Record of Lorelei: Chapter 6

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When had Asamura first realized he was different from others?

Born to a father who worked at the Ministry of Finance and a mother who had been the daughter of a tea merchant, Asamura was raised in privilege. The family was wealthy, with two women coming to help during the day. He grew up in a sprawling estate, nurtured by his mother and the household staff. He had no siblings, and his playmates were limited to the helpers. Life was free of hardship: he had a ball to play with, an array of wooden toys, and meals and snacks so abundant that he never had time to feel hungry. His father ignored him, and his mother sometimes lashed out, striking him in moments of temper, but he never questioned why. To him, these were just sad but ordinary parts of life. The household staff would always patch him up afterward, spoiling him with special treats and doting attention. He grew up without major complaints.

He began to sense that something was unusual around the age of seven. One day, overhearing his mother and the staff chatting, he learned that children his age typically attended elementary school.

Why couldn’t he go? How could he attend? When would he be allowed outside the gate? He repeatedly asked the perplexed staff, his curiosity growing.

Soon after, a private tutor was hired to teach him at home. The man was a former navy sub-lieutenant who had suffered a leg injury from a shell and now worked as a middle school teacher. Asamura was told the tutor would teach him things far beyond what elementary school offered. Despite his busy teaching schedule, the tutor came to instruct him in mathematics, Chinese poetry, physics, and English. The lessons were so fascinating that Asamura briefly lost interest in elementary school, but the mystery remained unsolved. Why couldn’t he attend? Why wasn’t he allowed to leave the house? When he asked the tutor, the man would only say, “The time will come,” and never explained.

Why could even the household staff come and go as they pleased while he was forbidden from leaving? Why was the hedge outside his room taller than the one at the front entrance? Why was the gate locked?

"A minister’s son showing interest in common life is terribly unbecoming." The staff frowned disapprovingly, but Asamura’s curiosity about the outside world only grew stronger.

Finally, one day, he quietly left the house. He had long known there was a gap in the hedge just wide enough for him to slip through. Sometimes, he would peek out from there, but contrary to the warnings he had been told as a child, there were no demons roaming the streets—just a clean alley stretching left and right.

He didn’t plan anything drastic. He would go as far as he could and turn back if he felt uneasy. He just wanted to step outside. A small excursion would suffice. Whether it was just beyond the gate or much farther, he planned to return once his curiosity was satisfied.

Dressing to imitate the students who sometimes accompanied his tutor, he ventured into the streets: a white shirt, a navy-blue brimmed hat, and leather shoes. Though he carried money, he wasn’t sure how to use it. At a candy shop, he handed over a coin and received some sweets in return, along with a handful of change. The shopkeeper gave him a peculiar look, which he assumed was due to his unfamiliarity with handling money.

He stopped by a pickled food shop, then peeked into a bookstore. There, he saw a particularly beautiful large book on a shelf and asked the man inside if he could buy it. He showed him his coins, but the man said it wasn’t enough. Even then, Asamura noticed the man inspecting him from head to toe.

Was his appearance strange? Was his ignorance about money embarrassing? Feeling a mix of discomfort and confusion, Asamura left the bookstore and walked along the street, soon realizing that everyone he passed was staring at him. It didn’t take long for him to figure out why.

Everyone else’s eyes were black.

Asamura had always known his own eye color was different from his father’s, mother’s, and the household staff’s, but he had thought it was no more significant than having or not having a mole on one’s cheek. He assumed blue eyes were rare simply because he had never seen anyone else with them, not that everyone else had black eyes.

Pulling his hat’s brim low, he hurried home as though fleeing. Waiting for him was his frantic mother.

—Stop her, madam!

He distinctly remembered a servant hoisting him onto his shoulder and running out to the garden. Over the man’s shoulder, Asamura saw his mother holding a kitchen knife.

Asamura spent the rest of the day in the servants’ quarters. By evening, a servant accompanied him to his mother’s family home. A car was brought around to the backyard, and a shawl was thrown over his head as the servant shielded him while escorting him through the veranda and into the house.

He hadn’t expected much, but everyone there also had black eyes.

For the first time, Asamura met his grandmother. She was as pale as mochi, small in stature, and plump. He had never before seen someone with silver hair.

Seated on a cushion in the center of a small tatami room, his grandmother took Asamura’s hands in her wrinkled ones.

—You look so much like Miyoko.

—And just like Tomotake, too.

These words, murmured after her first look at him, would support Asamura for years to come. He resembled both his father and his mother. And yet, why were his eyes alone a shade of grayish blue? He didn’t know.

The story gradually came to him in bits and pieces later. When he was born, his mother was accused of infidelity. There’s no way a child with eyes like that could be born to parents with black eyes. His mother insisted she had done nothing wrong, but some relatives accused her, saying Asamura’s eyes were proof of her betrayal. The couple nearly divorced, but relatives, matchmakers, and close friends persuaded them otherwise, suggesting that perhaps Asamura’s eyes might darken as he grew or that it could be a rare illness. As Asamura’s facial features matured, becoming distinctly like his father Tomotake’s, the accusations lost clarity. While they couldn’t definitively declare his mother guilty of infidelity, neither could they allow a son with such unusual eyes to be seen outside. And so, he was raised in confinement.

A few days later, his mother calmed down, and Asamura returned home. The house was quiet again, as though nothing had happened. His mother stopped meeting him, and instead, a male caretaker was assigned to him.

When Asamura complained of boredom, his father began giving him books. A bookseller would arrive daily with a cart full of books, leave the entire lot, and take back the ones Asamura didn’t select. If a book was too difficult to read, more tutors were brought in. Many were former navy men, given his father’s professional ties, and some spoke fluent English and German. With their help, Asamura immersed himself in his studies. Mathematics and English became his strengths. While he disliked novels, he found poetry fascinating.

One day, he overheard mention of yokaren, the Naval Aviation Preparatory Course.

The yokaren gathered determined young men from across the nation to train as aircraft pilots. Asamura sought every scrap of information he could find. With so many former navy personnel around him, it wasn’t difficult to learn more. He learned that boys of his age were gathered in a place called Tsuchiura, where they trained and studied diligently. The idea thrilled Asamura. He was more than willing to give his utmost effort. He was physically robust, after all.

Asamura pleaded passionately with his father.

—Please let me join the yokaren, Father.

—I’ve heard they have dormitories there.

He believed that his father allowed it primarily for that reason. Leaving the house to live in a dormitory, where no one knew the name Asamura or his parents’ faces, appealed to both of them. For Asamura, it was a way to escape a life of confinement. For his father, it offered the hope of a future for a son who seemed destined to be trapped forever.

Though applicants were required to have graduated from higher elementary school, Asamura’s education exceeded that level, and he was granted a special exception to enroll.

Asamura harbored one other hope.

Though no one in his household or hometown shared his eye color, the yokaren housed thousands of individuals. Perhaps, just perhaps, someone there might have the same eyes and say, “It happens sometimes,” laughing away his parents’ doubts.

In the end, Asamura’s wish didn’t come true.

Back then, naval officers were synonymous with sailors, worldly individuals who had crossed the seas and broadened their horizons. A few had examined Asamura’s eyes and speculated that his eye color might be due to a genetic mutation affecting pigmentation. Others suggested that his striking gray-blue hue might have originated from an ancestor who had mingled with foreigners long ago, their features finally resurfacing in Asamura.

The yokaren was like salvation for him, a place he had tumbled into just before suffocating. Slowly, as his knowledge expanded, he began to feel delicate threads of hope growing from his uneasy skin. It’s not because of my mother’s infidelity, he thought. He longed to return home and declare it to his family.

But life in the yokaren wasn’t free of hardship. His classmates severely discriminated against him for his eye color. Whenever he achieved even slightly better results, they would use it as a reason to ridicule him further. Yet the yokaren was a meritocracy. Asamura could fight back through his performance in academics and flight training. For the first time in his life, he found a way to carve out a place for himself by his own efforts.

Over time, the rigorous training consumed everyone, leaving them with no capacity to dwell on Asamura’s eye color. Moreover, because Asamura had joined before the war began, he escaped the stigma of being hated as someone with “enemy blood.” He even made a few friends. One day, someone joked that if he dropped ink into his eyes like eye drops, they might turn black. When they actually tried it, they were all scolded in the infirmary. Multiple instructors came running, furious that future pilots had dared to risk their eyesight. The whole group was lined up and beaten, but to Asamura, it was one of his few fond memories.

Carrying the newfound hope and perspective he could never have gained within the walls of the Asamura household, he returned home for the first time during winter at the age of 17. Though he had a leave before, he had always avoided his oppressive home, choosing to stay in cheap inns. This was his first time truly returning.

Just one more year of effort, and I’ll be a naval aviator. The thought swelled his chest with pride. Becoming part of the navy’s aviation corps—a beacon of Japan, the envy of all young men—meant that no one would demean him again. Perhaps advances in science would one day explain his unique eyes, proving it to be natural. The experimental labs at the yokaren were equipped to yield such answers.

Maybe my eye color isn’t anyone’s fault, Asamura thought. With the hope of explaining it to his parents, he boarded the train for home. At the station, he bought roasted chestnuts, rice balls, and a newspaper. Strangers passing by inevitably glanced at his eyes, but he no longer bowed his head or hid behind his hat brim.

The train whistled and began to move. As the platform seemed to pull away behind him, Asamura’s heart leaped with anticipation.

After a while, the countryside came into view. He leaned out, resting an elbow on the window. Young wheat swayed in the breeze, and mirror-like ponds glittered in the sunlight. Thin smoke rose from distant villages. Looking at the black mountain ridges trailing beneath purple clouds, he felt he could go anywhere.

Opening and closing the window for every tunnel, Asamura unfolded the newspaper, feeling distinctly grown-up.

Why did I decide to buy a newspaper that day? He couldn’t recall. Perhaps it was some premonition, for within its pages, Asamura saw his father’s name.

The article claimed that his father had embezzled government funds for years. Corruption. Bribery. Scandal. Women. A filthy, corrupt minister steeped in disgrace.

The headline was bold and unmistakable, but Rui Asamura couldn’t make sense of it. This has to be a joke. Perhaps it was someone with the same name? But there was only one Minister Asamura. Rui even considered, seriously for a moment, that it might be an elaborate prank concocted by his mischievous yokaren classmates. His father was a serious and upright man—a man who neither gambled nor drank heavily. His only indulgence was puffing a cigar in a rocking chair on the veranda. He had always kept Rui and his mother close, despite their ostracism, and had never taken a mistress even though Rui was deemed unfit as an heir. He was a kind, steady presence in Rui’s life.

It must be a mistake. Filled with disbelief, Rui hurried from the station, transferring to the streetcar and heading straight for home.

When he arrived, his breath caught in his throat.

The walls surrounding the house were covered in graffiti scrawled in paint and ink, slandering his father. Notes accusing him of embezzlement were pinned to the walls with knives stabbed deep into the plaster. Outside the gate, coarse-looking men—likely journalists—loitered menacingly. Rui slipped through a gap in the hedge to avoid them.

The garden was trashed. Flowerpots were shattered, and garbage was scattered everywhere. Shaken, Rui unlocked the door and stepped inside.

A stranger emerged from within, startling him. The man was broad-foreheaded, exuding a gloomy air, and dressed in a suit. He scrutinized Rui with suspicion before speaking in a stiff, formal tone.

“Who might you be?”

“Who are you!?” Rui demanded sharply. “What are you doing in my house?”

The man’s expression tightened with unease, and then his eyes widened in realization.

“Could you be… Rui-san?”

“I am,” Rui replied curtly, his hostility unmasked.

The man sighed as if something clicked into place.

“My name is Takunari Abukawa,” he introduced himself. “I serve as Minister Asamura’s chief secretary.”

Abukawa wasted no time ushering Rui inside and away from the prying eyes outside. His gaze lingered on Rui’s eyes, scrutinizing them without subtlety. Perhaps he had known about Rui’s existence but not the peculiar color of his irises.

The secretary explained that the household staff had been told to stay away for their safety. Rui’s mother, terrified, had locked herself in her room. The house was in shambles—windows shattered by stones, and several large rocks littering the tatami floors.

Together, Rui and Abukawa began tidying up, covering broken windows with paper. Even as they worked, angry shouts erupted from outside: “Give back the money!” Stones continued to rain in from the veranda.

Later that evening, Rui ventured out through the hedge once more to buy supplies. Luckily—or unluckily—no one in the neighborhood seemed to recognize him. As long as he kept his eyes downcast, he could move without drawing attention.

—So the lady of that house had an affair with a foreigner, didn’t she? With a family like that, embezzlement isn’t surprising.

The small town buzzed with such gossip. Even women shopping alongside him whispered these venomous rumors.

Is this my fault? Rui wondered bitterly. Because of the way I look?

He longed to shout back, to wield his newfound knowledge about genetics and inheritance to counter their ignorance. But what good would it do? These were people who had never even heard the word "gene."

Back at home, Rui swept shards of glass outside, pulled shutters closed, and hung curtains where shutters were missing. He worked to protect the house from sudden attacks.

“It’s been like this all day since the article came out,” Abukawa told him. Rui understood why his father, his frightened mother, and an overwhelmed secretary couldn’t manage this on their own. Determined to restore some semblance of order, Rui threw himself into cleaning. Only after clearing away broken glass, rocks, and hostile notes did he finally approach his father to greet him.

In the back drawing room, Rui faced his father, who sat looking defeated, unwilling to explain himself. His expression was tight with frustration.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” his father said, his voice shaking. “I tried to contact you, but I haven’t been able to leave the house to send a telegram.”

Even if he had sent one, would it have made a difference? Rui thought. If it had simply said, “Don’t come home,” Rui would have ignored it and been relieved to follow his instincts instead. The coincidence of his return was, perhaps, a stroke of fortune.

Beside his father sat a stack of ten newspapers, each carrying the damning article. His father’s voice trembled as he spoke.

"I swear on my life—it wasn't me. I have an idea who the real culprit is, and I know where the money went," his father said.

"Who is it?" Rui asked, his fists clenched tightly on his lap, his gaze fixed on the tatami floor. Whoever had driven his family and his father to such ruin could not be forgiven. I'll grab them by the neck myself, drag them to the police, and force the newspapers to retract their lies and issue a public apology.

"Someone who doesn’t think highly of me. Everyone around me must already have a suspect in mind. Don’t worry, they’ll handle it."

"Yes."

Rui felt a small measure of relief. His father had allies. Yet his anger boiled to the point of a headache. I wish I could help, but what can I do? I know nothing about politics. It was frustrating. If only this had happened a year later—after I had become a pilot—I could have done something for him.

"Rui," his father said softly.

"Yes," Rui replied, raising his tearful gaze to meet his father's.

"You’ve grown into a fine young man."

Rui’s heart swelled with emotion as he bowed his head deeply. To hear such words from the man who had once doubted him, who had hidden him away as a shameful child of questionable parentage—it was more than Rui had ever dared hope for.

His father rose quietly, opened a sliding door near the alcove, and retrieved a wooden box. Returning to his seat, he placed it on the tatami in front of Rui.

"It’s a good watch. It’ll serve you well as a pilot."

At his father’s prompting, Rui opened the box. Inside was a silver pocket watch, an item his father had always cherished. Rui’s hands trembled as he lifted it, overwhelmed. It felt as though a current of emotion coursed through his brain, leaving him stunned.

"Thank you. I’ll treasure it," Rui said, placing the watch gently in his lap. Bowing deeply, his hands pressed to his thighs, he tried to suppress the tears threatening to spill. Despite the dire circumstances, he felt a profound joy.

That evening, they lit a single lamp in the dark inner room and shared a meal. Rui only knew how to cook simple dishes like curry and stews. He decided on nikujaga, figuring it was hard to mess up. However, having learned to prepare meals for 200 people in the navy training camp, his attempt to scale down the recipe resulted in boiled potatoes and miso soup that was far too salty. Still, in the dim light, with glass breaking in the background, Rui, his parents, and Abukawa shared the meal they had cobbled together.

It was strange—this was the first time Rui could recall sitting around a table with his family.

Abukawa, quiet and methodical, wasn’t entirely unkind. While cooking, he mentioned he had a son around Rui’s age, and throughout the day, he had patiently explained the situation to Rui.

Later, in the pitch-dark room, a single candle flickered between them. Abukawa’s sharp cheekbones and his left eye reflected the orange glow as he spoke.

"I’ve already sent letters asserting your father’s innocence to the appropriate parties. Letters requesting testimony have also been dispatched. They’ll respond soon."

Since his father couldn’t leave the house, the only recourse was to rely on outside help from those who knew the truth.

"The documents proving his innocence have been secured by another secretary still in Tokyo. They’re safe and ready for court."

Abukawa’s words carried a glimmer of hope: once in Tokyo, his father’s innocence could be proven. Tomorrow, a car from his father’s workplace would arrive to take the family to Tokyo. His mother would return to her family’s home until the scandal was resolved. Rui’s leave had just begun, and though it was less than a week, it would be enough to escort his mother and ensure her safety.

With no lamps lit in the house, they retired for the night. Even in the dead of night, the occasional stone crashed through the shattered windows.

Looking back, I regret not fleeing immediately. But at the time, I never imagined that strangers, uninvolved in the scandal, would go beyond harassment to inflict real harm.

Rui laid out his futon in the room next to his parents. Though his nerves were on edge, a persistent drowsiness tugged at him. I was so excited to come home, I barely slept these past two days. That morning, he’d risen at dawn, eager for the journey. The fatigue of travel, the chaos and shock, cleaning up shattered glass, and cooking—none of it compared to the rigors of training, but the emotional exhaustion had left him drained.

Seated on his futon, Rui took out the pocket watch from the paulownia box beside his pillow. It was a round, silver watch that fit snugly in his palm. Below the numeral six on the dial was a small subdial for the second hand. Its back was a polished mirror-like surface, reflective enough to show his face, resembling liquid mercury pooled in his hand. The small blue engraving on the back, Asamura, filled him with a deep sense of pride. Compared to the flight watches used in training, this was far superior—a watch fit for officers. Rui slipped the pocket watch onto a cord around his neck before lying down, choosing to keep his clothes on just in case.

Holding the cold watch in his hands beneath the covers, he felt his body heat slowly transfer to it. The watch began to feel like an extension of himself. It was a quiet night, and he could faintly hear the ticking mechanism and the subtle vibrations within the watch. From the other side of the sliding doors, his parents seemed to be murmuring to each other, though he couldn’t make out the words. This is the first time we’ve been this close, he thought, gently stroking the watch as he drifted into a light slumber. As the night deepened, the sound of thrown stones finally ceased. At last, sleep began to claim him.

Suddenly, a loud, violent noise shattered the stillness, jerking Rui awake. Angry shouts erupted, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps storming into the adjacent room. Things were being overturned, and the crash of breaking pottery echoed through the house.

"Minister of Finance, Asamura Tomotake! This is divine punishment!"

The booming declaration, mixed with laughter and screams, tore through the night. Rui froze in shock. Bandits!

The realization hit him like a blow. He scrambled to stand, determined to help, but before he could move, the sliding door to his room was violently thrown open.

"Hey, who the hell are you?"

A man, his kimono disheveled and his demeanor thuggish, barked at Rui. Rui opened his mouth to reply, but then his gaze fell on his father, lying crumpled on the tatami mat. He gasped audibly. Recently, there had been a spate of attacks involving hydrochloric acid, used as a form of public punishment rather than murder. The acrid stench in the room was unmistakable, reminiscent of the disinfectants in the training camp laboratory. Hydrochloric acid.

"Father!" Rui cried, instinctively reaching out, but one of the men shoved him back.

Four intruders had burst into the room. One of them continued to kick his father. His mother lay motionless on the floor, her kimono igniting as it brushed against a nearby flame.

"Let go!" Rui struggled fiercely, but a blow to his face and kicks to his body sent him sprawling to the ground. Two of them pinned him to the tatami, pressing him down so hard he could barely breathe. They used the sash from his mother’s kimono to tie his arms behind his back.

"Release me! Do you think you’ll get away with this?" Rui shouted, his voice filled with fury.

His defiance was met with cruel laughter. One of the men tore the sleeve of his father’s yukata, rolling it into a makeshift gag as he approached Rui.

"Shut the hell up. Open your mouth," the man snarled.

Rui clenched his teeth, refusing, but they pinched his nose shut, cutting off his air. He held out as long as he could before instinct forced him to gasp for breath. They shoved the fabric into his mouth. The cold, wet cloth scraped his throat, sending a searing pain down his neck. He gagged, but the man’s hand pressed firmly against his mouth, keeping the cloth in place. Every attempt to scream only intensified the stabbing agony in his throat. Struggling to shake free, he felt the gag push even deeper, choking him further.

He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t fight. Desperation clawed at him as he watched his family’s destruction unfold, helpless to intervene.

"Is this the son? Cute face he's got there. Let's have some fun with him," one of the men sneered, his breath reeking of alcohol. Rui strained to look up, only to see a glass bottle being tilted above him. A faint hiss sounded near his ear, followed by a chilling sensation at the base of his neck and shoulder. Then, searing, unbearable pain scorched through him. The liquid trickled down to his right chest, and it felt as though he were bound in barbed wire. Rui struggled against it, but he couldn’t move. His throat burned too much to let out a scream. It hurts—it hurts so much—I can’t breathe!

"Hey, quit messing around and start searching!" another man barked.

The intruders ransacked the house, now glowing with the orange hues of spreading flames. They yanked open every sliding cabinet, threw aside lacquered shelves, tore through boxes, and scattered their contents across the floor. They’re looking for something, Rui realized, though every breath he took sent a fresh wave of pain and stinging into his chest and nose. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. The fumes of smoke invaded his senses. His throat and airways burned as if aflame, and he coughed violently, only to choke further.

He was powerless to resist. His body, trembling and battered, could do little but endure. Through his fading consciousness, he caught glimpses of moonlight filtering through the shattered windows. His mother’s screams echoed faintly in his ears. The house is on fire, he thought dimly, overwhelmed by the heat and the chaos.

As he writhed weakly, the world blurred around him. Darkness crept in, and his awareness began to slip away.

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