Every day he went out with paper and pen in hand, Randou resembled a poet observing the human world from a slight distance.
At times he was indifferent, at times bewildered; now and then, when the aching pain he felt toward his homeland surfaced, he would instinctively want to flee from it. This year, Yokohama's peculiar environment granted him a lucid, unromantic understanding of the world.
This was not a carefree paradise.
"Thank you for saving me. I'm Catherine, a French traveler visiting Japan."
The European girl whom Randou had rescued out of sheer empathy wore the latest fashion in veiled hats. She showed not the slightest fear over the fact that she had nearly been dragged into an alley; instead, she patted her long skirt smooth and spoke with lively interest to the long-haired gentleman who had come to her aid.
Had it been a Japanese man who saved her, Catherine might not have been so forthcoming.
This gentleman is really handsome, she thought—until the cold-sensitive young man, wearing fluffy earmuffs, paused slightly. From a certain angle, his green eyes—flecked faintly with gold—turned toward her, and he replied in the French of her homeland:
"Hello. I'm French as well."
Catherine's romantic flutter vanished at once. She regained her composure and offered a restrained smile.
"What a coincidence."
Inside, she wailed in despair. Oh God, why did it have to be a French compatriot who saved me? Even an Italian would have been fine—no, even a German or an Englishman would have done!
Half an hour later, inside a café, Catherine sat across from the newly acquainted Mr. Lantang. With no guard up at all, she began venting her troubles.
"Mr. Randou, I have four boyfriends. I came out this time to see a newly met Japanese–American mixed-blood officer. He's so handsome, and he doesn't mind at all becoming my lover. Oh—John isn't as good-looking as you, Mr. Randou, but in poor Japan, he's already quite impressive…"
Randou: "..."
Catherine sighed dramatically, drowning in self-pity.
"Who knew Yokohama was this chaotic? In the end, only a French compatriot would reach out a helping hand."
After scrutinizing Randou's elegant appearance from every angle, Catherine discreetly wiped at the corner of her mouth, where drool threatened to spill.
He's handsome, yes—but… the risk of being cuckolded was far too high!
People from the same country knew too well how their own kind behaved.
"Mr. Randou, you've been in Japan for several years now, haven't you? I imagine you're no longer very familiar with what's been happening back home." After their initial exchange, Catherine spoke with an easy generosity, candidly repaying the debt of being saved. "If there's anything you want to know, just ask. I won't hold anything back."
Randou placed his black formal hat on the side of the table, lifted his coffee cup, and took a small sip before asking, "Has the war back home ended?"
"The war?" Catherine shrugged, the gesture refined and unmistakably well-bred. Her upbringing had granted her access to information that was no secret among France's middle and upper classes. "According to those politicians, it should be described as something that 'never happened at all.'" She paused briefly before adding, "The situation at home is rather tense. I'd advise you not to return just yet, Mr. Randou. Wait a few more years."
A shadow of melancholy crossed Randou's face. He wanted to go back, yet feared that the moment he did, something would go terribly wrong.
Curious, Catherine asked, "Mr. Randou, you don't look like an ordinary civilian. Do you have noble blood in your family?"
Randou answered with a shake of his head.
Catherine continued stirring her coffee, her exquisitely manicured nails gleaming like pale pink crystals against the spoon. "If it weren't for my family worrying about the risks of upheaval among the upper ranks, who would willingly hide away in a backwater like this? The air is saturated with the salty smell of the sea. And my other three boyfriends are still abroad—who knows how long it will be before I see them again…"
Hearing the undisguised disdain in her voice when she spoke of Japan, Randou frowned slightly.
"Why do you say that?"
Catherine covered her mouth with a frank little laugh. "You didn't know? Japan lost the war."
Randou nodded. "But I've heard that France didn't exactly win in a particularly glorious way either."
Catherine waved it off indifferently. "If you didn't lose, then you won. France is a great power. Japan is nothing more than an island nation at sea."
After sorting through the French girl's logic, Randou found himself at a loss for words.
Catherine leaned forward, lively and curious. "Mr. Randou, do you have a girlfriend? Are Japanese girls pretty?"
Randou's impression of her was neither especially good nor particularly bad.
"I have a boyfriend."
Catherine leaned back in her chair and exclaimed dramatically, "Good heavens—then I'll have to be careful of rivals like you from now on."
Randou replied calmly, "You won't ever run into him."
Akiya would never like a girl like her.
Catherine caught the confidence in his tone. "And what is your profession, Mr. Randou?"
"With elegance," Randou answered, "a poet."
"Then I must read your work properly. I've always been interested in classical poetry from the sixth century, but unfortunately, no one ever reads what I write." Catherine's interest flared at once, and she showed not the slightest contempt for the profession, for France's artistic atmosphere was far richer than that of other countries—yes, she was very deliberately thinking of Britain; after all, Paris was known as the capital of fashion.
Randou glanced at her, uncertain whether she was trying to ingratiate herself.
At a single look, Catherine understood his suspicion and let out an awkward laugh as she explained, "I'm not lying to you. Besides, I'm not very interested in my fellow Frenchmen anyway. Someone with such refinement as you is far beyond what I could possibly handle."
"You're being excessively vulgar in your choice of words," Randou said.
Catherine propped her chin in her hands and simply stopped drinking the mediocre coffee. "We're abroad—no one's here to keep me in line."
Randou sensed no danger emanating from her. After chatting for a while on the subject of poetry, he became certain that this girl had put genuine effort into her studies; the poems she wrote were filled with sharp, explosive intensity.
The afternoon tea passed more pleasantly than expected, and Catherine became the first French person Randou consciously chose to befriend.
When they parted, Randou made a request of her. "Miss Catherine, could you help me look into a French military officer?"
Catherine teased, "An ex-boyfriend of yours?"
Randou lifted his gaze slightly, his eyes too deep and cold. Catherine fell silent at once, lowering her head with a demure, ladylike shyness.
"No," he said. "He is the protagonist of a tragic story I have heard."
"His name is…?"
"André Gide."
At the mention of the name, Catherine, who had connections in military and political circles, recognized it. Her fingers unconsciously curled and then straightened again. "Ah… this man has been very famous in France recently." As she spoke, her eyes shifted from a mischievous glint to a trace of pity. Her gloved hand, covered in delicate white lace, brushed over the antique coin necklace at her throat. "A sorrowful fugitive, a traitor nailed to the pillar of shame, a ghost who has lost his homeland."
"Mr. Randou, you know of him… what is it that you wish to do? I should warn you—most people are powerless."
"I feel sorrow," Randou said calmly, his tone even, betraying no waves of emotion. It was because Akiya had instructed him to encounter more of the world's feelings.
This story displeased him: the middle was flawed, the ending unsatisfactory. He longed to change the disastrous decisions of his homeland.
Catherine remained silent for a moment, then smiled gently. "Mr. Randou, you are a kind person."
"I am not," he replied. "I know that. I simply cannot bear to watch my country abandon a man like him."
Catherine sighed, and their parting felt weighed down by an air of melancholy.
"And… what can you do to help him…"
Her wistful voice, carried on the wind in this gray era, tugged at Randou's thoughts.
Yes.
Knowing the truth of the story, what could he really do?
Asou Akiya unlocked the door with his key and heard the sound of a piano drifting from the living room. Randou, not yet dressed for home, had shed his coat, leaving only a shirt, vest, and trousers—a rare, simple sight. The young Frenchman's hands danced lightly across the keys, producing a melody that was gentle and clear. Akiya relaxed against the wall, listening without interruption, letting the music fill the room.
When the piece ended, Randou turned to the man closest to him in the world and asked, "What can I do?"
Asou Akiya answered deliberately, each word weighed and deliberate. "If you wish, the entire world is your adventure playground. You can do whatever you are willing to do. And if your thoughts feel uncertain, start from the place you excel at most."
"Write poetry?" Randou asked, questioning the point of it.
Akiya's lips curved slightly. "It depends on who it is for."
Some people see it as dust; others recognize it as something precious. He, for instance, was waiting for poetry.
Randou seemed to catch his meaning and turned his head bashfully. "Akiya, I've written poetry for you."
"The kind you practice with… when will you have the confidence to read it to me in bed?" Akiya's hand reached out from behind Randou—not to embrace, but to touch the piano. A brisk, lively rendition of Ode to Joy—a version that may or may not exist in this world—sprang from the keys.
The sorrowful atmosphere was swept away.
"What I want is for you to pour all your love into it."
Akiya kissed him, soothing his lover's soul, and they both laughed together.
Randou, thinking of the French girl's rich history of social entanglements, teased lightly, "Akiya, you're too greedy."
But he loved that Akiya always faced forward, that he could grasp the present.
He still wanted to see more… so much more.
Until he wrote the poem that represented his soul for Asou Akiya.
Night had fallen.
The two whispered to each other.
"I heard from my fellow Frenchmen that Japan is the countryside?"
"Randou, are you discriminating against country folk? Be careful, or the next story might turn into a tale about a country heiress."
"No."
"Then put away that smug French expression. When in Rome, do as the Romans do—you're half a country boy yourself. My colleagues, after all, know I have a French wife~."
Before falling asleep, Randou thought of many things: about stories, about writing poetry, and about his own past…
If Japan was such a poor, remote place, what was the meaning of coming here?
What if he had a spy mission?
And the target of the undercover assignment—was it Asou Akiya?!!
…
"The Most Sublime Love": The most sublime love surpasses memory. I have never forged all my days in the fire of a hearth; in what kind of fate do you depict my story, in what kind of slumber do you see your honor, ah, my dwelling…
—Catherine Potz
{Note: I think this is an original poem, because i cant find anything about it other than in this fic.}