Dogra Magra (7/47)

by Hisashi Yumeno

Various inexplicable events appear and disappear as if rotating through a kaleidoscope. At first, they seem to have no relation to the main plot, but as one reads on, one realizes that each and every word is a description of the main plot itself, of extreme importance. In particular, the impression that begins with the sound of a single clock at midnight, as one pursues it further and further, one eventually returns to the memory of the first clock sound. It is as if one is looking at a panoramic painting of hell from one end to the other, recalling the same horror and eeriness, repeating eternally. There is no escape to be found anywhere.

In reality, these events are nothing more than a dream seen in an instant one midnight. The content of that dream actually felt like twenty-some hours, so scientifically speaking, it is possible that the first and last two clock sounds are the same clock sound. This is the truth in mental science proven by the entire Dogra Magra. The content of this Dogra Magra is indeed subtly and mysteriously constructed.

"Proof is better than argument; you'll understand immediately if you read it," Dr. Wakabayashi said, reaching for the top volume. At that moment, I hastily waved my hand to stop him.

"No, that's quite enough," I said, shaking both hands vigorously from side to side. Just listening to Dr. Wakabayashi's explanation made me feel as if my mind was about to be absorbed by "Dogra Magra." At the same time, I thought that if it was written by a madman anyway, it would ultimately be meaningless. It would probably be something on the level of mixing "memorizing an encyclopedia," "Katyusha Kawaiya," and "Conquest of Mars." The Dogra Magra I was currently facing was enough; it would be terrible if I were to take on someone else's Dogra Magra as well and end up feeling strange. It's best to just forget about such talk.

Thinking that, I thrust both hands into my pockets and shook my head vigorously from side to side. Then, I walked over to the window at the far end of the cabinet and, looking around at the photographs and charts displayed there, asked Dr. Wakabayashi for an explanation.

These included comparative photographs of the expressions of psychiatric patients before and after the onset of illness, and comparative analysis charts of food and excrement before and after the onset, all belonging to rare research.

Furthermore, there were painful items such as paintings based on hallucinations and illusions, photographs capturing the convulsions and seizures of hysterical women, and photographs of patients' disguises and costumes in various mental illnesses. The sight of these haphazardly plastered from the three walls to the side of the cabinet was like a unique, grotesque exhibition.

Beyond that, in several layers of glass cabinets, extraordinarily large brains, small brains, and comparisons with normal brains were displayed. The brains of erotomaniacs, murderers, and stroke patients were also preserved in formalin, showing clear areas of hypertrophy, atrophy, and hemorrhage.

There were terrifying items on display, such as a ghost painting by Okyo, which was a treasure of a family ruined by mental illness, a Muramasa short sword that was said to drive the owner of the house insane if sharpened, several pieces of whale bone that a mentally ill person believed to be mermaid bones and sold, the five fingers of a left hand that someone had cut off themselves, along with the straw-cutting knife used for it, and the fractured skull of a patient who had committed suicide by jumping headfirst from a bed.

Amidst such objects, I listened to Dr. Wakabayashi's explanation, nervously wondering which of them might be related to me. I peered around, worried about what I would do if even one of these outrageous things was connected to me, but fortunately, I found nothing of the sort. Instead, the overt will and emotions peculiar to psychiatric patients pressed upon my nerves one by one, filling me with an indescribably painful and distressing feeling.

I desperately suppressed that feeling, trapped by a sense of responsibility, and continued to peer into the cupboard. Finally, I finished looking through everything and emerged from the side of the old large table, letting out an involuntary sigh of relief. I wiped the fresh sweat from my forehead with a handkerchief, suddenly pivoted half-way on my heel, and turned my back to the west.

At that moment, all the items in the room rotated halfway from right to left, and the framed oil painting hanging near the entrance on the right slid directly in front of me, across the large central table, and stopped precisely. It was as if I was destined to face that frame.

I straightened my bent body and took another long, deep breath. I was captivated by the combination of yellow, brown, and faded green in the old oil paints. The scene depicted seemed to be a Western burning at the stake or something similar.

In the center of three thick, raw wooden pillars, a divine old man with white hair and a white beard was tied high up. To his right, a emaciated, pale young man, and to his left, a disheveled woman wearing a wreath, were each tied naked, weeping and choking from the flames and smoke rising from the firewood piled at their feet.

This horrific scene was being observed with curious composure from the right side of the frame by a noble-looking couple in a golden palanquin, surrounded by their beautifully dressed family and retainers. Meanwhile, on the far left, a small child, longing for the mother whose face emerged from the flames and smoke, was crying out with outstretched hands. A strong man, presumably the father, and an old man, presumably the grandfather, were embracing the child, covering its mouth with large hands, and looking back at the nobles as if in fear, all vividly depicted.

Also, in the center of the square, a tall-nosed old woman stood alone, wearing a red triangular hood and a long black cloak. Leaning on a crutch, she pointed out the agony of the three tied to the stake to the nobles, grinning with bared, rough teeth. As I watched, an increasingly eerie scene pressed upon my mind.

“What kind of painting is this?” I pointed at the screen and turned around. Dr. Wakabayashi answered coldly, his hands still in his pants pockets.

“That is a depiction of superstitions practiced in medieval Europe. From the customs, it appears to be from around France. It portrays the scene of mentally ill people being burned to death one after another, as they were believed to be possessed by evil spirits. The old woman in the center, with a red hood and black cloak, was a shaman who served as a doctor, exorcist, and fortune-teller in those days. Mr. Masaki bought it from an antique shop in Yanagawa as reference material to show how cruelly the insane were treated in the past. Someone recently suggested that the artist might be Rembrandt, and if so, this painting would be extremely valuable as a work of art.”

"...Haa... Burning them alive was the treatment method back then, wasn't it?"

"That's right. Since there were no medicines to use for the elusive illness of mental disease, it could rather be called a thorough treatment method."

I felt neither like laughing nor crying. In Dr. Wakabayashi's pale eyes, there was a cruelty that suggested he would seize me and burn me to a crisp right now if it were for academic purposes. I stroked my face with my palm and said, as if in greeting,

“The insane born in today's world are fortunate.”

Then, a smile appeared on Dr. Wakabayashi's left cheek and immediately vanished.

“...No... That is not necessarily the case. Perhaps the mentally ill of the past, who were burned to death swiftly, might have been happier.”

I regretted saying something unnecessary again and shrugged my shoulders. Avoiding Dr. Wakabayashi's eerie gaze, I wiped my face with a handkerchief. At that moment, my eyes suddenly caught sight of a large photograph in a black wooden frame hanging on the wall to the front left.

It was a formal kimono-clad figure of a benevolent old gentleman, about sixty years old, with a receding hairline, a long, salt-and-pepper beard, and a kindly, good-natured smile. The moment I noticed the photograph, I thought it might be Dr. Masaki, so I deliberately went and stood directly in front of it, but it didn't seem to be him, so I turned back to Dr. Wakabayashi.

"Who is this person in the photograph?"

Dr. Wakabayashi's face softened remarkably as soon as I asked this. For some reason, he slowly lowered his head, showing a look of satisfaction I hadn't seen before.

"...Ah... that photograph? Yes... that is Professor Saito Juhachi. As I mentioned briefly earlier, he was the one who was in charge of this psychiatry department before Professor Masaki, and he is our mentor."

Saying this, Dr. Wakabayashi let out a light, sentimental sigh, but then, with a look of deep emotion on his long face, he slowly approached me.

"...It finally caught your eye."

"...Huh...?"

I looked up at Dr. Wakabayashi's face in surprise. I didn't understand the meaning of his words. However, Dr. Wakabayashi, unconcerned, approached me even more leisurely, tilted his upper body slightly forward, compared my face with the photograph, and continued speaking in an even more serious tone.

"I am telling you that this photograph has finally caught your eye. Why? Because this photograph is undoubtedly the one most deeply connected to your past life..."

The moment he said this, I suddenly realized. I remembered that I had somehow forgotten the original purpose of entering this room. And at the same time, I felt a slight but deep palpitation in the depths of my heart.

However, at the same time, considering the state of my mind, which still felt as if it hadn't remembered anything, I felt a sense of relief, or perhaps disappointment, and let out a small shrug. Then, with my head slightly bowed, I listened to Dr. Wakabayashi's words.

"...I believe that the past memories dormant within you are gradually beginning to awaken. I think that while you were looking at the manuscript of 'Dogra Magra' and then at this painting of the burning of the insane, your subconscious mind awakened and led you to this photograph. This is because it was none other than Dr. Masaki, the experimenter of your mental consciousness, who displayed this masterpiece of the burning of the insane alongside Dr. Saito's portrait. Dr. Masaki was outraged that the cruel treatment of mental patients, as depicted in the painting of the burning of the insane, was still openly practiced, and he resolved to dedicate his life to the study of mental illness. And under Dr. Saito's guidance and assistance, he achieved that goal..."

"Burning of the insane... Is the massacre of the insane still happening?"

I murmured to myself, once again gripped by an unfathomable fear... However, Dr. Wakabayashi nodded calmly.

"...It is happening. Unchanged from the past, cruel acts are openly carried out in mental hospitals around the world. Even today..."

"...Th-that's too much..."

I started to speak, then swallowed my words. I thought it was too inhumane an expression. However, Dr. Wakabayashi remained unperturbed, and standing beside me, comparing the oil painting of the burning of the insane with Dr. Saito's photograph, he spoke to me in a calm tone.

"That's not an exaggeration. It's an undeniable fact. I think you'll gradually come to understand this fact, but Dr. Masaki went through immense hardship to save the poor madmen who were being abused, and eventually established an unprecedented new theory in psychiatric science. The principle of this astonishing new theory, as I briefly mentioned before, is very easy to understand, even for a child, and quite interesting... To actually prove the principle of this theory, he began the 'Madman Liberation' experiment... and... that experiment has been perfectly completed through none other than your own contribution. There is only one remaining task: for you to recover your past memories and sign the report of that experiment."

I was stunned again. With my mouth agape, I looked up at Dr. Wakabayashi's profile as he stood beside me. I felt as if I was trapped by an inexpressibly solemn and terrifying fate, drawn into this room, and confronted by the two framed pictures that had created this fate. However, Dr. Wakabayashi continued speaking, oblivious to my feelings.

"Therefore, if I were to tell you about the causal relationship between Dr. Saitō, Dr. Masaki, and the burning of those madmen, each part of that story would touch upon your past experiences. In other words, how meticulously Dr. Masaki prepared to come to Kyūshū University to subject you to a psychiatric experiment at the liberation treatment center... how much terrifying hardship and effort he put into the preparation and research for this experiment..."

"Huh, huh? Such terrifying preparations... to experiment on me...?"

"Yes. Dr. Masaki spent indeed over twenty long years preparing for this experiment."

"...Twenty years..."

My voice, which had started to become a shout, turned into a groan and retreated into my throat before it could fully form. I felt as if Dr. Masaki's twenty years of hardship were directly coiling around my neck.

Then, Dr. Wakabayashi, perhaps sensing my feelings, slowly nodded again.

"That's right. Dr. Masaki had been preparing this experiment for you even before you were born."

"...For me, who wasn't even born yet..."

"That's right. If I say it like this, it might seem like I'm deliberately using strange phrasing, but that's not the case at all. Dr. Masaki truly anticipated your current self long before you were born. After you recover your past memories... no, even if you don't recall your past memories, if you can simply deduce your own name from the facts I provide, that will be enough. Then, if you cross-reference the preceding and following facts, I believe you will understand that what I am saying is not an exaggeration... Also, I believe that doing so is the best way for you to truly remember your own name..."

As Dr. Wakabayashi explained this, he returned to the large table, pointed to a small swivel chair facing the stove, and looked back at me. I obeyed his command and cautiously approached the chair like a patient about to undergo surgery, timidly sitting down, but I didn't feel like I was sitting at all. The sheer eeriness and strangeness made me breathless, and I could only swallow my saliva.

Dr. Wakabayashi slowly circled the large table and sat down in the big swivel chair opposite me. He was hunched and twisted in the same posture I had seen in Room 7 earlier, but this time he had removed his overcoat, revealing his long, slender limbs in his morning coat. In the interim, I could clearly see his long neck and thin torso shrinking sluggishly. And because only his face remained its original size at the center, the overall impression was somewhat monstrous. It was as if a giant spider with a large, pale human face had just crawled out from the large fireplace behind him, wearing a morning coat, to devour me.

Seeing that sight, I instinctively straightened my posture in the swivel chair. Then, Dr. Wakabayashi, the giant spider, leisurely extended his long arm and pulled a file of documents placed in the middle of the table towards him. He gently brushed off some dust from under his knees and cleared his throat once or twice with a small cough.

“Now, in speaking about the before and after of the experiment that Professor Masaki dedicated his life to completing, I must, with all due respect, bring myself into the discussion. The reason for this is none other than the fact that Professor Masaki and I are originally from the same hometown, Chiba Prefecture, and when this university's predecessor, Kyoto Imperial University, Fukuoka Medical College, was newly established in 1903 by renovating a prefectural hospital in Fukuoka, we sat side by side as first-year students. And since we graduated simultaneously in 1907, we can be considered classmates and peers. Moreover, until today, both of us have continued to live single lives, dedicating our lives to academic research, in which we were remarkably similar. However, regarding the extraordinary brilliance of Professor Masaki's intellect and the immense size of his assets, these were beyond our comprehension.

Our research back then was not like today, where foreign books are freely available, and we faced all sorts of difficulties. We would borrow books from the school library and transcribe them day and night, whereas Professor Masaki alone seemed very carefree. After glancing through books he had ordered from abroad at his own expense, he would lend them to others without hesitation. He himself would half-heartedly wander around searching for ancient fossils or investigate the origins of shrines and temples, which were unrelated to medicine. However, Professor Masaki's fossil collecting and investigations into shrines and temples were by no means meaningless hobbies. They were planned undertakings with a significant connection to the experiments of 'Madman Liberation Therapy.' It is only today, twenty years later, that I have finally come to understand this, and I am now, more than ever, astonished by Professor Masaki's exceptional and profound intellect.

In any case, Professor Masaki had attracted attention among students and professors as an eccentric individual even back then, and there is no doubt that the first person to recognize the great intellect of Professor Masaki was Professor Juhachi Saitō, the subject of the photograph displayed here.

Professor Saitō had been working at this university since its founding and was an extremely diligent scholar, having single-handedly collected most of the specimens currently in this room. He was particularly eloquent, and as an aside, there is an anecdote that remains: When the university's third-anniversary celebration was held in the grand auditorium, Professor Masaki once gave a speech representing the students.

"Recently, rumors have been circulating in newspapers that students and professors of this university frequent entertainment districts or indulge in gambling, but I believe this is by no means worth making an issue of. In the first place, the primary sin of students and scholars is not indulging in alcohol and women, nor is it playing hanafuda. The greatest detriment to Japan's academic world is ceasing academic research the moment one becomes a bachelor or doctor."

At these words, the faces of all the students and professors in the hall changed dramatically. However, among them, only Professor Saitō stood up from his seat, applauded enthusiastically, and shouted, "Bravo!" That image remains vivid in my memory even now. This single incident alone is enough to glimpse a part of his character.

However, when Professor Saitō first began working at the university, there was no such division as a psychiatry department at Kyushu University, and he was the only specialist in mental illness within the university, holding a few lectures as an associate professor. Because of this, he seemed to harbor dissatisfaction. He would always corner Professor Masaki, his favorite, and me, and rail against the omnipotence of modern materialistic science or express concern for the future of the national polity. In such situations, I never knew how to respond. However, Professor Masaki would always launch an unexpected counterattack, silencing Professor Saitō. Among these, what remains particularly in my memory are the following words: