Osamu Dazai's Entrance Exam Read online

  Copyright

  Bungo Stray Dogs, Volume 1

  KAFKA ASAGIRI

  Translation by Matt Rutsohn

  Cover art by Sango Harukawa

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  BUNGO STRAY DOGS Vol. 1 DAZAI OSAMU NO NYUSHA SHIKEN

  ©Kafka Asagiri, Sango Harukawa 2014

  First published in JAPAN in 2014 by KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo.

  English translation rights arranged with KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo through TUTTLE-MORI AGENCY, INC., Tokyo.

  English translation © 2019 by Yen Press, LLC

  Yen Press, LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Asagiri, Kafka, author. | Harukawa, Sango, illustrator. | Rutsohn, Matt, translator.

  Title: Osamu Dazai’s entrance exam / Kafka Asagiri ; illustration by Sango Harukawa ; translation by Matt Rutsohn.

  Other titles: Dazai Osamu no nyusha shiken. English

  Description: First Yen On edition. | New York, NY : Yen On, 2019. | Series: Bungo stray dogs ; Volume 1

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019005328 | ISBN 9781975303228 (pbk.)

  Classification: LCC PL867.5.S234 D3913 2019 | DDC 895.63/6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019005328

  ISBNs: 978-1-9753-0322-8 (paperback)

  978-1-9753-0323-5 (ebook)

  E3-20190511-JV-NF-ORI

  But, look, you can’t eat ideals!

  —Doppo Kunikida, Meat and Potatoes

  PROLOGUE

  What are ideals?

  There are innumerable answers to that question. One could say it’s merely a term, or an idea, or perhaps even the source of all meaning. But if you ask me, the answer is obvious. It’s the word written on the cover of my notebook.

  My notebook has all the answers. It is my creed, my master, and a prophet that guides me. At times, it can be either a weapon or a solution.

  Ideals.

  Everything I am is written in this notebook, which I always carry with me. My entire future lies within it, from what I’m eating for dinner to where I’m moving five years from now, from my list of tomorrow’s tasks for work to the cheapest radish prices in the district. My plans, projects, objectives, policies—they’re all there, waiting for me to bring them to fruition.

  I would even argue that this notebook is like my personal prophecy. My ideals are always inside—all I need to do is follow them. My future is under my control as long as I stick to the plans within this notebook. Control of my future—what promising words.

  However—

  No matter how brilliant an ideal may be, if the path to realization is too far, then the light at the end is nothing more than an illusion, and those ideals—meaningless. Thus, the quickest path to fulfillment is inscribed on the first page of my notebook:

  “Do what must be done.”

  My name is Doppo Kunikida, an idealist who lives in reality, a realist who pursues ideals.

  And this is a record of the struggles between a man who yearns for the realization of ideals and a new hire destined to interfere with them.

  7th

  Around three days have passed since I wrote a new page in my notebook.

  What happened during that time is as follows:

  Takekoshi came to my house. We took a stroll under the moonlight together.

  Hacker Rokuzo Taguchi contacted me back regarding the foreign ship.

  I ate a pear. It wasn’t sweet.

  I mustn’t let petty things bother me.

  Ah, I wish for nothing more than to do what is right.

  “Stop right there!”

  I chase the offender through the city of Yokohama. Mirthful vendors hawking at their stands, crowds of people talking in the streets, customers begging for discounts, and the sound of rickshaws riding east and west over the pavement: The busy shopping arcade is as boisterous as ever. If someone was to start a fight on the right side of the street, the people on the left side wouldn’t even notice, I’m sure.

  I push through the clamor in pursuit of a criminal, a real lowlife. He made a scene at the jewelers’ before taking off with some merchandise. Mere baubles, but his third robbery earned him a request for his arrest.

  I pursue the criminal after catching him on his fourth offense, but he has a good pair of legs on him, not once slowing down. We pass the market. I continue to cut through the rowdy streets, hunting down my prey until he disappears into a narrow back road.

  “You better keep up, newcomer!” I yell to my colleague running behind me.

  “Wait, Kunikida! My shoe came untied!”

  “Who cares?! Just run!”

  Slowly lagging behind is a colleague who just the other day joined our office.

  His name: Osamu Dazai.

  A rather proper-sounding name.

  “Phew. Kunikida, I’m exhausted. Could you slow down a little? This isn’t good for my health, you know.”

  “Just pick up the pace, you lazy oaf! My own health is suffering thanks to you!”

  “Congratulations!”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  Osamu Dazai, a man of unknown origin and capabilities, a man most deficient in motivation, lives to throw off my schedule. He’s far too carefree and takes everything at his own pace. To make matters worse, his hobby—

  “By the way, Kunikida. Our man is getting away, y’know.”

  My train of thought interrupted, I look ahead to see the runaway mow down a street vendor’s vegetables before taking a left to escape. I instinctively click my tongue. Then I dive into my memories to recall a map of the area. He’s heading toward a narrow residential district with hedges lining each side of the street. There are countless houses to escape to or hide in around that area.

  “You see that, Dazai?! Thanks to your dawdling, he’s now going to be even harder to catch!”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s all according to plan. More importantly, guess what I just saw.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “It’s this incredibly rare book called The Complete Suicide. I’ve been searching all over for it, and I just noticed it on display in the used bookstore back there— Ah! I have to go back and buy it before someone else does.”

  Nobody asked.

  “I could always just shoot you in the head if you want to die that badly!” I yell, to which he replies:

  “Wait. Seriously? Wow, thanks.”

  He smiles bashfully, even though there’s nothing to blush about.

  For a man who doesn’t put much
effort into his job, he sure puts a lot of work into fantasizing about suicide. It’s a world unfamiliar to me. However, there isn’t a waking moment when he isn’t searching for the cheapest, quickest way to off himself. He’s obsessed with suicide.

  A suicide aficionado?

  How vile.

  But no matter how twisted my partner’s interests are, no matter how much he tries to sabotage the mission, I will not allow the criminal to escape, for failure is not written in my schedule.

  I chase the lowlife into a dark path wide enough for only one person at a time. Both sides are lined with hedges, and I can see a well and the backyard of an old house. A washing machine lies knocked over under the roof’s eaves. I open a map of the area on my mobile device, and a white dot representing our location is displayed along with the buildings and backstreets.

  Narrow paths branch out in every direction through the residential district. If the thief keeps heading straight, he’ll most likely make his way to the old factory district, filled with premodern warehouses. We would have an easier time finding a needle in a haystack than finding him there.

  The criminal slowly fades into the distance.

  Looks like he really is heading toward the old factory district.

  “Damn it!”

  The foul curse slips off my tongue. I won’t be able to catch up when I’m this far behind. And he would no doubt repeat the crime if he is allowed to get away. It would put our client’s business at risk while even further damaging our detective agency’s image.

  What should I do? What can I do?

  “Well then, I think it’s about time we end this so I can go buy that book. We just need to slow him down, right?”

  Dazai breaks into a smile.

  Then he takes in a deep breath before yelling in a booming voice:

  “Fire!!”

  The townspeople immediately lunge into the streets in a panic, blocking the criminal’s path of escape. People nearby come rushing out in utter confusion: a woman holding a pot lid, a young man with sleepy eyes, an elderly fellow carrying his shogi board. People crowd the streets one after another, making it impossible to get by.

  The criminal is at his wits’ end. The path is overrun with people, meaning going back is no longer an option, either. Verbal threats wouldn’t work against a crowd desperately searching for the fire, and an open door now further blocks the offender’s path of return.

  “How’s that?”

  “You idiot! Yes, you stopped him, but it doesn’t matter if we can’t get to him!”

  “Sure we can! I mean, that’s why we have the skilled detective Doppo Kunikida with us, right? I set the stage, so now it’s your turn to show us what you’ve got.”

  I’m going to sew those lips of yours shut before long!

  I open my notebook and quickly jot something down. After ripping out the page with the words WIRE GUN inscribed, I infuse it with my will.

  “The Matchless Poet!”

  My special skill.

  I don’t know how I do it, and I can’t logically explain how it works. All I can say is that’s just how it is. There is no rational explanation for why it has to be a page out of my notebook or how it can transform in spite of the laws of physics.

  The sheet of paper transforms into a wire gun exactly as written. I leap onto a nearby fence before pointing the muzzle at the thief. That’s when I notice him reaching for a gun in his pocket to threaten the citizens blocking his way.

  You know something is wrong with the world when even a lowlife crook in the outskirts of town has a gun.

  At any rate, I can’t let him use it in such a densely populated area!

  I aim, then pull the trigger. A harpoon-shaped hook shoots out toward the target with a steel wire trailing behind. Before the thief can even lift his arm completely, the hook knocks the gun out of his hand, then pierces his sleeve, tethering him to the wall behind.

  “Jackpot.” Dazai offers a pathetic attempt at a whistle.

  I reel in the steel wire while kicking off one fence and landing on another, repeating the movement to make my way forward. After jumping over the heads of the townspeople, I land right in front of the fugitive.

  As I lift my head, he takes out a dagger he was hiding in his pocket. He swings the weapon not even three feet away, but the blade of an amateur has no chance of hitting me. I casually tilt my head to the side, then gently grab his elbow and wrist. With the help of his momentum, I twist his wrist while pushing the elbow in the opposite direction to send him flying into the air. He makes an arc in the sky before slamming upside down into the wall. His face contorts in surprise as if he doesn’t know what just happened. Then he falls to the ground and passes out.

  It’s a throwing technique that uses the opponent’s momentum against them.

  The area residents look back and forth between the thief and me in mute amazement. Soon after, Dazai finally catches up before addressing the crowd.

  “Our sincere apologies for all the fuss, ladies and gentlemen. However, there is no longer any need to worry. Oh, and the fire was a false alarm.”

  One resident speaks up. “J-just who are you people?”

  I whip out my detective license and hold it up in the air so everyone can see.

  “There is no need for concern. We’re with the Armed Detective Agency.”

  CHAPTER I

  8th

  It rained this morning.

  A quiet shower, but frigid like the depths of winter.

  I yearn to live for my ideals.

  I strive for my ideals. I move forward without fear, without fatigue, without hesitation.

  Neither dreams nor honor will be pursued—for how euphoric it can be to solely devote oneself to quotidian tasks.

  The Armed Detective Agency’s office sits at the top of a slope near Yokohama’s port. It’s a reddish-brown brick building with years of wear and tear, and its rain gutters and lampposts are sheathed in rust from the rough sea breeze. But despite its appearance, it’s so sturdily built that even machine-gun artillery fire from the outside wouldn’t cause any damage to the interior. That may sound oddly specific, but it’s happened to us.

  In any event, our detective agency is situated on the fourth floor. The other floors are occupied by proper tenants. There’s a café on the first floor and a law firm on the second. The third is vacant, and the fifth is used for miscellaneous storage. The café takes good care of me right before payday comes, and I’m at the law firm asking for help every time there’s some legal trouble at work.

  I take the building’s elevator to the fourth floor, get off, and stand before the office. On the door is a plate with the words ARMED DETECTIVE AGENCY written in simple, fine brushstrokes. I check my watch. I still have forty seconds before work starts at eight o’clock.

  Looks like I got here a little early.

  Punctuality is my philosophy. Flipping through my notebook as I wait, I double-check today’s schedule. I already checked once during breakfast, once after leaving the dormitory, and once while waiting for the light to change, but I’ve never heard of anyone dying from excessive confirmation of their schedule. I read my notebook, ruminating on my work plans, then glance at my watch one more time as I adjust my shirt collar.

  …Perfect.

  “Good morning.”

  I open the door.

  “Oh, Kunikida! Good morning! Take a look at this! It’s incredible!”

  I’m suddenly greeted by a grinning Dazai on the threshold.

  “At last, I’ve made it! Ah, and what a sweet world it is! This is Yomotsu Hirasaka, the gateway to the afterlife! Look, it’s just as I imagined! The blue smoke covering the surface, the moonlight peeking in through the window, the pink elephant dancing in the westerly skies…!”

  He dances in front of the office door with wild gesticulations.

  What a pain in the ass.

  “Heh-heh-heh-heh! I just knew that Complete Suicide book would be a masterpiece! And to think, all it took to achieve
such a simple yet pleasurable suicide was to ingest a mushroom growing along the mountain path! How wonderful! Ah-ha-ha!”

  Dazai’s eyes are slightly twitching and unfocused.

  “K-Kunikida, please do something!” a staff member begs, teary-eyed.

  I guess it’s safe to assume that Dazai’s been like this all morning. I glance at his desk and see the blasphemous book he bought the other day, The Complete Suicide, opened to a page titled “Death by Poisoning: Mushrooms.” Next to the book lies a plate with a half-eaten mushroom on it. However, upon further inspection, it appears to be a slightly different color from the one in the book.

  “Come, Kunikida! Join me in the underworld! See, here the alcohol flows freely, and you can help yourself to as much food as you’d like! You can sniff beautiful women until you’re blue in the face!”

  “Please help, Kunikida; we’ve tried everything we could…”

  Quite simply, the mushroom he ingested wasn’t the fatal kind but rather the hallucinogenic type.

  However, that doesn’t matter to me.

  I always do things in the same order each and every morning. If I didn’t follow my morning schedule as planned, would I still be able to finish my day’s work on time? The answer is no. I head to my desk, ignoring my crying coworker and that prancing imbecile. I set down my bag just as I always do. I boot up my computer and, as per usual, open the window.

  “Whoa! There’s a giant sea anemone outside the window, Kunikida! A banana… It’s eating a banana! And it’s even removing the white stringy bits!”

  I pour coffee into my mug just as I always do. Then I dispose of any documents from yesterday’s work that are no longer needed.

  “Oh, I’ve got it. I need to take off my clothes. I need to get naked to get higher ratings! It’s simple, really! Let us undress! After that, we can all put on full-body tights, go to the bank, and dance the hopak!”

  I check the telegraph rack just like always, then take a sip of my coffee.

  “I can hear voices… Ohhh…! They’re in— They’re in my head! …The tiny man is whispering to me to go to Kyoto! That’s where they have the best miso tofu—”