmured:

“…What flower was it, really? Since it was in June, roses would be the obvious choice, but it wasn’t anything that large. It was more like something small—like a violet. And our family home has one of the most renowned botanical gardens in England, so even if I tried to narrow it down, there were far too many possibilities. Azalea, wisteria… I know a little more about flowers now, but back then I had no interest at all…”

“What does it matter what flower it was? It’s still blooming in your heart.”

“Hm?”

Jeffrey raised one eyebrow, and Joachim smiled as he continued.

“Physical things in the real world are all temporary. Real flowers wilt, plates break. But the good feeling you had when it was in your hands—that lasts. Even if you’d lost that pressed-flower card one second after receiving it.”

“I had it for five minutes. One second is impossible.”

“It’s a figure of speech. But even so, the feelings you had when you received that card haven’t disappeared. They’re still with you. And isn’t that precisely why your brother made a pressed flower? He knew perfectly well that you were already busy back then. And that you’re not the type to sit and quietly gaze at flowers.”

“…Well, my brother was the type to pick gifts based entirely on his own tastes.”

“Brothers are such a hassle.”

“Only now you realize? The level of hassle in my family is enough to drag the whole world into it.”

“Yes, yes, that’s that, and this is this. Whatever the case, what your brother wanted to give you wasn’t the command ‘take good care of this pressed flower forever,’ but the feeling ‘I wish you happiness.’ And that feeling reached you clearly. So there’s no problem at all, is there?”

“…I’ll buy you another drink.”

“Oh, lucky me. But I’ll pass this time. Instead, there’s something I want you to do.”

With a theatrical gesture, Joachim spread his arms, and Jeffrey leaned in slightly.

“Anything you want, honey. The new Jimmy Choo? I haven’t bought it yet because I forgot whether it was the bag or the shoes you wanted.”

“Call your brother.”

“…”

“Just tell him exactly what you told me today. Even if he’s not the most dexterous person emotionally, he’s straighter-spined than you are. For someone like that, being honest is best. That’s what my experience tells me—just my own experience, of course.”

“Oh? Then what do you do with someone like me, the type whose spine is all twisted?”

“When you’re walking around the pond with that completely uninterested look on your face, I just walk quietly beside you. That’s all.”

Jeffrey burst out laughing. It was a laugh with a slightly aggressive edge to it, but he knew Joachim wouldn’t mind.

“Hm, is that so?” Jeffrey said, resting his elbow on the counter and giving him a suggestive look.

“You’re not going to say, ‘Tell him the truth’?”

“Even if I did, it would only make you uncomfortable. Whether it’s meaningful or not, I don’t want to do that to you.”

“I’ll buy you one more drink. Then we’ll call it a night.”

“…Okay. I think I’ll finish with a dry martini.”

“I’ll call my brother tomorrow.”

“…”

“Is that all right?”

“…You don’t have to force yourself.”

“Talking about this today, and you giving me that advice—it feels like a kind of opportunity. And in moments like that, forcing yourself a little can be a good thing. That’s my own personal rule.”

Jeffrey gave him a wink—polished and flawless, like something a handsome actor would flash in an old Hollywood film.

Joachim blinked several times, then let out a long sigh.

“You really are good at those hopelessly corny winks.”

“‘Corny’ is unnecessary.”

“Yes, yes. You look handsome.”

“I do intend to look handsome, you know.”

“I know. But I’m not planning on letting myself be fooled by you.”

“Oh, good grief.”

Jeffrey shrugged, slipped an arm around Joachim, and gave him a gentle pat-pat on the back.

“Thanks for everything.”

“You’re welcome, you good-for-nothing.”

“Now that’s just rude.”

“What else should I call someone who insists on being a good-for-nothing?”

Jeffrey didn’t respond to that.

After the two of them finished getting ready to leave the bar together, Joachim suddenly cleared his throat.

And then, as if just remembering, he said brightly:

Short Story Collection

This is an extra Tsujimura-Sensei wrote for the Pride-month 2026 and posted it on bluesky. Mind you that she wants to revise the story when she has time. So I will correct the content once that happens.

Index

(A short story that contains slight spoilers for the final volume of The Case Files of Jeweler Richard)

"I want to be honest."

"Go ahead."

"I want to get married."

"We're already married."

"No... I don't mean spiritually. I mean I want us to be legally married."

"I agree with that, but it won't be possible today or tomorrow. Has something happened?"

"There aren't many inconveniences to living with you. But still, when I suddenly get caught up in trouble again or something like that, I really hate the idea of you being pushed aside."

"Then will you truly obtain British citizenship?"

"I am thinking about it... I am thinking about it... I am... but ughhhhhhh..."

"That voice crawling along the ground is answer enough."

"Ugh..."

"But to be even more honest, I feel indebted to the gay people who march in Pride parades."

"In what sense?"

"...Because I don't march either... I can't really say I'm actively involved in rights issues, and to begin with, it's not as though I'm personally involved in the struggle over marriage rights."

"The vast majority of gay people do not participate in parades. They simply live their lives."

"But it's precisely because there are people who stand up and say, 'This isn't good enough!!' that it definitely becomes easier for the rest of us to breathe. And it feels really uncomfortable, benefiting from that without contributing anything..."

"And yet, I know that you make donations to various causes."

"That's true."

"Just staying alive is genuinely difficult for human beings, isn't it? All things considered, I think I was born in a good era."

"You're not joking?"

"Of course not. After all, I got to meet you."

"............"

"I do think I was born in a good era. But by the time you reach my age, you realize there are things that won't change if all you do is sit in the bath and think, 'Ah, things turned out well.' People from younger generations start coming along too, like Minoru-kun. So if possible, I'd like kids younger than me to be able to think, 'I was born in an even better era than he was.'"

"...I completely agree."

"Yeah, figured you would."

"...I'm really going to think about a lot of things from now on. Truly, a lot of things. I'll think about changing my nationality as well. But more than that, I'm going to try thinking a little more seriously about the country where I was born. When all is said and done, I am Japanese, after all. I put nori on white rice, make miso soup, cook rolled omelets, and eat them with green tea."

"The breakfasts you make are always excellent. And if possible, I would like you to live happily forever in the place where your smile comes most naturally."

"Together with you."

"...If that wish can be granted, then I have no other wish."

"Thanks. But if I can spend the rest of my life with you, then I feel like wanting to aim a little higher."

"'Aim higher' is an interesting expression. I understand it as meaning to desire something beyond one's station. Yet in this age, when equality is supposed to be taken for granted, what exactly could you possibly be aiming higher for?"

"I want a happiness that isn't just enough for me alone."

"............"

"I don't like the idea of you not being happy too."

"............"

"Well, I guess that's actually a pretty ordinary wish after all! A-anyway, now I'm starting to feel embarrassed, so I'm going to take a bath."

"I'm beginning to feel embarrassed as well, so I think I'll go to bed first. Good night."

"...Can I say that I love you?"