The Case Files of Jeweler Richard
This translation is a fan-made, unofficial project created out of love for the original work. I do not claim any ownership. All rights go to the original author and publisher. Please support the official release by buying the book if you can.
(44) Someday at the Opera House
When I was a child, there was something I wanted to eat at a theatre in London — the Royal Opera House. It was the decorations above the cafeteria: glossy grapes, triangular cheese full of holes, and round-bodied wine bottles wrapped in straw covers. They looked exactly like the feasts that appeared in picture books. I believed they weren’t decorations at all, but real food placed there to be eaten. And I believed all of it was meant for adults — the kind of people called VIPs — which was why I wasn’t allowed to eat it. And I truly dreamed that one day I would finally be able to.
What I learned after I actually became an “adult” was that all of it really was just decoration, and none of it was edible. At the same time, I also learned what it meant to become an adult.
Only children are allowed to dream. Adults are the ones who understand that dreams don’t really mean very much.
Wearing a stiff, uncomfortable dress, I stepped into the elevator at the Royal Opera House. It is one of the most prestigious theatres in Britain, also known as Covent Garden. Opera and ballet are performed there on alternating days. Today seems to be the opening night of some opera or other, and there are many people dressed up. I’ve been dragged here from Pimlico as my grandfather’s companion, and even though I don’t really understand what’s going on, I’ve at least dressed up for the occasion. The dress is an old-fashioned frilly white thing that looks like something my grandmother would wear, and honestly, it’s embarrassing. It doesn’t show the shape of my body at all, so I look like a girl who just kept growing while still wearing baby clothes. I’m almost eighteen already, but my world is still completely surrounded by my family, so maybe that isn’t entirely wrong.
The elevator doors opened, and just as I hurried to return to my seat, I accidentally bumped into someone. I think it was their back. It felt bony. What if it was an elderly person?
I hurriedly turned around — and the other person turned around at the same time.
And then that person — he — gently caught me in his arms.
“Are you all right? I am terribly sorry. You’re not hurt, are you?”
They were beautiful words, unlike anything I had ever heard before.
His pronunciation didn’t suit an East Asian face at all — it was like someone straight out of Buckingham Palace. His tuxedo was a misty grey rather than black. Even among those dressed up for the opening night, his elegance stood apart.
What… is this person? What is he?
As I blinked in confusion, he gave me a slightly embarrassed smile.
“How shameful of me. I was looking forward to today so much that I seem to have gotten a little too excited. Please forgive me.”
“Then, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, giving a small bow before disappearing.
There were far too many people crowding the place for me to just stand there blankly, but as I pushed my way through the flow of people, my mind was working at full speed.
This isn’t the Paris Opera House but Covent Garden in London — but he must be a phantom. The mysterious man who only appears on the opening night of a performance. It has to be.
Letting my imagination run wild in a way that hardly suited someone who was already eighteen, I returned to my seat beside my grandfather. His right leg was deformed from rheumatism; beneath his tuxedo trousers it was so swollen and uneven it was painful to look at — pale, with patches that had turned slightly greenish where the blood no longer circulated properly. In a way, he too was undeniably a “phantom.” But he was always a phantom who visited the theatre on opening nights while maintaining the dignity of a gentleman. That was why I couldn’t just brush him off.
“Katie, what’s the matter?”
“…It’s nothing, Grandfather.”
“Did you go to the restroom properly?”
Grandfather always treats me like a child. Asking an eighteen-year-old of the opposite sex whether she went to the restroom is an outrageous question. But he’s almost ninety now, and he was already seventy-two when I was born. They say the older you get, the faster time seems to pass, so perhaps he still feels as though I’m a newborn baby.
Grandfather quietly adjusted his grip on the silver cane, lifted his face — full of wrinkles and sagging skin — and looked at me.
“Katie, look over there.”
“Use your opera glasses.”
Right now it’s the intermission between the first and second acts. Of course the curtain isn’t up yet. What he wants me to look at is the audience. What am I supposed to do with something that rude — like something out of a Degas painting? Still, it might be some Hollywood celebrity, so I might as well look. I raised the gold opera glasses. They’re something my mother lent me. Before I turned fifteen, accompanying Grandfather used to be her role. In our house, the youngest woman is the one who goes with him. It’s not for any strange reason. A younger companion can move quickly if Grandfather collapses. But why it has to be a “woman” — well, thinking too much about that makes me feel a little sick, so I try not to.
The direction he pointed to was on the same level where we were sitting. The second-floor balcony seats. Very expensive ones, right in the center. A cluster of lampshades shaped like red mushrooms blocked the view in silhouette.
Where exactly am I supposed to look? I was getting irritated, but I still moved the glasses around here and there — and suddenly I caught my breath.
Grandfather whispered. He probably thought there was no need to tell me what I was supposed to look at. I understood too.
In the world seen through the opera glasses, a man who looked like an angel that had stepped out of a painting was sitting there.
Softly waving blond hair. Pale blue eyes. Skin like flawless marble, without a single blemish. Perfectly balanced proportions — so perfect they were almost unsettling — neither clearly masculine nor feminine. And yet he was simply himself, and that alone made him seem like a being complete in himself.
my “phantom” was sitting there.
“He’s Claremont’s hidden jewel. Monstrously beautiful, isn’t he? He hardly ever shows himself in society. The last time I saw him must have been ten years ago — perhaps more, I’ve forgotten. Take a good look while you can, without blinding your eyes. When you see someone like that, you understand how foolish it is to choose a husband based on looks. Everyone else becomes nothing but ‘the rest.’”
Grandfather’s tone was solemn and grave, like a wizard in a fantasy film announcing the coming of a disaster. The “hidden jewel of Claremont” was probably the glittering blond man — but he didn’t interest me at all.
What in the world was his name?
“Grandfather, do you know his name?”
“Ashcroft… was it? No, that’s the father’s name. Richard, yes, Richard. A terribly uninteresting name. I think he graduated from Cambridge.”
“I mean the person next to him.”
The one sitting on his right — about the same height, with black hair and brown eyes, an East Asian face, and someone who looked like a prince from a Chinese fairy tale — I said clearly.
Grandfather looked as though he had just heard something foolish, squinting one eye wide and the other narrow, and let out a sigh.
“If he’s Asian, he’s probably just a servant. I don’t know.”
At that moment, my interest in Grandfather dropped to zero. If his health got worse, of course I would help him. But otherwise, I didn’t care. He might as well have been a mannequin. The opera didn’t matter either. For the next hour, I would spend my time looking at that “phantom.” I decided that then and there.
After that, with an obsession that would have put even the spectators painted by Degas to shame, I kept staring at him in the second-floor seats.
It was the first time in my life that I had ever felt so happy listening to a fat singer belt out incomprehensible songs.
He looked completely satisfied, moving his head slightly at every shift in the orchestra and every break between the arias, nodding again and again. As expected of a “phantom.” He must know opera very well. He understood exactly when and where the music would start and how the singing would come in. To love opera at such a young age — how refined. Maybe he was a singer himself. No — if he really were a “phantom,” then he must be someone who kidnaps girls underground and teaches them to sing, so of course he would know about music. No, no, that only happens in novels — my imagination kept expanding, and by the time the opera ended, I had turned myself into a young, struggling singer and him into a phantom hopelessly devoted to me. It’s such an embarrassing fantasy I’d want to take it with me to the grave. But if I could carry this memory with me, even the grave might not be such a bad place.
Amid the applause at the end, he gave a standing ovation. I stood up too. While he was clapping, I wanted to become just one of those claps as well. I wished the applause would never end. But in no time, even the flower presentations to the conductor and the prima donna were over, and the curtain came down.
From here on, it was time to sit quietly in our seats and wait until Grandfather was able to move again. The exit from the second-floor seats was still packed with people, and it would be far too much for him, who could only move slowly with a cane. If we asked the theatre staff, they would probably lend us a wheelchair without hesitation, but according to Grandfather, “only people who are bleep and bleep and bleep would ever use a wheelchair.” I have censored the expressions that are no longer appropriate for the twenty-first century on my own responsibility.
While he started complaining — beginning with “those singers were terribly dull” — I simply nodded and let it go in one ear and out the other. Yes, indeed. Yes, of course. You’re absolutely right, Grandfather. Yes. Yes.
The change came after more than seventy percent of the crowd had already left.
“Well then, I suppose it’s time to stand,” Grandfather said, gripping his cane and placing his foot on the first step of the stairs, while I took my place beside him to support him. That was when we noticed.
Someone was waiting for us.
Beautiful features, perfectly arranged golden hair, a black tie, polished leather shoes.
An angel was standing there.
“Good evening, Lord Carnarvon.”
“…Oh, my, well, well — this is, this is the young gentleman of the Claremont family.”
“It has been a long time. My name is Richard.”
“To meet you in a place like this is an honour.”
Grandfather suddenly used a firm, society-ready voice. It was the kind of voice that insisted he was still active and not inferior to anyone. Sometimes it sounded terribly pitiful to me.
Mr. Richard only bowed gracefully, placing a hand lightly against his chest.
“Ha ha. Very well said. This is my granddaughter, Katie. Katie, this is Mr. Richard. Greet him properly.”
“…It’s an honour to meet you.”
“I am delighted that we were able to share such a wonderful evening together, Miss Katie.”
As he said that, he took my hand and, following proper etiquette, kissed the air about three centimetres above the back of it. If I had still been the person I was before bumping into someone in the elevator hall earlier today, I might have blushed and fainted. It was that powerful an image.
But now, I had only one thing on my mind.
The East Asian man standing behind the beautiful angel — Mr. Richard. He was standing a few steps behind, watching the three of us as if quietly observing.
I wanted to know only about him.
Fully aware that it was rude, I asked Mr. Richard:
“Um… who is the person standing behind you?”
“Katie, it is rude to talk about a servant.”
“This is my dearest friend, Seigi Nakata.”
Mr. Richard answered immediately — almost as if he were firmly telling Grandfather that this man was not a servant. He then continued, saying, “Seigi, please introduce yourself.”
The East Asian man — Mr. Nakata — looked at me and smiled.
“Hello. My name is Seigi. I am very sorry about earlier.”
Standing in front of me, he gave a crisp bow in a way that felt unmistakably East Asian. At that moment, I realized something: the English spoken by the two of them sounded almost identical, like twins. Had they graduated from the same school? If so, that would mean Mr. Seigi Nakata was from Cambridge as well. In terms of status, that would be more than sufficient. Grandfather had probably introduced Mr. Richard to me because he was thinking about my future — but if that was the case, then Mr. Nakata would be perfectly suitable too, wouldn’t he—
My thoughts, which had never shown the slightest interest in marriages between families until now, suddenly began racing at full speed. But they were completely trampled by the violence of beauty.
Not at me. Not at Grandfather.
“Seigi, what did you think of tonight’s performance?”
“I thought it was wonderful. The prima’s high register was remarkable — it made the whole trip here worthwhile. I also liked the conductor’s musical interpretation; it didn’t feel like he was constantly trying to defer to the older conductors. It felt young, in a good way. I like that.”
“Once you start talking, you don’t stop, do you? Your fondness for opera really is troublesome.”
“Ah, my apologies. Especially in front of such important guests.”
It was the kind of scene that would have made Raphael, Titian, or William Bouguereau throw their paintbrushes to the ground in fury and snap them in half. Mr. Richard was smiling and chatting with Seigi Nakata. That was all. And yet he looked so happy, as though he were scattering flower petals into the air around him.
That overwhelming beauty. As if a magician had cast a spell. The space around his smile became completely his domain.
I took a step back, and Grandfather cleared his throat. Mr. Richard turned back to us again and gave a polite nod.
“It was a pleasure to meet you. If you would like, would you care to join us for some tea this evening?”
“No, we must be going now. My granddaughter needs to go to bed early. Katie, say goodbye.”
“…It was an honour to meet you, Mr. Richard, Mr. Seigi.”
“I hope we will meet again.”
“Try not to trip next time.”
For that last remark, the “phantom” spoke to me in a slightly more casual tone. Then the two of them walked away briskly, without looking back, like a pair straight out of an old Hollywood film.
We had truly become the last people left in the second-floor seats.
“I had always wondered why he remained unmarried for so long, but now I see. Well, well. No — that wasn’t something you should have heard. Forget it.”
I said nothing. Grandfather probably thought my silence meant I didn’t hear anything. That wasn’t it. I was simply crushed.
Love begins in an instant, and it ends in an instant too — I thought.
It felt as if I had just been given a beautiful, genuine jewel, only for it to shatter the very next moment.
Supporting Grandfather as we went, I slowly walked down the stairs from the second-floor seats. There were hardly any people left even in the elevator hall that led down to the first floor. The café space that had been overflowing with people when we arrived was now closed and being tidied up. Above countless glasses were the decorations: plastic grapes, cheese, wine bottles.
Before the glass elevator reached the first floor, I blurted out, almost shouting:
“Grandfather, I want those grapes.”
“The ones hanging from the ceiling in the café.”
“…Those are celluloid, or just plastic toys.”
“Stop that. You are a young lady now.”
“But I really want them. I’m going.”
Leaving Grandfather, who had just stepped out of the elevator, behind me, I ran, my heels striking sharply against the floor. The frilly white dress that made me look like a baby fluttered in the air. I spoke seriously to the bartender, who stared at me in surprise.
“Would you sell me the grapes hanging up there?”
“…The grapes hanging up there?”
“I mean the ones above your head — even higher up,” I said, pointing. If someone brought one of the chairs lined up nearby, climbed up, and reached out, they would be easy enough to take down.
The bartender shrugged as if he had no idea what I was talking about. But I refused to give up. I wanted them. I absolutely wanted them. The bartender looked exasperated.
“I think there’s a shop somewhere around here that sells food replicas.”
“I want the ones from this theatre.”
“We’re about to close, miss. I’m sorry, but—”
A bony hand suddenly gripped my shoulder tightly.
When I turned around, a gentleman with a face like a ghostly skeleton was standing there. Grandfather’s posture was crooked, and his tuxedo bulged in some places and sank in in others.
He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the bartender.
“Good evening. A fine night, isn’t it? What is your name?”
“Jackson. Is your superior still Mr. Diagonal? If you tell him the Marquess of Carnarvon, he will understand. When this theatre was rebuilt after the fire, I did not hesitate to invest a great deal — but how lamentable the passage of time is. I will not permit you to speak rudely to my granddaughter. The grapes. It is hardly a difficult request.”
“Get them down. Immediately.”
I felt as though I had been tricked by a fox. The bartender and his colleagues brought over one of the stylish chairs that gentlemen and ladies had been sitting on just moments before, and reached up toward the dusty decorative grapes. It was a strange sight.
Five minutes later, I was sitting in a black taxi, still holding the shining green plastic grapes in my hands. Real — plastic grapes. The ones that had been in the opera house.
At last, I managed to force the words out.
“Grandfather, um… thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Being able to do foolish things from time to time is one of the privileges of this foolish rank.”
“But remember this, Katie. You must never show what you truly want, just as it is. That is the same as displaying your weakness. All the more so for a woman. You will have many hardships in life. Do not show any openings.”
“…Yes. I understand, Grandfather.”
After saying only that, Grandfather drifted off to sleep and remained asleep the entire way until we arrived at the house.
Three months later, Grandfather passed away in a hospital in London. That turned out to be our last outing together. I was told that he died while listening to one of his favourite records, but apparently, at the very end, he declared, “Songs are bollocks,” which makes him a thoroughly genuine British gentleman, if you ask me. I’m not going to explain what bollocks means. The moment I explain it, it feels cheap.
I keep those grapes in my room. The historic plastic grapes that watched over countless people at the opera house.
I’ve changed my way of thinking a little. Becoming an adult doesn’t mean deciding, in an all-or-nothing way, that dreams don’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter if the grapes I dreamed of weren’t real. Even if they were plastic, even if they were like a fragile jewel that shatters the moment you obtain it, what’s wrong with cherishing them anyway? And how precious it is to cherish someone else’s feelings like that.
If someone were to call something like that “foolish,” I think I would make the exact same face as Grandfather and say this: Who do you think I am? I’m Caitlin Carnarvon, a descendant of the Carnarvon family, you know. It sounds terribly old-fashioned when you say it out loud — but part of me still wants to try saying it once.
I haven’t seen Mr. Richard of the Claremont family since then. I haven’t seen Mr. Seigi Nakata either. So I have no idea whether they’re still getting along, or whether they split up immediately like in one of those streaming dramas and now act as if nothing ever happened. Honestly, either way is fine.
Even so, I still end up dreaming.
Every time I visit the opera house out of obligation, I wonder whether they might be there — or rather, whether Mr. Nakata might be. It’s fine if he isn’t really there. Actually, it might be a little awkward if he were. But in the moment when I’m thinking that, I feel very happy.
I think I’ve managed to become a reasonably good adult.
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