The Hamlet Syndrome

1

Hamlet is dead. Stabbed in the back with a dagger. He was found at dawn, cold and hunched over in the living room. Tragedies, it seems, often conclude abruptly. Everything probably went according to the script. Regardless of the path we chose, the ending would remain the same . . . including the fact that it was I who killed him.

2

It was exactly one month ago today that I arrived here. Heavy rain clouds hung low across the afternoon sky as the bus gently swayed along the road. Feeling quite cozy, and already drowsy from an early morning, I found myself dozing in and out of sleep. I would wake up, fall back asleep, then wake again. Each time I woke, the scent of the sea would grow stronger, signaling that I was drawing ever closer to my destination.

The place I was headed for stood at the tip of a cape. Laid over a desolate expanse of black rocks, a road as white and straight as chalk invited me forward. Ahead, I could see a square silhouette enclosed by an earthen wall. I thought it looked much like a tombstone. It was shrouded by a white mist rising from the sea, which clung to it like a veil and blurred its contours, making it difficult to discern.

I observed the scene from a distance for a while. Below the cliffs, a vast ocean gaped open as if waiting to swallow something . . . or someone.

The waves advanced and retreated ceaselessly, creating a thunderous noise without pause. As I continued to watch, a deep melancholy overcame me. It felt as though this place had somehow been severed from the surrounding world by mere happenstance. This feeling gave me an inexplicable, sorrowful foreboding.

Soon, it began to rain. I did not carry an umbrella with me, and so I hurried through the drizzle until I reached the gate. The large iron gate was red with rust, probably due to the sea breeze. A thin chain hung beside it. As soon as I pulled the chain, I heard a gong-like echo reverberate from somewhere deep and far away. An old man approached slowly, unlocked the gate from the inside, and gestured for me to enter without saying a word or greeting me in return.

Inside the gate, the ground sloped gently towards the sea. Black rocky terrain stretched as far as the eye could see. The building in question stood alone in that desolate landscape. Up close, I saw it had a peculiarly asymmetrical shape, almost like an ancient creature born in the wrong era. Beyond that, I could only see walls. It was a stark landscape. I stood in front of an old, large door for a while.

The old man ushered me indoors and into a reception room, then disappeared after gesturing for me to wait. I sat on a sofa and waited nervously. No one appeared for quite some time. The rain seemed to be getting stronger. I patiently waited while listening to the sound of the rain.

On a marble stand, a brass clock punctually marked the time, and I felt a certain pressure in my eardrums. Expensive-looking furnishings surrounded me, exuding an oppressive atmosphere. From beyond a glass door, a small rabbit figurine stared intently at me. As I engaged in a staring contest with the rabbit, I could hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

Eventually, the door opened, and at last, someone entered.

3

He was a clean-looking man. Tall and slender, he wore a well-tailored black suit without a wrinkle. It took me a moment to place it, but his attire was unmistakably that of a butler, like something you would see in an old movie. He sat down in front of me and began to speak as if reciting a speech from memory.

This person was none other than Polonius.

Think of your job here as something akin to a nurse, or perhaps a secretary. You are to stay by His Lordship, accompany him, follow through with tasks as directed, and closely monitor and record any changes in his temperament. Should anything unusual occur, report to me immediately.

It is not a difficult task. However, what is absolutely imperative here is that whatever happens in this place stays within these walls. You must also obtain my permission before going out. You come recommended by Mr. Sakai, so I believe there should not be any issues.

However, I am somewhat unsure to what extent you are aware of the situation here. It is crucial to know who you are and why you have come here, and . . . frankly, I am not entirely clear on that.

Oh, really?

I was under the impression that you had been informed of everything. But, it seems there's been a misunderstanding. Perhaps I should start with a proper introduction. My name is Sofue. Sofue Hikaru.

Yes, yes, of course. I know that. Oh, pardon me, I would seem I have forgotten myself. I am Polonius, and I am in charge of managing the household. I have served as a butler to His Lordship since I was a child. My family has served in this role for generations. So, managing the rules here is also part of my role.

You see, that is also why I am called Polonius, and I would like you to thoroughly understand this as well. Everyone here has been given a name based on their assigned role. Mr. Sofue, here you shall be 'Rosencrantz', and you would do well to remember that.

I was not aware it was that thorough.

I thought for a moment.

Rosencrantz was Hamlet’s schoolmate, correct? So, you mean to say I should approach him in that capacity?

Upon hearing this, Polonius looked slightly troubled. He hesitated, as if struggling to come up with a decision and eventually spoke with a hint of annoyance.

That sort of attitude might prove problematic. You see, you are indeed Rosencrantz, and you serve none other than Prince Hamlet himself. You should not entertain any backward thoughts about roles and statuses. Here, in this place, you are not merely playing his schoolmate—you become him. I wish we could discuss this matter more thoroughly, but alas, time is not on our side.

We shall continue to address this on another occasion. What is crucial, however, is that you report even the slightest matters to me. I am Polonius, the head butler. Should there be any changes with Prince Hamlet, I must be informed first and foremost. I am not aware of any arrangements you and Mr. Sakai might have, but remember that I am in charge here.

. . . Okay, er, yes. Understood.

I decided it was best to simply nod in agreement.

That is good to hear. For now, let us show you to your room. Someone will come to guide you shortly, so please wait here for a moment.

No sooner had he spoken than Polonius quickly departed, and there I was, left alone once again.

4

Fortunately, this time, I was not kept waiting long. The door swung open energetically with a bang, and a man about my age entered the room.

Hey, partner!

He greeted me quite suddenly. He had a rather casual look about him, wearing worn jeans and a snug sweater, and his demeanor was somewhat rough . . . yet he had a certain affable charm as well.

So you're the new guy, huh? Nice to meetcha, I’m Yamakita. Ah, but here, I'm Guildenstern. Looks like we’ll be a team—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern! We're both to keep an eye on Prince Hamlet. Lookin' forward to working with ya! After all, we share the same role, y'know?

Nice to meet you . . .

I felt a bit overwhelmed by his approach.

What's the matter? You seem a bit down. Well, that ain't a good start. Hmm, would you say you're rigid in how you think, or are you the more flexible type?

Um, I'm not sure? I guess I'm pretty good with puzzles . . .

Impressive! Haha, no, but what I meant was whether you are resilient or not. Anyway, lemme give you a quick tour of this place, huh?

Yamakita—or Guildenstern—then briskly took off while quietly mumbling to himself. I obediently followed behind him.

This place, well, it could definitely be called a castle. It's incredibly spacious. Ridiculous, don'tcha think?

He continued to mutter as he walked a few steps ahead.

The corridor was terribly dark and long. After walking for a while, we reached a fork in the path. We turned left. Soon after, there was another fork, and this time, we took the right path. It felt much like swimming through an intricate, branching stream.

I quickly lost track of our position. The place felt like a labyrinth, a maze that lured people in and eventually consumed them.

Feels like a maze, doesn’t it?

It was almost as if Guildenstern could read my mind.

Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the routes. The real issue isn’t the place—it’s the atmosphere, the very air. You hear me? You’ve got to be careful not to get swallowed by it. This dim, rugged place . . . Outside, there’s nothin' but cliffs, and the sea and sky are mostly gray. Living in a place like this? It can mess with your head.

Before I realized, the corridor had begun to slope downwards. It gradually descended underground, marked by regular intervals of steps, spiraling towards a center like a vortex. I felt a slight dizziness, but I kept moving forward. There was no point in dwelling on it.

Eventually, the passage led to a wooden door. Guildenstern pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked it.

Here we are.

He gestured to the room.

Come on in.

It was even darker inside the room, making it hard to see the entire area well. It resembled an underground storeroom. I proceeded to the center as instructed, and then a frightening thought occurred to me.

Is this suppposed to be my room?

Remember what I was trying to ask you earlier?

Guildenstern's voice came from somewhere behind me.

Basically, I was askin' if your head's still on straight. You see, this is where the guy before you spent his final days here . . . His finaldays . . . Go on. Take a look behind that pillar.

At the base of a stone pillar, near the corner, I could see something. Chains and shackles. This . . . It's basically like a torture chamber.For some reason, my cheeks loosened into a smile. It was the exact opposite of what I actually felt.

He used to sleep in those shackles every night, aware that he was startin' to lose it. But one night, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He unshackled himself and leaped from the cliffs into the ocean.

Do you get it now? That’s the kind of place you’re in. Everyone here, sooner or later, they all go mad. You, me . . . everyone. Actually, I bet it’s the sane ones who die first.

You've met Polonius, right? Did ya notice? He's looong gone mad. So I guess that means I, standing right here, must've gone mad a long time ago too. Hahaha, haha, hahaha . . . ! Well, what d'you think? Huh? Do you think I’m mad?! Do you? Well? Do you?

His tone was ostensibly cheerful, but his laughter was hollow and I could sense unfathomable malice within. I couldn’t turn around. If I did, I was sure he would immediately pounce and attack me.

There, in the midst of darkness, I felt as if I was bound in chains. I couldn’t move.

5

Perhaps, we should stop scaring our guest?

A different voice came from behind me. A soft, flickering light dissolved the darkness around us.

I believe it was my duty to show our guest to his room.

Finally, I managed to turn around. Albeit somewhat obscured by Guildenstern's figure, I could discern a figure—a girl dressed as a maid—standing in the middle of the darkness.

Hey, now, I was just showin' him around a bit ahead of schedule. That's all.

Guildenstern's voice had a uniquely stiff tone.

Shall I report this to the head butler?

Hmph! As if that'd make any difference. Not like he can do anything. I just wanted to get this guy acquainted with the reality of this place as soon as possible.

In that case, I believe you have done enough. I shall take over from here.

Tch. Fine, he's all yours. Later.

Guildenstern exited, leaving just the maid and I behind.

Upon closer inspection, I saw she was of small stature and wore a vacant expression reminiscent of a bewildered chipmunk. Her cool demeanor seemed almost like pretense.

Thank you.

I’ve only just arrived here, and—

I'm aware of your situation.

Her reply was curt and abrupt.

I was merely given orders by Polonius. I was actually supposed to be your guide. Guildenstern just got ahead of himself. I apologize for his rudeness. Anyways, shall we leave?

Um, yeah, sure. Well, nice to meet you. Uh, I’m Sofue—

Yes, I'm aware of that too. But here, you are supposed to be Rosencrantz, aren’t you?

Oh, right . . . Yes, that’s correct. But what about you? What’s your name? What role do you play here?

Oh no, you misunderstand. I am merely a maid. I am not worthy of such privileges. I do not have any particular role. Of course, if commanded, I can play anyone. I am nobody, so I can be anybody. Be it Gertrude or Ophelia . . . If you wish it so, just say the word.

The nameless maid let out a snide chuckle without the slightest change in her expression.

We left the basement and headed for the dining hall. When asked if I was hungry, I answered honestly, and we dined on a late lunch of potato gratin, salad, and bread. We even had grape juice to top it off, leaving me very satisfied.

There were seats enough for ten in the dining hall, but it was just us. In the back of the kitchen, a cook yawned mightily. We continued our conversation as we ate.

She said her name was Hesomura. Hesomura Aiko. I couldn't help wondering if it was some pseudonym or alias.

Well, embarrassingly enough, I don’t have a belly button . . . or heso, in Japanese. So I thought it might be nice to at least have one in my name, if nowhere else . . .

What a bizarre thing to say! I didn't entirely believe her.

According to her, there were only about a dozen people going in and out of the castle. Very few people actually resided here—only four in total: Ms. Hesomura, Polonius, Yamakita, and now myself. Us four were in charge of looking after Prince Hamlet and his needs.

Doesn't it feel a bit odd, though? Have you all really been living like this for such a long time?

I asked, pretending to be naivete.

Yes, that's right. We're the cast in Hamlet's world, after all . . . Oh, excuse me, may I?

She pulled out a slim, long cigarette. I nodded, and she lit it as if she couldn’t wait any longer.

Keeping up this act on end, don’t you ever feel, I don’t know . . . a bit off?

Did Guildenstern say something to you? From my perspective, such worries are absurd. It's all just paranoia, if you ask me. A kind of mania. Honestly, it's all about how you perceive things. For instance, there's this story about a king who is sleeping in the forest, snoring loudly. There’s a girl standing in front of him. But that girl is actually a character from the king’s dream. So, she thinks, what would happen if I woke the king up right now? What would become of me?

Well, what would happen?

Poof! She would dissapear like smoke, wouldn't she? Because she's just a figure from the king’s dream.

The smoke she exhaled formed intricate patterns as it danced in the air and carried a faintly minty aroma. I followed the smoke with my eyes and pondered for a moment before speaking.

But what if, let’s say, the king isn’t really asleep? What if he’s just pretending, and not really dreaming at all? Maybe she’s being deceived.

What are you trying to say?

Nothing specific. But that could be a possibility, right?

Hmm . . .

She responded disinterestedly, crushed out her cigarette, and stood up. Then, with her characteristic sardonic smile, she said:

Come, I’ll show you to your real room.

6

The room was simple and uncluttered. There was a bed, a desk, and a unit bath with a toilet. It was all very functional. In that sparsely decorated, small room, I finally felt like I could breathe. It felt like I had finally set down a heavy load.

Ms. Hesomura told me work would start tomorrow, and I would have my first audience with the prince. And without another word, she left.

Alone, and with nothing else to do, I spent the evening just staring blankly out the window.

The view from the south-facing window showed nothing more than the gray sky above and the gray sea below. As the day turned to night, even that sight faded into darkness. The sky was cloudy, obscuring the light of the moon and stars. Only the faint lights of fishing boats twinkled far across the sea, marking the horizon. There were no landmarks or other signs of life.

I sighed for no particular reason. I closed the curtains, lied down on the bed, and decided to read my paperback copy of Hamlet, which I had retrieved from my luggage. There was nothing else to do, so I thought I might as well prepare for tomorrow—to be ready for what would come next. But, my mind was not working very well.

Though I had read it several times before, it was a story I could still hardly grasp.

The setting of the story is the royal court of Denmark, and in that place lives a prince named Hamlet. The play is a tale of his revenge. First, the previous king, Hamlet's father, dies. But, there is something suspicious about his death. Was the king murdered? And then, the one who takes his place on the throne is none other than the king's brother, Claudius. Moreover, he marries Gertrude, the newly widowed queen.

Prince Hamlet is deeply unsettled by this—after all, his father was dead, his uncle had seized his position, and on top of it all, his mother was now married to his uncle. Then, strange rumors begin to spread within the castle. The ghost of the dead king appears on the castle walls at night! While still in grief, Hamlet finally encounters the ghost one midnight.

The ghost of his father tells him that his death was, in truth, caused by poisoning at the hands of his brother Claudius. And thus he commands Hamlet:

Avenge my foul and most unnatural murder.

Hamlet accepts these words and vows revenge. But to those around him, his behavior appears odd. Hamlet, in fact, uses this situation to his advantage and pretends to be mad and waits for his moment to seize revenge.

But this is where the story really starts to unravel. Hamlet—who was supposed to be bent on revenge—just keeps putting off the opportunity. He reasons his way out of several decisive moments. This had always bothered me. Normally, avenging his father by killing his uncle should have settled the matter, but it never seemed to work out that way.

Hamlet hesitates, becomes irritable, and his behavior grows increasingly strange. Pretending for so long, he begins to seem well and truly mad. After all, he was the only one who had spoken to the ghost of his father. Could it be that the entire assassination plot was just a product of his delusion? That is certainly one way to look at it.

If that is the case, then the story truly is a hopeless tragedy. It's a story where people get caught up in bizarre delusions and end up dying one after another.

The first to die is Polonius, the head butler, whom Hamlet accidentally kills. Next is Ophelia, Polonius' daughter and Hamlet's lover. Learning of her father's death by Hamlet's blade, she goes mad from shock and drowns in a river. As such, Laertes, the son of Polonius and brother to Ophelia, comes to want revenge. Indeed, this is a tale of double vengeance.

King Claudius, sensing danger from Hamlet, manipulates Laertes. He prepares a poisoned sword and a cup of poisoned wine for their duel. During the duel, both Hamlet and Laertes are injured by the poisoned sword, and Laertes dies. Meanwhile, Queen Gertrude accidentally drinks the poisoned wine and also dies. In his dying moments, Hamlet finally kills Claudius and fulfills his revenge. But by then, it is too late. Hamlet, too, succumbs to the poison and dies . . .

The more I read, the darker the story felt.

It's true that Hamlet was cornered by his father's death. Depending on how you read it, it's a political drama about a struggle for the throne. It depicts a prince who, robbed of his rightful crown, grows increasingly isolated and paranoid, and ultimately destroys himself.

Indeed, Hamlet was constantly surrounded by enemies. His mother had become his uncle’s wife. The head butler was probably on his uncle’s side. His lover, Ophelia, was Polonius' daughter. His school friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, could not be trusted either, since they seemed to be acting on his uncle's orders. The only exception might be Horatio, to whom the dying Hamlet asks to tell the tale of what happened.

I put the book aside and stared at the white ceiling. I thought I should try to sleep, but sleep did not come easily. My nerves were strangely agitated. Suddenly, I thought about my own role. Yes, I was none other than one of those untrustworthy school friends, Rosencrantz.

We're midway through the second act.

Denmark is a prison.

Then is the world one.

It was an insensitive reply.

I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

An overly vast prison . . . My thoughts soon shifted to another Hamlet—the one trapped in this castle.

His name is Komatsu Arimasa.

7

This story—our story—is a different, untold Hamlet. It, too, revolved around pretending, around masquerading. Our Hamlet was not the Hamlet himself, but he continued to play that role. The play had long been over, but the act continued. He believed himself to be Hamlet. But to what extent?

The accident happened three years ago one summer, during a stage performance of Hamlet. Naturally, it could be no other play. At the climax, during the duel between Laertes and Hamlet, Hamlet's actor suddenly stumbled, leaned against a curtain, then disappeared. Upon investigation, the cast found that he had fallen from an open side stage window, landing in a pitiful state on top the courtyard's flagstones below.

It would seem he suffered a severe head injury, and the play was immediately stopped. He was rushed to a hospital, but there was no sign of him regaining consciousness. He wandered the line between life and death, and at one point his recovery was even considered hopeless. However, eventually, he did recover, but . . . when he finally regained consciousness, he was no longer the man he once was.

His past memories had been cleanly washed away—all that remained was his persona from the stage. And so, he became "Hamlet". He remembered nothing but his existence as that pensive prince, and from that point, had continued to live as Hamlet.

The Komatsu family, probably seeing no possibility of full recovery, abandoned him. At least, I figured that was probably how things ended up. His family was a major financial conglomerate. Even if it was an accident, they would want to keep such a scandal within the family.

They renovated a secluded seaside villa into a castle of his desires and confined him here. But, by making him live a life identical to Hamlet's—and isolating him from the world—I could not help but think this would only strengthen his delusions. Had they not inadvertently given him a reason to further retreat into his own fantasies?

No, but really, how serious is he? Has he truly become Hamlet, or is he just pretending? The answer remained unclear. No one really knew, which was the very reason why I was sent to this bleak castle in the first place.

I rose from my bed once again. It was well past midnight, the wee hours when ghosts appear. And it was in such an hour that Hamlet vowed his revenge, alone, somewhere in the dark.

My head began to ache. Outside, the rain continued to fall, blatantly persistent and unpleasantly long. It bothered me so much that I could not sleep. No, I was not sleepy at all. But tomorrow was a big day. I had to sleep. I needed to sleep, and sleep well.

I took off my clothes, turned off the light, and slid into bed. I closed my eyes. The faces of people I had met floated by, vanished, then floated by again. I thought about something from earlier that day. Why had I ended up in such a place? No one had ever given me an answer . . . Sleep was slow to come that night.

8

The next morning, I was first taken to the costume room and dressed appropriately.

Whenever you appear before His Lordship, you will need to wear specific attire.

There are no exceptions. You can’t just wander around in everyday clothes. Do you understand?

The room was lined wall-to-wall with costume racks. There was a dressing table and even a three-way mirror that reflected one's body from all angles. It felt like the luxurious backstage of a theater. She pulled an outfit from the rack and swiftly began stripping off my clothes and dressing me. I complied passively, as if I were merely a doll.

I put on a tight-fitting, high-collared vest, fashioned with a stiff leather belt, and slung a decorative sword around my waist. Next, I slipped into a peculiar pair of shoes with curled toes. The finishing touch was a cloak, which I wrapped around myself and fastened over my shoulders.

I regarded my outift; it felt somewhat absurd. But, when I looked in the mirror, the figure looking back seemed so distant from me—like someone else entirely. Yet, this made it seem all the more naturally fitting. In the mirror, Rosencrantz smiled awkwardly back at me.

But wait . . . Surely, this costume belonged to someone else before. The someone who had played this role before me. The previous guy. The one Guildenstern mentioned yesterday. Yes, I'm sure of it. Believing that, I felt the world slightly recede.

Fits you nicely, doesn't it?

Ms. Hesomura was watching me from beside the vanity, smoking a cigarette.

I suppose . . .

Does it really? I wondered.

Now dressed, I was led deeper into the castle. Apparently, Prince Hamlet was waiting eagerly.

At the end of the long corridor stood Guildenstern, his attire completely transformed from the day before. He fully embodied his role, donned in a costume closely resembling mine. Seeing me, he adopted the attiude of a composed courtier.

Hi there!

He cheerfully waved, as if yesterday never happened. I nodded ambiguously and tried to match my pace with his as we moved forward together.

At the end of the corridor was an oak door, beyond which lied an entirely different world.

Heavy velvet curtains drooped to the floor in rich burgundy. Passing through this cover, we stepped deeper into the hall. The floor was adorned with beautiful mosaic patterns, flanked by colonnades on either side. Beyond them, a pleasing arrangement of diamond-patterned windows let in streams of light.

I moved forward in a pleasant confusion, half-dazed, as if wandering a dreamscape. I wanted to run, to shout, but was trapped in a frustratingly stagnant situation. My steps felt feverish. Ahead awaited Polonius, ever vigilant in his dark attire. In a tense tone, he said to us,

Come. You shall finally be granted an audience with His Lordship.

There was another small door along the side corridor. Following Polonius through, we entered the audience chamber. It was not very large—dimly lit and adorned with simple vertical patterns. The throne, a high-backed chair with lion heads carved into the arms, sat at the far end. But the lord had not yet arrived.

Polonius approached a door to the left of the throne, covered his mouth with his hand, and cleared his throat softly. Then, from beyond the door, a faint voice echoed as if it came from within a dream.

Who is it that disturbs me so often? Ah, the troubles of this world. Eternal sleep is what I desire.

It felt as though a cold wind had swept through the inside of my chest. I shivered involuntarily. I might never be able to leave this place again, I thought for no particular reason.

Heavy, quiet footsteps approached, and soon the door was pulled open, revealing Hamlet.

Clad in a silk jacket cinched with a silver belt and wearing a triple-layered collar, he appeared terribly thin, yet he did not look frail. It was as if all superfluous matter had simply been trimmed away—leaving only a refined conclusion—like a well-sharpened blade. His sparse, translucent white hair underscored that impression.

While facing down, he ascended quietly to the throne and sat down, placing his hand on his face in a graceful pose. His gaze was laden with suspicion and melancholy, and his pale forehead spoke of his intellect. It was unmistakably Hamlet, as I had come to think of him despite having no specific image in mind before.

Polonius immediately stepped forward and spoke.

Your Lordship, I have an announcement.

What is it?

Rosencrantz has arrived.

Hamlet looked up and stared intently at me without a word. At length, he finally spoke.

My good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?

As the indifferent children of the earth.

I replied, recalling a scene I had read the night before.

Happy, in that we are not over-happy.

Guildenstern chimed in, matching the tone.

Good, that's good then. But you seem to have rejuvenated quite a bit. Is there a secret to it? I would love to hear it . . .

Hamlet continued to gaze at me intensely. I felt an urge to look away. But then, he quickly changed the subject.

But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at our castle? Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining?

To visit you, my lord, no other occasion, but . . . Um . . .

I was increasingly at a loss for words, stammering and confused. It was certainly a line from the script of Hamlet but . . .

Hamlet, in the play, suspects that his friends might be his uncle and mother’s spies. But in this situation, that suspicion could also extend to myself. I was at a loss at what to do, wondering if he had seen through my cover.

However, in that moment, Hamlet suddenly stood up.

Look, there, over there! That terrible, evil apparition! Shall we call it a spirit?

His eyes were no longer on me; he seemed to be listening to some distant sound. He spoke in a hollow and dreadful voice.

My lord, what's the matter?

I was utterly confused now. At first, I thought it was a line, but it was not. There was no such scene. It was clear that something was terribly wrong.

Can't you hear? Now, in the clouds, an oboe is playing. Ah, it plays again. Stop it! I already know you are a tiger. You were waiting to devour me, were you not? But it shall not happen—I will not let it!

Hamlet clutched his ears and crouched down on the throne. Ms. Hesomura immediately rushed over to help him. She offered her shoulder and led him back to the inner room. Polonius, pale-faced, urged us to leave immediately. Screams of distress still leaked from beyond the door.

We returned to the previous hall.

He appears especially unwell today. But worry not, he should recover soon. In times like these, above all, match the rhythm of His Lordship. Then, be sure to report back to me. Understood?

Y-yes. Understood.

I was still dazed and could only manage a rather mechanical response.

Right next to me, Guildenstern yawned broadly.

9

The next day, my duties as a close attendant to His Lordship began. My shift was from eight in the morning until noon. My shift was followed by Guildenstern's until six in the evening, and then Ms. Hesomura would take over from there until eleven at night. It was a three-shift system serving His Lordship nearly around the clock.

Although that first audience was utterly chaotic, there were no significant changes afterward. Hamlet's condition was much more stable than I had anticipated. Unlike the impulsive and erratic Hamlet of the play, this Hamlet seldom exhibited such behavior, and there were no signs of obsessions or hallucinations.

He occasionally complained of migraines, and he would he mutter to himself for long periods of time. No one understood what any of his muttering meant. It was just words strung together aimlessly and repeated over and over.

At precisely eight in the morning, I would visit his bedroom. Hamlet was always already awake; I never saw him asleep.

Good morning.

I would say, as I humbly offered a washbasin and towel. While he washed his face, I would toss borneol incense into the censer and replace his pitcher of water. Soon after, Ms. Hesomura would bring breakfast. I would receive it, laying out the cloth and setting the table for him.

Steamed bread on a wooden plate, served with a side of vegetables and bacon. It was usually a simple breakfast such as this. He would eat it with his hands. Once done, he would rinse his dirty fingertips in a bowl of water, drink the water, then meticulously wipe his lips with a napkin. During the meal, I just stood by his side and waited. With that, the morning service would be concluded. Next, he would head to the chapel, and I would follow behind him.

The chapel lied opposite the audience chamber, at the end of the side aisle, behind a door. Gothic columns supported the canopy, and through the rose-tinted, stained glass windows, weak sunlight would pour in, sketching vague patterns of color on the floor. At the far end, there was a large altar adorned with Arabesque carvings, and atop it stood a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary, looking down modestly.

Hamlet would spend most of his morning time there. He would kneel beneath the statue, offering long prayers as if making some firm resolution. Were these prayers to the Virgin Mary?

No, that wasn't it. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was not a statue of the Virgin Mary at all. It was a statue of Ophelia, adorned with a halo of flowers instead of a nimbus. She was a young girl with innocent eyes, and held modest wildflowers gently in her tender arms, each vividly colored and blooming proudly. I silently watched his back as he prayed.

Ophelia's cheeks were tinged with a rosy hue, and her head was slightly tilted, making her appear as if she had something to say. Her features were not Western, but instead distinctly Japanese. No, more than that . . . They resembled someone specific.

The stone figure represented a girl whom Hamlet—or rather, Komatsu Arimasa—had loved. I wonder how much he thought of her. Pondering over that would send my emotions into an unbearable confusion because I, too, had fallen in love with a girl with the very same face.

After finishing his prayers, his daily routine depended on the weather. On sunny days, he would go for a walk in the courtyard. I followed him around. His steps were restless and wandering.

But sunny days were rare there. It was usually cloudy or rainy. On such days, he would return to the living room to read or play chess. Naturally, I would be his opponent. He was strong, and despite being quite confident myself, rarely did I win. He claimed that his mind worked best on rainy days.

As the day progressed, the time to change shifts would arrive. Guildenstern would come and, after a brief handover, my duties were over. I was free until the next day.

That was more or less the schedule. A job without much significance. Well, it was easy, no doubt. Anyone could have done it.

All I had to do to pass the time was endure a few fruitless exchanges.

Where is Rosencrantz?

Right here, my lord.

And Polonius?

I shall call him.

Is my uncle here?

I do not believe he is here.

Get thee to a nunnery!

I am afraid there is none nearby.

Who's there?

A cat, perhaps.

Who is in the attic?

A mouse, perhaps.

And the maggots?

They are at their meal.

Revenge requires conviction.

Certainly, my lord.

You must not corrupt your soul.

Understood, my lord.

The world has come off its hinges!

We shall fix it promptly.

Is the weather bad when it rains?

Well, I suppose it is.

This or that?

Probably that.

To be or not to be?

I am not sure.

What is a human?

That, I really can't say.

As we volleyed such conversations back and forth, I was gradually getting my work done while finding various pretexts to spend more time with Hamlet.

Shall I take over for a bit?

At that offer, Guildenstern gladly agreed. And so, Hamlet and I took to indulging in afternoon games. The games were simple: playing tennis with oddly shaped rackets, kicking a ball around, playing cards, and of course, chess. In truth, it was actually quite enjoyable, playing these games just the two of us.

I suppose I was beginning to be drawn to his character. He had a childlike innocence and a stoic passion, accompanied by a sort of listless despair—an indescribable loathing for the desire to live. Such qualities were rare in ordinary people. Before I knew it, I was spending most of my days by his side.

These so-called extracurricular activities eventually disrupted our responsibilities. Guildenstern found this to be a perfect excuse to shirk his duties and wander about. He started showing up late for shifts, apparently having taken to drinking in the afternoon. When he did show up, he was often staggeringly drunk. This came to Polonius' attention, and I was promptly summoned and warned.

It is fine to be diligent about your work—

Each word was punctuated with stern admonishment.

however, make no mistake. We are here to serve His Lordship, first and foremost. We are not in a position to foster personal friendships.

Of course, I knew that. My name was Rosencrantz. I was well aware of my position. After all, that was my role here, to act as a vigilant and sharp spy. I had not neglected my observations. I had been working hard to discern his true self, one separate from the role he played.

10

This was a mere hypothesis, but it was not an implausible notion: Komatsu Arimasa was not, in fact, mad. He was sane. He was merely acting. But as he continued acting, he eventually came to believe that he himself was Hamlet. Investigating this suspicion was the very reason I came to the castle.

Is it all an act, or is that his true self? I was sent by Claudius to ascertain the truth. Naturally, this man was not actually a murderous brother aspiring for the throne, but simply an actor by the name of Sakai Aritaka. He was the one who played Claudius in that fateful play three years ago, when Komatsu became Hamlet.

Three years had passed, and the only one still continuing the play was Komatsu. In the outside world, several seasons had passed, new stages had been set, and different plays had already begun. The one who played Ophelia at that time was an actress named Kotoko. Indeed, yes, the chapel's statue was clearly modeled after her. But, here in the present, she was now Sakai's lover.

I was asked by these two to come to this castle, to confirm Komatsu's true intentions. In other words, I was deceiving him. I simply pretended to be his friend. It wasn't as if I didn't feel some guilt about that, but it was a complex feeling.

But if we are to speak of deception, Komatsu, too, was deceiving everyone but himself. He was lying—by pretending to be mad, by playing Hamlet. Was that not the case? After all, was this all not just a mutual deception? Some absurd farce?

I was compiling the results of my observations into a report.

Komatsu, indeed, might not truly be Hamlet. His so-called symptoms had an artificial tinge to them, as if various random symptoms had been cobbled together, giving off a disjointed impression.

Even his gestures were occasionally unnatural. For instance, during a walk in the courtyard one day, he suddenly made a motion as if checking a wristwatch. Or once during some other evening, amid a game of chess, as the room gradually darkened, he unconsciously searched for a light switch . . . A wristwatch? A switch? Would the Renaissance prince of Denmark perform such actions?

But indeed, the whole setting was odd from the start. The historical accuracy was all over the place. My costume as his schoolmate looked somewhat more like a modern-day school uniform. Polonius was dressed head to toe in black, like a British butler. And as for Ms. Hesomura, she wore a maid's outfit. None of these even existed in Shakespeare's time. It was all merely an extension of some make-believe game.

But that's exactly why—I thought— this all must be just an act. He—Komatsu Arimasa—is not imitating Hamlet the person. He's acting out Hamlet's acting! A Hamlet who feigns madness while waiting for a chance to seek revenge. And Komatsu is mimicking that pretense. But, if that's the case . . .

Then again, it was unclear how much Hamlet (the character) was feigning his madness. Was the Hamlet in the play ever truly sane? This question often became a problem when interpreting the play. What if he was truly mad? Couldn't the very act of continuing to pretend to be mad, itself, be a sign of madness?

It was complicated. Extremely so. The more I thought about it, the more I felt like I might go mad myself. Now it seemed like I might be the one losing my sanity.

11

During my stay, I spoke with Sakai several times over the phone.

So, have you found any definitive proof?

No, not yet.

It's not a matter that can be concluded so easily. I need to observe carefully before making any decisions.

Boy, you're taking your sweet time, aren't you?

I'm not slacking off, if that's what you mean. But this is a matter that requires careful action.

Unfortunately, I'm not that patient. If you can't handle it, I'll just go over there myself and settle things.

Please, wait just a bit longer. He's not as simple as you think. I need more time to understand him.

Are you hiding something from me? You seem overly defensive of him. Has Komatsu swayed you somehow? You better not be planning to betray me. That would be very unfortunate . . . I'm sure even Ayuko would be upset.

That's not it. It's just that it's a difficult situation to figure out. Look, if you doubt my intentions, then let me clarify a bit. I believe he is, indeed, not actually Hamlet . . . probably. It's possible he might still be Komatsu Arimasa. In other words, he might actually be sane. But in that case, his true intentions—his motives—aren't clear.

True intentions? What do you mean? What are you talking about?

The accident three years ago did affect him profoundly, that's true. But I believe whatever insanity he experienced was temporary. It's possible he recovered over time and regained his memory. I'm not sure when exactly, but it must have been quite some time after coming to this castle . . . Sakai, are you aware his hair has turned white?

His hair is white? I'm sure it's just a wig. After all, isn't everyone there wearing costumes and carrying on with the theatrical antics?

No, no wig. It's his real hair. According to his attendants, his hair started losing its pigment rapidly about two years ago until it reached the state it currently is now.

Hmm . . . Okay, and so what about it?

If you ask me, I think that change began around the time he started to regain his sanity. His recovery was like the moon gradually emerging from behind thick clouds, a slow progression. As his self-awareness awakened, he began to grasp the state of his surroundings. What he realized first was his drastically changed environment. Before he knew it, he was living as Hamlet, surrounded by courtiers in a castle, no longer himself, but a prince. He was no longer Komatsu: no, there was no Komatsu Arimasa anymore. He had lost everything. And where he is, is filled with despair. That's what he came to realize.

Well, well, aren't you quite the literati? But I don't understand . . . If that's the case, why does he keep up the charade? Why doesn't he declare himself sane?

I'm not sure. But here's what I think: maybe he just wants to continue living quietly here as he is now. He might have given up on being Komatsu Arimasa, using this place to escape the world. He's probably just trying to live here in quiet resignation . . . Hey, Sakai, how about we give up on him, leave him alone? I doubt he plans to return to his old self anymore.

Nah, that's too naive. Maybe he's pretending to be mad to catch us off guard, aiming for a chance to take revenge on me . . . I mean, since I was Claudius at the time, you know? It would be what Hamlet wanted, right? Right? If it were me, I know I would definitely do that.

He's not like you.

Ohh, sounds like you know a lot, don't you? Smart-ass. All right, that's enough already. I'm not in the mood to listen to any more of your theories. Just keep a close watch on him and find some solid evidence. Once you've caught something, report it to me immediately. I'll handle the rest from there.

What exactly do you mean by that?

That's none of your business. Just do your job, that's all you need to worry about . . . You wouldn't want to upset Ayuko, now would you?

As I hesitated to reply, Sakai hung up the phone.