“Precisely,” answered Murakami. “We planned this together. Probably at home relaxing as we speak.”
A few officers rushed out of the theater. They probably left to give orders to apprehend Murakami’s accomplice.
“The silicone padding, the hospital, the blood—there was so much evidence that you didn’t even have to go looking for it. All that’s left is a confession. That’s why”—Ranpo suddenly paused before his lips mischievously curled—“I prepared a place better suited for you than a dismal, boring interrogation room with the police. Enjoy.”
With that, Ranpo pointed into the air, and the lights went out. The theater was devoured by darkness. Without even a second to react, a thin pillar of light rained down over Murakami’s head, and Ranpo vanished into the abyss, as if Murakami were the only one left onstage. Everyone’s eyes silently focused on him.
“I…,” muttered Murakami in almost a whisper. He raised his voice and continued, “I am an actor! I become someone I am not and live a life that doesn’t exist! My job is to expose what it means to be human! It doesn’t matter if I play the lead part or a minor part. It doesn’t matter if I am a villain or hero. I become them with every part of my body! There is no other job for me! This is the only way I can live!”
The audience was captivated. Murakami, who had played and spoken as countless characters onstage, was now speaking genuinely from the heart. His sincerity was so great that the pain accompanying it was palpable. The audience couldn’t look away.
“But there is one thing that cannot be avoided while acting on the stage of life, and that is death! Death is not the opposite of life; it is life’s symbol and banner. However, it also provides a great paradox! Nobody alive has every experienced it! That’s why to me, the greatest job of all would be performing the death of a person. Not death as a device or a mere convention, but real death that I could convey to the audience. That was the pinnacle of theatrical performance to me. And this is the outcome of my toil.”
Murakami took a step toward the crowd, then yelled:
“Could you see it? Death is always hanging over our heads! Without a voice, it quietly waits for us! Theater and movies desperately try to express the idea with their structure, editing, music, and thoughtful dialogue. However, they can never express death itself! I am the first to ever perform death! And that is something I wanted everyone who came here today to behold!”
The audience was speechless. Fukuzawa probably felt the same way.
So that was his motive… He sent out a fake death threat and got innocent people involved. He played the victim and fooled the police. He drew his own blood and created two scripts to deceive his colleagues. All this trouble he put himself through…
That was just how important this was to him?
Or were performers simply born this way?
“I have no regrets,” stated Murakami. “This is the way I live. Performers do not need a stage. I will live on from the fruitful outcome of today, performing in others’ hearts until eternal rest is granted unto me.”
Silence reigned. Nobody said a word. Eventually, the p
olice slowly climbed to the stage and handcuffed Murakami. He didn’t resist. He even seemed cheerful. It wasn’t any surprise, though. He had accomplished his goal.
“I thought you were amazing,” Ranpo suddenly said from behind as Murakami was being taken away. “I didn’t quite understand all of it myself, but I don’t think it’s something that just anyone could do. By the way, take a look at the audience. Look at their faces.”
The light from the stage dimly illuminated the crowd. It probably looked like rows of countless faces to Murakami. And everyone’s expression…was the same.
“There are people here from all ages and genders, but they have two things in common. One is that they love your troupe’s acting, which is why they came. The other is they all witnessed the moment someone was killed right before their eyes.”
Murakami stopped breathing. His eyes were glued on the audience.
“You said your job was entertainment, right? But could you really call it that…when you look at their expressions?”
For the first time, Murakami’s eyes showed a sign of weakness.
“…I see.”
A small voice, unlike what one would expect from a stage actor with a powerful voice, fell from the stage.
“I was…only performing for myself.”
Broken in spirit, Murakami retired from the theater. The lights on the stage disappeared, and only silence followed. There was no drawing of the curtain or curtain call. There was no applause from the audience and no finale to end the play. Only silence.
When Fukuzawa returned to the lobby, Ranpo was proudly waiting for him with his hands on his hips.
“How did it feel?” Fukuzawa quietly asked Ranpo while walking over.
“I feel…”
Ranpo paused with a bold smile, then raised his voice so that the entire lobby could hear him declare: